Tuesday Guest Blogger
"We Used to Wait" / Arcade Fire
Welcome all to the first post in a series by me, Hugh. I will be posting weekly in a similar fashion to my mom.
Ever since the release of Arcade Fire's first Arcade Fire EP in 2003, a dedicated fan base has grown up around them, always craving new songs. While their music has always been accessible, their trademark sound is not overly commercial, but dramatic baroque pop. Having gone platinum on their two previous LPs, the chances are that more platinum records will be won with their third studio album, The Suburbs, which is set to be released August 2nd. Perhaps they will finally win a Grammy award, having been nominated for both Funeral (2004) and Neon Bible (2007).
Until August, all we Arcade Fire fans have to satisfy our cravings is this new single, "We Used To Wait," which has just broken into the rotation on BBC radio. Of course, the minute it appeared it spread around the internet like crazy. At first "We Used to Wait" does not sound like a typical Arcade Fire song -- it's more stripped-down, with more dynamic changes. Singer Win Butler begins with piano chords that will make a shiver run up your spine. The use of a piano is a constant in Arcade Fire's music, so it seems that the band is easing the listener back into a familiar realm with the nuanced sound.
Drummer Jeremy Gara switches between stressing the off-beat and stressing the down-beat, which makes the meter one of the most exciting elements of the song. Yet unlike Band of Ruffians or Vampire Weekend, where the drumbeat is complex, the drums here are minimalist.
Then the full orchestration comes in, adding strings and guitars for an upbeat sound in contrast to the minor-key verse. Back-up singers join in, like a circle of friends supporting the singer. The effect is like sunshine breaking through the clouds. The guitars, which are generally not significant instruments on an Arcade Fire track, add embellishments that dance above the piano line. With a regular line-up of seven musicians, Arcade Fire can call upon many instruments to build up a dramatic, joyous sound. As a result, what began as a song of longing turns into a song of hope.
As always with Arcade Fire, the lyrics are crucial. In the verse, the key is minor and the lyrics are in the past tense, as Win Butler sings, "I used to write/I used to write letters, I used to sign my name/I used to sleep at night." But in the bridge the repeated phrase "We used to wait" implies both longing and yet a sense of progression. In the chorus, the lyrics take a turn towards levity, signifying a brighter future.
Being able to combine dark emotions with a pleasing sound is one of Arcade Fire's strengths. What makes this song distinctive is the dynamic change in mood between verse and chorus, a fuller exploration of their musical capabilities. Now I really can't wait to hear the new album, if their songwriting has taken another major step forward. I hope you enjoy this song and it makes you curious to listen to more of their music!
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
"Long Hot Summer Comin' On" / Black 47
What's on your list of "Summer's Here!" songs? Mine would have to include the Lovin' Spoonful's "Summer in the City," the B-52s' "Rock Lobster," Martha and the Vandellas' "Dancing in the Street," and Mungo Jerry's "In the Summertime." And yes, okay, twist my arm: Bruce Springsteen's "Rosalita." But the more I listen to this new Black 47 album, Bankers and Gangsters, I realize I must add one more to that list: the sizzling opening track, "Long Hot Summer Comin' On."
Not familiar with Black 47? Oh, my, we must rectify that. Along with the Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly, they form a triumvirate of American-based Celtic rock bands -- punchy Irish-themed bar bands that throw jigs and pipes into a rock 'n' roll mix. (Just try to book any of these bands around St. Patrick's Day.) Of the three, Black 47 -- the name refers to the worst year of the Great Irish Famine -- has the most eclectic sound, thanks to a smokin' horn section that can leap from jazz to reggae to Philly soul. They're also the most political, thanks to the songwriting of front man Larry Kirwan -- playwright, novelist, columnist, and Sirius DJ. (His radio show is how I first got hooked on this band.) Kirwan's not much of a singer, mind you, but what he lacks in vocal ability, he makes up for with mad boyish enthusiasm.
The soulful horns that lead off this track pour in like a ray of sunshine; drumbeats snap like firecrackers. The metallic jangle of guitars is undeniably urban -- more subway tracks and fire escapes than highway cruising and swimming pools. But within that general city vibe, this particular song harks back to the summer of 1980, an era that Kirwan's been thinking about a lot about lately, as the time frame for his new novel Rockin' the Bronx.
One thing about cities: People can't help being out on the streets, especially in the heat of summer, and this song sketches those colliding lives. The first verse is a sidewalk panorama, the "girls in their summer dresses" passing by a young cop on the beat; verse two takes the ferry to Staten Island, to a fireman worn out by a rash of arsons. (Irish cops and firefighters are a healthy portion of Black 47's following.) Verse three mills around the Lower East Side, capital of the punk phenomenon, then in its heyday. Over it all hangs a sense of desperation, of youth vanishing, of chances evaporating; Kirwan's half-strangled vocals add a bittersweet urgency to this flickering moment of history.
I remember the summer of 1980 -- I had just moved to New York, though I hardly traveled in the same downtown hipster circles as Kirwan did. Still, I recognize all the references -- to arsonist Gasoline Gomez, "Captain" Hilly Kristal of the Bowery rock club CBGBs, Tom Verlaine's then-new band Television, and rock critic Lester Bangs, one of the first to champion punk rock. I went to CBGBs a time or two, though I was terrified to enter its famously scuzzy bathrooms.
Still, this isn't just an exercise in nostalgia. "The go-go days are over," Kirwan wails, and while that was true of 1980, it's just as true today. For all we know, this too could be a hot, restless, scummy summer. Might as well throw on a cool shirt and hit the streets.
What's on your list of "Summer's Here!" songs? Mine would have to include the Lovin' Spoonful's "Summer in the City," the B-52s' "Rock Lobster," Martha and the Vandellas' "Dancing in the Street," and Mungo Jerry's "In the Summertime." And yes, okay, twist my arm: Bruce Springsteen's "Rosalita." But the more I listen to this new Black 47 album, Bankers and Gangsters, I realize I must add one more to that list: the sizzling opening track, "Long Hot Summer Comin' On."
Not familiar with Black 47? Oh, my, we must rectify that. Along with the Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly, they form a triumvirate of American-based Celtic rock bands -- punchy Irish-themed bar bands that throw jigs and pipes into a rock 'n' roll mix. (Just try to book any of these bands around St. Patrick's Day.) Of the three, Black 47 -- the name refers to the worst year of the Great Irish Famine -- has the most eclectic sound, thanks to a smokin' horn section that can leap from jazz to reggae to Philly soul. They're also the most political, thanks to the songwriting of front man Larry Kirwan -- playwright, novelist, columnist, and Sirius DJ. (His radio show is how I first got hooked on this band.) Kirwan's not much of a singer, mind you, but what he lacks in vocal ability, he makes up for with mad boyish enthusiasm.
