http://www.popmatters.com/pm/music/reviews/50031/king-tubby-king-tubby-meets-the-agrovators-at-dub-station/
King Tubby
King Tubby Meets The Agrovators at Dub Station
(Trojan)
US release date: 21 May 2007
UK release date: Available as import
by Sean Murphy
Down with the King
When you have an artist whose various compilations seem to outnumber the amount of proper albums they released, you are dealing either with a genuine master or a helpless, often posthumous goldmine for rapacious record executives. Usually it is a bit of both. Yet, in this era of remastered or revamped overload, consumers are increasingly getting more sonic bling for their buck. Certainly this is attributable to the welcome threat of easy downloading and CD-burning, which has forced companies that once held all the cards to reassess their business model. Thankfully, re-releases these days are consistently packed with bonus material, often rare, occasionally wonderful. This is a refreshing development for even the more recent albums deemed worthy of reconsideration, but for older, certified classics, it is truly a cause for celebration. Finally, for those discs that were poorly transferred in the first go-round from analog to digital, or records that were not initially recorded in optimal conditions, it is a sweet form of redemption.
Which brings us to the overdue and most indispensable upgrade of King Tubby Meets the Agrovators at Dub Station, representing all of the good and none of the bad: killer material at a reasonable price (but what else would one expect from the beneficent gurus at Trojan records?). A reissue that is worthwhile for owners of the original, and serves as a more than enticing introduction for those on the outside looking in on the messy office of old school dub. This new and enhanced edition features twelve bonus tracks, literally doubling the length of its previous incarnation.
At this point, the only remaining question should be, “Okay, but who is King Tubby? And who, for that matter, are the Agrovators?”. Fair enough. To put it as simply and succinctly as possible, without King Tubby there is no dub. Born Osbourne Ruddock, Tubby made a name for himself on the Jamaican scene in the mid-to-late ‘60s as a master of the remix, or “version”—the instrumental B-side of a hit single. Eventually, Tubby began taking liberties with the songs themselves, cutting, pasting, and reshuffling instrumentation, adding volume, echo, and all manner of off-kilter effects. The court jester genius of reggae, Lee “Scratch” Perry, is rightly credited with taking Tubby’s innovations and flying with them, pushing the boundaries of what was previously conceivable, not only in reggae, but in music. Tubby, however, was the progenitor, and his genius lay in the tactical dismantling of a song, essentially creating a separate composition that always retained the élan of the original.
Tubby is known mostly for his masterpiece, King Tubby Meets Rockers Uptown, a collaboration with the one-of-a-kind melodica maestro Augustus Pablo. But the lesser known King Tubby Meets the Agrovators at Dub Station is ripe for reappraisal and some overdue accolades. To be certain, the album could—and should—be titled King Tubby Meets Tommy McCook and the Aggrovators at Dub Station, brevity be damned. The Agrovators were ace producer Bunny Lee’s assembly of top tier session players, including bassist Robbie Shakespeare (later part of the tandem Sly and Robbie) and guitarist Earl “Chinna” Smith. McCook, on the other hand, was already a saxophone legend from his tenure with seminal Jamaican institution the Skatalites. This meeting, then, features two of the most important names in reggae at the cusp of their careers.
Anyone familiar with the immediately identifiable Skatalites sound, or McCook’s work with other artists, understands that it is all but impossible to hear him play his horn and fail to feel happy. This is, without any doubt, happy music—which is not to imply that there is anything lightweight, saccharine, or compromised here. Quite the contrary, McCook’s playing provides tasty embellishment to the fat riddims, and is always an ornament to the smoky dub sounds. His sax is very much a lead instrument in this affair. From the first seconds, all the customary elements are in effect: the wall-crushing drums, the deliriously heavy bass beats, and then that horn, like a snake weaving through water. All that follows seldom strays far from the formula of solid grooves punctuated and prodded by McCook’s always compelling accompaniment.
The title track, “The Dub Station”, is so perfect it could stand as an anthem for all that this music is capable of: fanfare and flying cymbals all simmering in Tubby’s broth. Usually the titles refer to the original song being dubbed. For instance, “The Dub Duke” is from “Duke of Earl” and “Jah Say Dub” comes from Marley’s “So Jah Say”. Highlights abound, but special mention should be made of “The Meducia”, which commemorates “No Woman No Cry” by way of Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance”. The dub runs deep on “Kojak”, which ingeniously uses Duke Ellington’s immortal “Take the A Train” as a brilliant point of departure. And so, 70-plus minutes of these goods, reworked and mashed up by the dub master, going beyond the innovative and into territory that is often something close to ecstatic. Nothing ever sounds terribly dissimilar to the watershed sessions the Upsetta oversaw throughout the ‘70s, but these songs are, literally, more horn-driven and slightly more human, tending more to the sweet side of Perry’s bitter. This, again, is happy music. This is historic music. This is essential music.