The soulful horns that lead off this track pour in like a ray of sunshine; drumbeats snap like firecrackers. The metallic jangle of guitars is undeniably urban -- more subway tracks and fire escapes than highway cruising and swimming pools. But within that general city vibe, this particular song harks back to the summer of 1980, an era that Kirwan's been thinking about a lot about lately, as the time frame for his new novel Rockin' the Bronx.
One thing about cities: People can't help being out on the streets, especially in the heat of summer, and this song sketches those colliding lives. The first verse is a sidewalk panorama, the "girls in their summer dresses" passing by a young cop on the beat; verse two takes the ferry to Staten Island, to a fireman worn out by a rash of arsons. (Irish cops and firefighters are a healthy portion of Black 47's following.) Verse three mills around the Lower East Side, capital of the punk phenomenon, then in its heyday. Over it all hangs a sense of desperation, of youth vanishing, of chances evaporating; Kirwan's half-strangled vocals add a bittersweet urgency to this flickering moment of history.
I remember the summer of 1980 -- I had just moved to New York, though I hardly traveled in the same downtown hipster circles as Kirwan did. Still, I recognize all the references -- to arsonist Gasoline Gomez, "Captain" Hilly Kristal of the Bowery rock club CBGBs, Tom Verlaine's then-new band Television, and rock critic Lester Bangs, one of the first to champion punk rock. I went to CBGBs a time or two, though I was terrified to enter its famously scuzzy bathrooms.
Still, this isn't just an exercise in nostalgia. "The go-go days are over," Kirwan wails, and while that was true of 1980, it's just as true today. For all we know, this too could be a hot, restless, scummy summer. Might as well throw on a cool shirt and hit the streets.
Friday, June 11, 2010
"Pied Piper" / Crispian St. Peters
I was surprised by how saddened I was today to read the obituary for Crispian St. Peters, who just died at age 71. Not a major British Invasion star, not by any stretch of the imagination, but still . . . As a kid I owned his one big US hit, "Pied Piper," and I faithfully learned its lyrics by heart (that head crammed with 60s lyrics is one reason why I can't remember my daughter's cell phone number). Well, if I'm this affected by the death of Crispian St. Peters, I can't imagine how gutted I'll be when the great British rockers from my formative years shuffle off this mortal coil. I daren't even name their names, but you know very well whom I'm thinking of.
Crispian St. Who? you may well arsk. Come on, listen to the song; you know this record.
For a brief spell in the summer of 1966 -- oh, that glorious summer! -- this tune haunted the airwaves, pouring out of every little transistor radio we kids held snuggled to our ears. With its boppy prancing beat, its Donovan-like feyness, "Pied Piper" hooked us but good.
St. Peter's real name was Robin Peter Smith -- a properly British-sounding name, but not nearly as evocative for us Americans: hence the stage name. Let's face it, nobody in my grade school in Indiana was gonna have a name like Crispian. And St. Peters? In Indianapolis, the North Side clothing boutique that peddled all the must-have clothes was Roderick St. John, a name chosen for its faux-English pretensions. St. John = St. Peters = upper-crust class. Basing a pop song on the legend of the Pied Piper of Hamelin could have seemed precious, but St. Peters' earnest tenor and twee Englishness sold the literary reference just right.
Though he'd been knocking around as a professional musician since the late 50s, after Beatlemania Robin Smith jumped onto the British beat bandwagon, reinventing himself with his new stage name and signing to Decca in 1965. His first big UK hit, in 1966, was the Sylvia Tyson song "You Were On My Mind," but that didn't chart over here -- we had our own homegrown version recorded by We Five. In July 1966, however, he followed that up with "Pied Piper" -- a cover of a minor 1965 single by The Changin' Times -- and scored a Top Ten hit on both sides of the Atlantic.
Recording "Pied Piper" was a stroke of luck for this guy. You may never have heard of The Changin' Times, but one-half of this short-lived duo was songwriter Artie Kornfeld, who'd already had one big hit with Jan and Dean's "Dead Man's Curve"; he and his Changin' Times partner Steve Duboff also later wrote the Cowsills' 1967 hit "The Rain, the Park, and Other Things." Perhaps even more important was Kornfeld's role as one of the prime organizers of the Woodstock Music Festival in 1969. As a professional songwriter, Kornfeld -- a Brooklyn boy -- had songcraft down pat. How else could he have turned out three such different hits -- a California surf rock classic, a gauzy sunshine pop anthem, and this British Invasion charmer?
Okay, so this song didn't have much to do with the Pied Piper myth. Just as well, because the Hamelin story is one of literature's creepier tales. As a kid, I remember being freaked out by the idea of a town so infested with rats, they needed to hire this exterminator with a flute. (The bit about the town burghers stiffing the guy once the job had been done completely went over my head.) And the TV version I remember further wrenched my heart by adding one Tiny Tim-like boy with crutches who got left behind when all the other kids followed the vengeful piper out of town.
Luckily in this song, the Piper is only used in its metaphorical sense as a charismatic leader. Most likely Kornfeld and Duboff got the idea from reading somewhere how the Beatles were "pied pipers to a generation" (as indeed they were). To this, Kornfeld and Duboff added just the right amount of hippie gloss. The singer -- the "I" of the song -- is a free spirit, addressing some hung-up soul ("masquerading," "contemplating") who's afraid to follow him. Singing in a low, coaxing voice, St. Peters weaves a spell, pointing an accusing finger with repeated "you's" and tempting his prey onward. The arrangement is deliberately minimal, with a prominent bass line, light guitar strum, and martial drums (the better for marching away). What is he offering? Drugs? Eastern philosophy? Marxist revolution? Only in the second verse does it become clear that he's singing to a girl, which clarifies his motives considerably. But hey, he waits until the second verse to put the move on her, and he never even mentions intercourse -- how refreshing!
Remember, in the mid-60s coded drug messages were everywhere; this timid soul clearly needed to be turned on. And so the chorus blooms into full orchestration, including a sprightly penny whistle, representing the piper's pipe. "Come on babe," he invites, swinging into his beautiful upper register, "follow me / I'm the Pied Piper / Follow me / I'm the Pied Piper / And I'll show you where it's at." Talk about 60's lingo -- "where it's at," man. That's pusher talk if I ever heard it.
Calculated British Invasion pop -- and yet, it's an absolutely lovely recording, redolent of its era and yet timelessly lilting. Hearing Crispian St. Peters launch into that chorus still makes my heart leap. We talk so dismissively of one-hit wonders; but having even one hit this delightful is something to be proud of. Rest in peace, Robin Peter Smith.
I was surprised by how saddened I was today to read the obituary for Crispian St. Peters, who just died at age 71. Not a major British Invasion star, not by any stretch of the imagination, but still . . . As a kid I owned his one big US hit, "Pied Piper," and I faithfully learned its lyrics by heart (that head crammed with 60s lyrics is one reason why I can't remember my daughter's cell phone number). Well, if I'm this affected by the death of Crispian St. Peters, I can't imagine how gutted I'll be when the great British rockers from my formative years shuffle off this mortal coil. I daren't even name their names, but you know very well whom I'm thinking of.
Crispian St. Who? you may well arsk. Come on, listen to the song; you know this record.
For a brief spell in the summer of 1966 -- oh, that glorious summer! -- this tune haunted the airwaves, pouring out of every little transistor radio we kids held snuggled to our ears. With its boppy prancing beat, its Donovan-like feyness, "Pied Piper" hooked us but good.
St. Peter's real name was Robin Peter Smith -- a properly British-sounding name, but not nearly as evocative for us Americans: hence the stage name. Let's face it, nobody in my grade school in Indiana was gonna have a name like Crispian. And St. Peters? In Indianapolis, the North Side clothing boutique that peddled all the must-have clothes was Roderick St. John, a name chosen for its faux-English pretensions. St. John = St. Peters = upper-crust class. Basing a pop song on the legend of the Pied Piper of Hamelin could have seemed precious, but St. Peters' earnest tenor and twee Englishness sold the literary reference just right.
Though he'd been knocking around as a professional musician since the late 50s, after Beatlemania Robin Smith jumped onto the British beat bandwagon, reinventing himself with his new stage name and signing to Decca in 1965. His first big UK hit, in 1966, was the Sylvia Tyson song "You Were On My Mind," but that didn't chart over here -- we had our own homegrown version recorded by We Five. In July 1966, however, he followed that up with "Pied Piper" -- a cover of a minor 1965 single by The Changin' Times -- and scored a Top Ten hit on both sides of the Atlantic.
Recording "Pied Piper" was a stroke of luck for this guy. You may never have heard of The Changin' Times, but one-half of this short-lived duo was songwriter Artie Kornfeld, who'd already had one big hit with Jan and Dean's "Dead Man's Curve"; he and his Changin' Times partner Steve Duboff also later wrote the Cowsills' 1967 hit "The Rain, the Park, and Other Things." Perhaps even more important was Kornfeld's role as one of the prime organizers of the Woodstock Music Festival in 1969. As a professional songwriter, Kornfeld -- a Brooklyn boy -- had songcraft down pat. How else could he have turned out three such different hits -- a California surf rock classic, a gauzy sunshine pop anthem, and this British Invasion charmer?
Okay, so this song didn't have much to do with the Pied Piper myth. Just as well, because the Hamelin story is one of literature's creepier tales. As a kid, I remember being freaked out by the idea of a town so infested with rats, they needed to hire this exterminator with a flute. (The bit about the town burghers stiffing the guy once the job had been done completely went over my head.) And the TV version I remember further wrenched my heart by adding one Tiny Tim-like boy with crutches who got left behind when all the other kids followed the vengeful piper out of town.
Luckily in this song, the Piper is only used in its metaphorical sense as a charismatic leader. Most likely Kornfeld and Duboff got the idea from reading somewhere how the Beatles were "pied pipers to a generation" (as indeed they were). To this, Kornfeld and Duboff added just the right amount of hippie gloss. The singer -- the "I" of the song -- is a free spirit, addressing some hung-up soul ("masquerading," "contemplating") who's afraid to follow him. Singing in a low, coaxing voice, St. Peters weaves a spell, pointing an accusing finger with repeated "you's" and tempting his prey onward. The arrangement is deliberately minimal, with a prominent bass line, light guitar strum, and martial drums (the better for marching away). What is he offering? Drugs? Eastern philosophy? Marxist revolution? Only in the second verse does it become clear that he's singing to a girl, which clarifies his motives considerably. But hey, he waits until the second verse to put the move on her, and he never even mentions intercourse -- how refreshing!
Remember, in the mid-60s coded drug messages were everywhere; this timid soul clearly needed to be turned on. And so the chorus blooms into full orchestration, including a sprightly penny whistle, representing the piper's pipe. "Come on babe," he invites, swinging into his beautiful upper register, "follow me / I'm the Pied Piper / Follow me / I'm the Pied Piper / And I'll show you where it's at." Talk about 60's lingo -- "where it's at," man. That's pusher talk if I ever heard it.
Calculated British Invasion pop -- and yet, it's an absolutely lovely recording, redolent of its era and yet timelessly lilting. Hearing Crispian St. Peters launch into that chorus still makes my heart leap. We talk so dismissively of one-hit wonders; but having even one hit this delightful is something to be proud of. Rest in peace, Robin Peter Smith.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
WEDNESDAY SHUFFLE
Today's blog is dedicated to Rafaela Filippi, a fellow Kinks fan, who just passed away Monday night. So what if the shuffle isn't all Kinks music? That wouldn't have bothered Raf. With her generous smile and open heart, she was a music lover of wide enthusiasm. I'll miss you!
1. "Yakety Yak" / Phantom Planet
From The Mumford Soundtrack (1999)
When I was a kid, we inherited a box of 45s from our older cousins, one of which was the original 1958 "Yakety Yak" by the Coasters (written by Leiber and Stoller, I now learn). How cool, then, to find it covered on this excellent soundtrack to a sweet little 1999 indie film, and by Phantom Planet, one of my favorite alt bands. Back then, Phantom Planet had only one album out and Jason Schwartzman (yes, that adorable indie actor, one and the same) was still their drummer. I love how Phantom Planet stays true to that old platter's charm, including the cheeky sax and the stern baritone retort to "Yakety yak!" -- "Don't talk back."
2. "The Wreck of the Barbie Ferrari" / John Hiatt
From Perfectly Good Guitar (1993)
My pink plastic Barbie Sportscar wasn't a Ferrari, but I get the picture. "It ain't the end of the world, it's just the wreck of the Barbie Ferrari" -- Hiatt plays it for comedy, with the frustrated family man opening fire on a box full of toys while the wife and kids are off at church. Still, underneath that satire lies a lot of repressed rage -- a LOT. I love Hiatt, our great rock chronicler of the ebbs and flows of family life, but this song misses the mark for me.
3. "A-Punk" / Vampire Weekend
From Vampire Weekend (2008)
I guess there are words to this song, but I never catch more than a word here and there. The main thing is the tight collage of sounds, a frantic ukelele-like strum alternating with a surge of synths, dense as cotton-wool, punctuated with Ezra Koenig yelping "Ay! Ay! Ay!" It doesn't sound like it should work, but somehow, magnetically, it does.
4. "Next Time You See Me" / Sir Douglas Quintet
From Soul Jam (2000 compilation)
A CD I picked up for $1 on a binge in a used-record store in Amherst -- and I'll never regret it. (Do we ever really regret those bargain-bin splurges?) In my opinion, Doug Sahm could do whatever he damn well pleased, and here we find various incarnations of his band whipping out note-perfect covers of old soul classics, with a lazy funky groove that just does not quit. On this track, they work their magic on a 1957 Junior Parker classic that's been covered by everybody from Frankie Lymon to the Grateful Dead.
5. "Western Union Man" / Al Kooper
From I Stand Alone (1968)
Must be Soul Covers Night. This was one of my most-played LPs in college, and I loved this track long before I ever heard Jerry Butler's honey-dripping original. In the grand old tradition of Letter Songs, this one's too urgent for standard delivery -- no, we gotta reach that girl now, and damn the cost. (Somehow a text message just doesn't have the same flair.) Al punches it up a little, but it's still a loose-limbed seduction, underlaid with a funky bass and steamy horns. My favorite part: When the back-up singers and Al rat-tat-tat, in offbeat staccato: "Send a tel-e-gram, send a tel-e-gram!"
6. "I Worry 'Bout You Baby" / Brinsley Schwarz
From What IS So Funny 'Bout Peace Love and Understanding? (1973)
Ah, the Brinsleys, bringing their conception of a lazy Nashville stroll to the pubs of North London -- blissfully genial and more than a bit stoned. This track is totally, and I mean totally, derivative, but it is nevertheless feel-good music of the highest quality.
7. "All In Good Time" / Ron Sexsmith
From Time Being (2006)
I highly recommend this album for times of trouble. Canadian singer-songwriter Ron Sexsmith has a knack for philosophizing without sounding preachy, especially on this album -- a gently rocking meditation on mortality and acceptance. A perfect song for me to hear tonight.
8. "Both Ends Burning" / Richard Thompson
From Hand of Kindness (1983)
I love how Thompson grafts together bluegrass, Cajun swamp, and Celtic folk song in this rollicking two-step, a shaggy dog tale -- or rather shaggy horse tale, about a broken-down nag turned racehorse. The story's just a pretext, though, for this spicy gumbo of sassy guitar licks, chipper accordion, and finger-wagging sax.
9. "Man of a Fool" / Nick Lowe
From The Abominable Showman (1983)
Nick Lowe's commentary on the battle of the sexes: "For every woman who ever made a fool of a man / There's a woman made a man of a fool." If Nick hadn't yet gone full country, there's still a certain Nashvillian snappiness to this track. A forgettable Nick track, from an odd mishmash of an album -- but it's still a pretty fab, fun bit o' music.
10. "May You Never" / John Martyn
From Solid Air (1973)
Another album I played the grooves off of in college, and especially this jazzy acoustic track, Martyn's rueful take on a traditional Celtic blessing. "May you never lay your head down / Without a hand to hold / And may you never make your bed out in the cold." Words of wry wisdom, and a fitting benediction in memory of a dear friend lost.
Today's blog is dedicated to Rafaela Filippi, a fellow Kinks fan, who just passed away Monday night. So what if the shuffle isn't all Kinks music? That wouldn't have bothered Raf. With her generous smile and open heart, she was a music lover of wide enthusiasm. I'll miss you!
1. "Yakety Yak" / Phantom Planet
From The Mumford Soundtrack (1999)
When I was a kid, we inherited a box of 45s from our older cousins, one of which was the original 1958 "Yakety Yak" by the Coasters (written by Leiber and Stoller, I now learn). How cool, then, to find it covered on this excellent soundtrack to a sweet little 1999 indie film, and by Phantom Planet, one of my favorite alt bands. Back then, Phantom Planet had only one album out and Jason Schwartzman (yes, that adorable indie actor, one and the same) was still their drummer. I love how Phantom Planet stays true to that old platter's charm, including the cheeky sax and the stern baritone retort to "Yakety yak!" -- "Don't talk back."
2. "The Wreck of the Barbie Ferrari" / John Hiatt
From Perfectly Good Guitar (1993)
My pink plastic Barbie Sportscar wasn't a Ferrari, but I get the picture. "It ain't the end of the world, it's just the wreck of the Barbie Ferrari" -- Hiatt plays it for comedy, with the frustrated family man opening fire on a box full of toys while the wife and kids are off at church. Still, underneath that satire lies a lot of repressed rage -- a LOT. I love Hiatt, our great rock chronicler of the ebbs and flows of family life, but this song misses the mark for me.
3. "A-Punk" / Vampire Weekend
From Vampire Weekend (2008)
I guess there are words to this song, but I never catch more than a word here and there. The main thing is the tight collage of sounds, a frantic ukelele-like strum alternating with a surge of synths, dense as cotton-wool, punctuated with Ezra Koenig yelping "Ay! Ay! Ay!" It doesn't sound like it should work, but somehow, magnetically, it does.
4. "Next Time You See Me" / Sir Douglas Quintet
From Soul Jam (2000 compilation)
A CD I picked up for $1 on a binge in a used-record store in Amherst -- and I'll never regret it. (Do we ever really regret those bargain-bin splurges?) In my opinion, Doug Sahm could do whatever he damn well pleased, and here we find various incarnations of his band whipping out note-perfect covers of old soul classics, with a lazy funky groove that just does not quit. On this track, they work their magic on a 1957 Junior Parker classic that's been covered by everybody from Frankie Lymon to the Grateful Dead.
5. "Western Union Man" / Al Kooper
From I Stand Alone (1968)
Must be Soul Covers Night. This was one of my most-played LPs in college, and I loved this track long before I ever heard Jerry Butler's honey-dripping original. In the grand old tradition of Letter Songs, this one's too urgent for standard delivery -- no, we gotta reach that girl now, and damn the cost. (Somehow a text message just doesn't have the same flair.) Al punches it up a little, but it's still a loose-limbed seduction, underlaid with a funky bass and steamy horns. My favorite part: When the back-up singers and Al rat-tat-tat, in offbeat staccato: "Send a tel-e-gram, send a tel-e-gram!"
6. "I Worry 'Bout You Baby" / Brinsley Schwarz
From What IS So Funny 'Bout Peace Love and Understanding? (1973)
Ah, the Brinsleys, bringing their conception of a lazy Nashville stroll to the pubs of North London -- blissfully genial and more than a bit stoned. This track is totally, and I mean totally, derivative, but it is nevertheless feel-good music of the highest quality.
7. "All In Good Time" / Ron Sexsmith
From Time Being (2006)
I highly recommend this album for times of trouble. Canadian singer-songwriter Ron Sexsmith has a knack for philosophizing without sounding preachy, especially on this album -- a gently rocking meditation on mortality and acceptance. A perfect song for me to hear tonight.
8. "Both Ends Burning" / Richard Thompson
From Hand of Kindness (1983)
I love how Thompson grafts together bluegrass, Cajun swamp, and Celtic folk song in this rollicking two-step, a shaggy dog tale -- or rather shaggy horse tale, about a broken-down nag turned racehorse. The story's just a pretext, though, for this spicy gumbo of sassy guitar licks, chipper accordion, and finger-wagging sax.
9. "Man of a Fool" / Nick Lowe
From The Abominable Showman (1983)
Nick Lowe's commentary on the battle of the sexes: "For every woman who ever made a fool of a man / There's a woman made a man of a fool." If Nick hadn't yet gone full country, there's still a certain Nashvillian snappiness to this track. A forgettable Nick track, from an odd mishmash of an album -- but it's still a pretty fab, fun bit o' music.
10. "May You Never" / John Martyn
From Solid Air (1973)
Another album I played the grooves off of in college, and especially this jazzy acoustic track, Martyn's rueful take on a traditional Celtic blessing. "May you never lay your head down / Without a hand to hold / And may you never make your bed out in the cold." Words of wry wisdom, and a fitting benediction in memory of a dear friend lost.
Saturday, June 05, 2010
"Shelly's Winter Love" / Bill Kirchen
with Nick Lowe and Paul Carrack
File this away in my Wish I'd Been A Fly on the Studio Wall folder.
Bill Kirchen's new CD, Words to the Wise, really should be listed as Bill Kirchen and Friends, since just about every track features some "guest artist" who's a longtime musical pal of his. Considering Kirchen's eclectic career -- from the late 60s with Commandy Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen, to the Moonlighters, to the Impossible Birds and countless other sideman gigs -- he's amassed impressive credentials as a triple-threat guitarist, songwriter, and singer. As one of the guys who "invented" Americana, he's been hung with the tag King of Dieselbilly, but in truth he is so much more.
Yet Bill Kirchen is such a generous guy, so modest about his own amazing talent, he graciously stands back and lets his guests take the spotlight on each track. And the line-up of guests reads like my iTunes: Elvis Costello, Paul Carrack, Dan Hicks, Maria Muldaur, Commander Cody (a.k.a. George Frayne), and best of all, the divine Nick Lowe. That roll call, however, doesn't fully convey the best thing about this recording: its mellow vibe. It's clear that everybody Kirchen invited was thrilled to sign on, and they simply had a blast in the studio.
Truth is, it was hard to choose which track to share with you today. (Which means this CD will probably soon make a return appearance on this blog.) The title track, a duet with Dan Hicks, is a delightful romp, as is his reunion with Commander Cody on "I Don't Work that Cheap"; then there's the rueful "Husbands and Wives," a cover of a Roger Miller tune, on which Kirchen duets with Chris O'Donnell, formerly of Asleep at the Wheel. (Kirchen doesn't get enough credit for his poignant numbers; check out my previous post on "Skid Row in My Mind.")
But flesh is weak, and in the end I succumbed to the obvious. C'mon, I haven't written about Nick Lowe in ages! And there's Paul Carrack too! How could I resist?
Considering what longtime collaborators Lowe and Carrack have been, you'd think there'd be more photos of them together on the InterWeb, at the very least group shots of Nick's Cowboy Outfit. No dice. The best I could do with this homemade video is to plug in separate shots of each guy at the point in the song where he's featured -- that's Paul with the shades, Nick in the white shirt, Bill in the blue. I should also add that the shimmering piano accents are courtesy of Austin De Lone, who originally brought them all together. Though De Lone is American, his band Eggs Over Easy launched the 1970s pub rock movement in London, in which Nick (via Brinsley Schwarz) and Paul (via Ace) got their start; later, when Austin and Bill played together in the Moonlighters, trans-Atlantic introductions were made, and lifelong bonds were formed.
As for this track, it's a cover of a Merle Haggard tune, from 1971's Hag. According to Kirchen's wonderful liner notes, "Nick and Paul tell me they had Merle Haggard's "Shelly's Winter Love" by the Osborne Brothers on a tape while touring the US, and would sing it together on the bus. Why reinvent the wheel, I thought? I just let 'em at it, and tried to not get in the way." By stripping away the pedal steel and adding harmonies, Lowe and Carrack give this tender ballad an Everlies-like plangency.
Forget the awful pun on Shelley Winters' name, which must have kickstarted this song in Haggard's imagination; this is no mere novelty tune. The conceit is that Shelly is a restless woman who never stays put for long; the singer hooks up with her every winter, but he knows she'll be flying away by spring. While he accepts that, it's clear from every lovesick yodel in this song that he'd rather have her to himself year-round -- but he'd rather have a little bit of Shelly than nothing.
I happen to love Bill Kirchen's voice, and I'm sorry he didn't take a verse himself, or at least chime in on the chorus. Still, we've got that middle eight, in which Kirchen twangs a lovely solo. If you've ever seen Bill Kirchen in concert, you'll know that he can rip up a guitar solo like nobody's business. Yet that would have been totally out of place in a wistful song like this, and Kirchen has unerring taste in such matters.
That's the virtue of having been in the business for forty-plus years -- Bill Kirchen doesn't have a dang thing to prove. Making a record is just a wonderful excuse to hang out with his friends -- and oh, what friends they are.
with Nick Lowe and Paul Carrack
File this away in my Wish I'd Been A Fly on the Studio Wall folder.
Bill Kirchen's new CD, Words to the Wise, really should be listed as Bill Kirchen and Friends, since just about every track features some "guest artist" who's a longtime musical pal of his. Considering Kirchen's eclectic career -- from the late 60s with Commandy Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen, to the Moonlighters, to the Impossible Birds and countless other sideman gigs -- he's amassed impressive credentials as a triple-threat guitarist, songwriter, and singer. As one of the guys who "invented" Americana, he's been hung with the tag King of Dieselbilly, but in truth he is so much more.
Yet Bill Kirchen is such a generous guy, so modest about his own amazing talent, he graciously stands back and lets his guests take the spotlight on each track. And the line-up of guests reads like my iTunes: Elvis Costello, Paul Carrack, Dan Hicks, Maria Muldaur, Commander Cody (a.k.a. George Frayne), and best of all, the divine Nick Lowe. That roll call, however, doesn't fully convey the best thing about this recording: its mellow vibe. It's clear that everybody Kirchen invited was thrilled to sign on, and they simply had a blast in the studio.
Truth is, it was hard to choose which track to share with you today. (Which means this CD will probably soon make a return appearance on this blog.) The title track, a duet with Dan Hicks, is a delightful romp, as is his reunion with Commander Cody on "I Don't Work that Cheap"; then there's the rueful "Husbands and Wives," a cover of a Roger Miller tune, on which Kirchen duets with Chris O'Donnell, formerly of Asleep at the Wheel. (Kirchen doesn't get enough credit for his poignant numbers; check out my previous post on "Skid Row in My Mind.")
But flesh is weak, and in the end I succumbed to the obvious. C'mon, I haven't written about Nick Lowe in ages! And there's Paul Carrack too! How could I resist?
Considering what longtime collaborators Lowe and Carrack have been, you'd think there'd be more photos of them together on the InterWeb, at the very least group shots of Nick's Cowboy Outfit. No dice. The best I could do with this homemade video is to plug in separate shots of each guy at the point in the song where he's featured -- that's Paul with the shades, Nick in the white shirt, Bill in the blue. I should also add that the shimmering piano accents are courtesy of Austin De Lone, who originally brought them all together. Though De Lone is American, his band Eggs Over Easy launched the 1970s pub rock movement in London, in which Nick (via Brinsley Schwarz) and Paul (via Ace) got their start; later, when Austin and Bill played together in the Moonlighters, trans-Atlantic introductions were made, and lifelong bonds were formed.
As for this track, it's a cover of a Merle Haggard tune, from 1971's Hag. According to Kirchen's wonderful liner notes, "Nick and Paul tell me they had Merle Haggard's "Shelly's Winter Love" by the Osborne Brothers on a tape while touring the US, and would sing it together on the bus. Why reinvent the wheel, I thought? I just let 'em at it, and tried to not get in the way." By stripping away the pedal steel and adding harmonies, Lowe and Carrack give this tender ballad an Everlies-like plangency.
Forget the awful pun on Shelley Winters' name, which must have kickstarted this song in Haggard's imagination; this is no mere novelty tune. The conceit is that Shelly is a restless woman who never stays put for long; the singer hooks up with her every winter, but he knows she'll be flying away by spring. While he accepts that, it's clear from every lovesick yodel in this song that he'd rather have her to himself year-round -- but he'd rather have a little bit of Shelly than nothing.
I happen to love Bill Kirchen's voice, and I'm sorry he didn't take a verse himself, or at least chime in on the chorus. Still, we've got that middle eight, in which Kirchen twangs a lovely solo. If you've ever seen Bill Kirchen in concert, you'll know that he can rip up a guitar solo like nobody's business. Yet that would have been totally out of place in a wistful song like this, and Kirchen has unerring taste in such matters.
That's the virtue of having been in the business for forty-plus years -- Bill Kirchen doesn't have a dang thing to prove. Making a record is just a wonderful excuse to hang out with his friends -- and oh, what friends they are.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
"Bed O' Roses No. 9" /
Ian Dury & the Blockheads
You know how there are some books you just can't put down? Will Birch's new biography of Ian Dury was like that for me. Over the past week, I actually looked forward to long subway rides because it'd give me a stretch of reading time; I gave up jogging in favor of the stationary bike in the gym, just so I could prop this on the book stand and plow through more of Ian Dury's fascinating life.
It's not just because I'm a devoted Ian Dury fan -- although I do like his music a lot and I own most of it on CD (check out my previous posts on Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick and Inbetweenies). As a graduate of the pub-rock scene and one of Stiff Records' first recording stars, Dury consorted with all those other musicians I adore, such as -- oh, you know who. But that too is almost beside the point. Dury was a complex personality with an intriguing life story, and Birch follows the twists and turns with sympathy and shrewd insight. Despite his foul-mouthed Cockney image, Dury was in fact a grammar-school boy raised in relative comfort by his upper middle-class mother; even his working-class bus-driver dad, who wasn't around much, rubbed shoulders with toffs after becoming a Rolls-Royce chauffeur. Ian's lyrics may have been peppered with rhyming slang and profanity, but behind that guttersnipe manner was a talented artist and former art school teacher, with an ear for jazz and a sharp eye for cutting-edge fashion.
Although we Americans were quick to appropriate the title of his trademark song "Sex & Drugs & Rock and Roll," Dury's thick Essex accent and topical satire didn't translate well to an American audience. (Last weekend I ran a trivia contest at my college reunion and nobody -- nobody! -- could identify Ian Dury.) The most salient fact about Dury's life, however, was that he contracted polio as a young kid and spent several years in a horrific school for the disabled. To be honest, I had no idea Dury was a "raspberry" ("raspberry ripple" = cripple) until a couple years ago; I bought his albums for their snappy lyrics and the tight jazz-funk arrangements, with no idea of his mesmerizing stage presence. But Birch connects the dots, reminding us why Dury was such a prickly bloke, continually pissing off everybody he knew, including -- no, especially -- the Blockheads, his brilliant backing band. And in the end, Birch left me with enormous affection for the "diamond geezer."
I was delighted to find this YouTube video of "Bed O' Roses No. 9," since it's not one of Dury's better-known tracks. It comes from the tail end of his career, from the 1998 album Mr Love Pants, for which he somehow managed to tempt the Blockheads back to record with him after some 18 years' hiatus. (A lot of water under that bridge!) He was already diagnosed with terminal cancer, but this was hardly a pity session -- the Blockheads must have known that they needed his saucy wit and showmanship every bit as much as he needed their delicious groove. At long last Dury was writing songs again with Blockhead Chaz Jankel -- his chief collaborator on those classic late 70s Blockheads LPs -- and the result is one of their best albums ever. Quite a note to go out on.
You might imagine that a sense of mortality would have made Ian Dury mellower. Not a chance, mate. The sparkling jazz intro sets him up to reflect: "I've done a lot of things I wished I hadn't / There's other things I never hope to do / But sliding off the map in both directions / Is the sorry mess I've made of knowing you." Listen to how unrepentantly he spits out "sorry mess."
And he goes on in that vein, slicing up his ex-lover with sardonic thrusts and jabs. Verse three: "I knew it wouldn't be a bed of roses / I've seen the bloody grind that love entails / But one door shuts and then another closes [how's that for a witty lyric?] / And now I'm on a bloody bed of nails." I love that deft progression from the blissful bed of roses to the torturous bed of nails.
Eventually she's nailing his bollocks to the door ("my poor cojones," in the second repeat) -- at which point the Blockheads step in to regale us with a rapturously copasetic instrumental. That's Davey Payne on the sax, who was constantly mouthing off to Ian, getting fired from the Blockheads, and soon inevitably rehired. I wonder if Dury ever admitted to his face that Payne's sax WAS the linchpin of the Blockheads' sound?
It's that dialog between Dury's clever snarled lyrics and the elegantly supple instrumental that always won me over. No matter how nasty his words get, the Blockheads keep swinging, keeping the good humor front and center. Back in 1977 London, you could be punk or you could be New Wave; Ian Dury may have been the first to sport a razor-blade earring, but he was too art-school to go full-on punk. Wit was what he was about; it was all theater. How else could a crippled geezer who sang out of tune and played no instrument become a bona fide rock star?
Ian Dury & the Blockheads
You know how there are some books you just can't put down? Will Birch's new biography of Ian Dury was like that for me. Over the past week, I actually looked forward to long subway rides because it'd give me a stretch of reading time; I gave up jogging in favor of the stationary bike in the gym, just so I could prop this on the book stand and plow through more of Ian Dury's fascinating life.It's not just because I'm a devoted Ian Dury fan -- although I do like his music a lot and I own most of it on CD (check out my previous posts on Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick and Inbetweenies). As a graduate of the pub-rock scene and one of Stiff Records' first recording stars, Dury consorted with all those other musicians I adore, such as -- oh, you know who. But that too is almost beside the point. Dury was a complex personality with an intriguing life story, and Birch follows the twists and turns with sympathy and shrewd insight. Despite his foul-mouthed Cockney image, Dury was in fact a grammar-school boy raised in relative comfort by his upper middle-class mother; even his working-class bus-driver dad, who wasn't around much, rubbed shoulders with toffs after becoming a Rolls-Royce chauffeur. Ian's lyrics may have been peppered with rhyming slang and profanity, but behind that guttersnipe manner was a talented artist and former art school teacher, with an ear for jazz and a sharp eye for cutting-edge fashion.
Although we Americans were quick to appropriate the title of his trademark song "Sex & Drugs & Rock and Roll," Dury's thick Essex accent and topical satire didn't translate well to an American audience. (Last weekend I ran a trivia contest at my college reunion and nobody -- nobody! -- could identify Ian Dury.) The most salient fact about Dury's life, however, was that he contracted polio as a young kid and spent several years in a horrific school for the disabled. To be honest, I had no idea Dury was a "raspberry" ("raspberry ripple" = cripple) until a couple years ago; I bought his albums for their snappy lyrics and the tight jazz-funk arrangements, with no idea of his mesmerizing stage presence. But Birch connects the dots, reminding us why Dury was such a prickly bloke, continually pissing off everybody he knew, including -- no, especially -- the Blockheads, his brilliant backing band. And in the end, Birch left me with enormous affection for the "diamond geezer."
I was delighted to find this YouTube video of "Bed O' Roses No. 9," since it's not one of Dury's better-known tracks. It comes from the tail end of his career, from the 1998 album Mr Love Pants, for which he somehow managed to tempt the Blockheads back to record with him after some 18 years' hiatus. (A lot of water under that bridge!) He was already diagnosed with terminal cancer, but this was hardly a pity session -- the Blockheads must have known that they needed his saucy wit and showmanship every bit as much as he needed their delicious groove. At long last Dury was writing songs again with Blockhead Chaz Jankel -- his chief collaborator on those classic late 70s Blockheads LPs -- and the result is one of their best albums ever. Quite a note to go out on.
You might imagine that a sense of mortality would have made Ian Dury mellower. Not a chance, mate. The sparkling jazz intro sets him up to reflect: "I've done a lot of things I wished I hadn't / There's other things I never hope to do / But sliding off the map in both directions / Is the sorry mess I've made of knowing you." Listen to how unrepentantly he spits out "sorry mess."
And he goes on in that vein, slicing up his ex-lover with sardonic thrusts and jabs. Verse three: "I knew it wouldn't be a bed of roses / I've seen the bloody grind that love entails / But one door shuts and then another closes [how's that for a witty lyric?] / And now I'm on a bloody bed of nails." I love that deft progression from the blissful bed of roses to the torturous bed of nails.
Eventually she's nailing his bollocks to the door ("my poor cojones," in the second repeat) -- at which point the Blockheads step in to regale us with a rapturously copasetic instrumental. That's Davey Payne on the sax, who was constantly mouthing off to Ian, getting fired from the Blockheads, and soon inevitably rehired. I wonder if Dury ever admitted to his face that Payne's sax WAS the linchpin of the Blockheads' sound?
It's that dialog between Dury's clever snarled lyrics and the elegantly supple instrumental that always won me over. No matter how nasty his words get, the Blockheads keep swinging, keeping the good humor front and center. Back in 1977 London, you could be punk or you could be New Wave; Ian Dury may have been the first to sport a razor-blade earring, but he was too art-school to go full-on punk. Wit was what he was about; it was all theater. How else could a crippled geezer who sang out of tune and played no instrument become a bona fide rock star?
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
WEDNESDAY SHUFFLE
Sure, the Memorial Day long weekend threw us all off -- it still feels only like Tuesday. But it isn't! It's Wednesday! So let's shuffle!!!
1. "For the Girl" / The Fratellis
From Costello Music (2007)
High-energy beat, crunchy guitars, rapid-crammed lyrics, and cheery la-la-la la-la-la's -- a bracing jolt of Brit Pop indeed. I love the shifting minor and major keys in this track. "She was into the Stones when / I was into the Roses" -- whoever this girl is, he's sure ambivalent about their never-quite-meshing relationship.
2. "Pontiac" / Fred Eaglesmith
From Lipstick, Lies & Gasoline (1997)
Fred who? One of America's best-kept secrets, a true grass-roots music treasure, with an unwavering connection to real American music fans. I won't give away the story this track tells -- it's a heartbreaker -- find it online and listen for yourself.
3. "What Is Wrong, What Is Right" / Herman's Hermits (1966)
From The Very Best of Herman's Hermits
A deft satiric character sketch that even Ray Davies could appreciate. It was only on the B-sides that Hermits Derek Lekenby and Keith Hopwood got to feature their own compositions, but while the band's radio hits sound trite today, those original numbers are a revelation.
4. "Michelle" / David and Jonathan (1967)
Yes, that "Michelle" -- but it's not Paul McCartney singing. Not a bad cover, though, all things considered.
5. "End of the Party" / The English Beat
From Special Beat Service (1982)
Ska-flavored jazzy pop from Dave Wakeling and company. There's always a soap opera embedded in these English Beat songs, a series of betrayals and frustrated love affairs played out in dingy flats and grubby streets. It seems the girl here is keeping our singer on tenterhooks, making him wait to sleep with her -- the tension is palpable in every word-crammed line, the yelp of every leaping, offbeat interval.
6. "The Crush" / John Hiatt
From Warming Up to the Ice Age (1985)
Having shed his proto-New Wave punk pose, Johnny Hiatt went into neo-soul mode on this album, recorded at the tail-end of his boozy California years. Oh, sure, I know that Hiatt's seriously great work would come later, once he got his life together -- but I hafta admit, his voice is in spectacular shape here, and his guitar licks sizzle. For a flop album, this is a neglected gem, 80s synths and all.
7. "Sinister But She Was Happy" / Robyn Hitchcock
From Moss Elixir (1996)
Neurotic rhythms, non sequitur lyrics, and a frenzied sawing of fiddle and cello -- ah, Robyn Hitchcock lets his English eccentric freak flag fly. There's something baroque about this track, with surreal lines like "Sinister but she was happy / Like a chandelier festooned with leeches," but it's also a totally nifty acoustic rocker, with an addictive loose-limbed beat. I can just imagine Robyn, in a loose flowered print shirt and jeans, gray hair flopping across his forehead, strumming madly away. Imagine? I've seen him sing this, with a wicked glint in his mad dark eyes. Delicious.
8. "I Am Your Singer" / Wings
From Wild Life (1971)
I know I'm supposed to look down on this stoned mishmash of an LP. The songs make no sense, they go on too long, the rhymes are infantile, and Linda is encouraged to sing way too much. (Any Linda vocals are too much in my book.) Well, sorry, folks, I love Wild Life. IMO Paul McCartney is at his best when he isn't trying to score radio hits or prove a critical point; he's just reveling in melody, rhythmic patterns, and musical textures. Wings would become a hit machine soon enough -- let's enjoy this freeform debut album for what it is.
9. "No Other Baby" / Paul McCartney
From Run Devil Run (1999)
And then Linda died and a grief-numbed Paul was spinning his wheels, unable to write new material for the first time in his fertile career. For some reason I think it was Elvis Costello who suggested that Paul try his hand at a covers album, paying tribute to the early rock 'n' roll numbers that first inspired him; this one is an old 1957 Dickie Bishop hit. You can pretty much hear Paul healing his heart on every track of this CD.
10. "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" / Death Cab for Cutie
From Maybe This Christmas (2004)
Death Cab's winsome cover of the classic Darlene Love Xmas tune, this has just enough tinsel shimmer (dig Ben Gibbard's reverbed vocals!) to put the frost on your holiday listening. It's from one of those me-too all-star charity Christmas albums (god forbid any hipsters should record a Christmas album without the air quotes of a do-gooder objective). It's weird to hear a Christmas tune in June -- but hey, that's what the shuffle's all about!
Sure, the Memorial Day long weekend threw us all off -- it still feels only like Tuesday. But it isn't! It's Wednesday! So let's shuffle!!!
1. "For the Girl" / The Fratellis
From Costello Music (2007)
High-energy beat, crunchy guitars, rapid-crammed lyrics, and cheery la-la-la la-la-la's -- a bracing jolt of Brit Pop indeed. I love the shifting minor and major keys in this track. "She was into the Stones when / I was into the Roses" -- whoever this girl is, he's sure ambivalent about their never-quite-meshing relationship.
2. "Pontiac" / Fred Eaglesmith
From Lipstick, Lies & Gasoline (1997)
Fred who? One of America's best-kept secrets, a true grass-roots music treasure, with an unwavering connection to real American music fans. I won't give away the story this track tells -- it's a heartbreaker -- find it online and listen for yourself.
3. "What Is Wrong, What Is Right" / Herman's Hermits (1966)
From The Very Best of Herman's Hermits
A deft satiric character sketch that even Ray Davies could appreciate. It was only on the B-sides that Hermits Derek Lekenby and Keith Hopwood got to feature their own compositions, but while the band's radio hits sound trite today, those original numbers are a revelation.
4. "Michelle" / David and Jonathan (1967)
Yes, that "Michelle" -- but it's not Paul McCartney singing. Not a bad cover, though, all things considered.
5. "End of the Party" / The English Beat
From Special Beat Service (1982)
Ska-flavored jazzy pop from Dave Wakeling and company. There's always a soap opera embedded in these English Beat songs, a series of betrayals and frustrated love affairs played out in dingy flats and grubby streets. It seems the girl here is keeping our singer on tenterhooks, making him wait to sleep with her -- the tension is palpable in every word-crammed line, the yelp of every leaping, offbeat interval.
6. "The Crush" / John Hiatt
From Warming Up to the Ice Age (1985)
Having shed his proto-New Wave punk pose, Johnny Hiatt went into neo-soul mode on this album, recorded at the tail-end of his boozy California years. Oh, sure, I know that Hiatt's seriously great work would come later, once he got his life together -- but I hafta admit, his voice is in spectacular shape here, and his guitar licks sizzle. For a flop album, this is a neglected gem, 80s synths and all.
7. "Sinister But She Was Happy" / Robyn Hitchcock
From Moss Elixir (1996)
Neurotic rhythms, non sequitur lyrics, and a frenzied sawing of fiddle and cello -- ah, Robyn Hitchcock lets his English eccentric freak flag fly. There's something baroque about this track, with surreal lines like "Sinister but she was happy / Like a chandelier festooned with leeches," but it's also a totally nifty acoustic rocker, with an addictive loose-limbed beat. I can just imagine Robyn, in a loose flowered print shirt and jeans, gray hair flopping across his forehead, strumming madly away. Imagine? I've seen him sing this, with a wicked glint in his mad dark eyes. Delicious.
8. "I Am Your Singer" / Wings
From Wild Life (1971)
I know I'm supposed to look down on this stoned mishmash of an LP. The songs make no sense, they go on too long, the rhymes are infantile, and Linda is encouraged to sing way too much. (Any Linda vocals are too much in my book.) Well, sorry, folks, I love Wild Life. IMO Paul McCartney is at his best when he isn't trying to score radio hits or prove a critical point; he's just reveling in melody, rhythmic patterns, and musical textures. Wings would become a hit machine soon enough -- let's enjoy this freeform debut album for what it is.
9. "No Other Baby" / Paul McCartney
From Run Devil Run (1999)
And then Linda died and a grief-numbed Paul was spinning his wheels, unable to write new material for the first time in his fertile career. For some reason I think it was Elvis Costello who suggested that Paul try his hand at a covers album, paying tribute to the early rock 'n' roll numbers that first inspired him; this one is an old 1957 Dickie Bishop hit. You can pretty much hear Paul healing his heart on every track of this CD.
10. "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" / Death Cab for Cutie
From Maybe This Christmas (2004)
Death Cab's winsome cover of the classic Darlene Love Xmas tune, this has just enough tinsel shimmer (dig Ben Gibbard's reverbed vocals!) to put the frost on your holiday listening. It's from one of those me-too all-star charity Christmas albums (god forbid any hipsters should record a Christmas album without the air quotes of a do-gooder objective). It's weird to hear a Christmas tune in June -- but hey, that's what the shuffle's all about!
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