RATING:
— 26 October 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Thelonious Monk Plays Duke Ellington (Popmatters.com review)
Thelonious Monk
Thelonious Monk Plays Duke Ellington
(Riverside)
US release date: 27 March 2007
UK release date: 16 April 2007
by Sean Murphy
Share
Email
Del.icio.us
Digg
Reddit
Newsvine
StumbleUpon
Google
Yahoo
Facebook
Print
Write to the editor
Feeds
PopMatters
Listen
PopShop
Amazon
Amazon UK
Thelonious. The name, like the man, is unique, exceptional. We are, thankfully, at a point where the first name will suffice, and it is generally understood that Thelonious Sphere Monk is one of the singular, and important, artists in all jazz, as well as one of the authentic geniuses America can proudly claim as a native son. It wasn’t always thus. Although commonly acknowledged as one of the founding fathers—along with Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach and Miles Davis—of bebop, Monk was the quintessential “musician’s musician”, mostly respected, if not entirely understood, by colleagues. Even so, the prevailing judgment—promulgated by many less than perspicacious critics of the time—was that he was too eccentric and his compositions too difficult. Moreover, an inability to easily describe his music diminished the prospect of any type of commercial breakthrough. When, in 1954, he signed on with the upstart label, Riverside Records, his contract with the well-established Prestige label was bought out for $108.27.
This reissue, then, of Thelonious Monk Plays Duke Ellington is significant on a variety of levels. For starters, it is an outstanding album, and tends to exist as an overlooked gem in the Monk discography, sandwiched as it is between his earlier “genius of modern music” stage and the mid ‘50s through mid ‘60s, when he made his most enduring work. It is also important for what it signified, in 1955, to have Monk cover Ellington—already a legend with a capital L—(though he certainly had some major statements of his own yet to make). On the surface, Ellington and Monk could not be more dissimilar; in terms of personality, style, and what might unimaginatively, if accurately, be called “universal appeal”. Of course, understanding that the things Monk did, on his own terms, now attract comparisons with Ellington—at least in terms of influence and signature tunes routinely performed as standards—speaks volumes. Lastly, this release is a most welcome tribute to its producer, Orrin Keepnews, and the new series of reissues fittingly called the “Keepnews Collection”. If these remasters help even a few folks learn who Keepnews is and what he has meant to the music, all the better. For those not in the know, now hear this: Orrin Keepnews is one of the most important producers of the last century, and his innumerable achievements should be appreciatively venerated.
In the expanded liner notes, Keepnews recalls the circumstances under which Monk—largely considered damaged goods, or at best a risky wildcard for any record label—came to Riverside, a relationship that produced subsequent masterpieces such as Brilliant Corners, Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane, Monk’s Music, and 5 By Monk By 5 (arguably Keepnews’ finest hour). His strategy was to have Monk dedicate an entire album to Ellington, not so much to sanitize Monk’s vision, but to ingeniously allow it to fully flower in the context of already classic recordings. Keepnews was one of the first to grasp not only how important Monk was, but how crucial he could (and should) be in the advancement of jazz music: he understood, displaying a judicious acumen that served him well thereafter, that with the appropriate primer, a wider audience would inexorably learn to love Thelonious.
In a move that managed to be both safe and inspired, veteran sidemen Oscar Pettiford and Kenny Clarke were recruited to handle bass and drum duties, respectively. Both of these men, like Monk, were veterans of the nascent bebop scene, their names associated with many seminal early bop recordings. Appropriately, all three have sufficient familiarity with the songs chosen, and with one another, to impart an effortless solidarity of purpose upon these proceedings. The end result contains exactly what one might expect: an abundance of riches packaged as an enticing sampler of Ellingtonia interpreted by a genuine iconoclast.
It only takes the first, familiar notes of the opening selection to make one thing abundantly clear: Monk playing Ellington makes perfect sense. The very calculated placement of “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing)” at the forefront of this set is both a statement and an affirmation: this will be a celebratory affair, and it’s going to swing. Clarke employs laid back brushwork to satisfying effect, while Pettiford establishes a stone solid, swinging (yes, that word again) foundation, freeing Monk to dance circles around the theme. A faithful, if slightly safe rendition of “Sophisticated Lady” follows, which puts to rest any lingering doubts (unfathomable as it is to consider that there ever were any) that Monk, the “irreverent” outsider, had fully absorbed the tradition well before he began incorporating his own innovations. “I Got It Bad (And That Ain’t Good)” almost implores the presence of a saxophone or trumpet to accentuate the plaintive mood; but then Pettiford accelerates the pace with his irrepressible groove, and once more Monk reconstructs the Duke with his own peerless logic.
“Black and Tan Fantasy” is—or becomes—a composition Monk had to cover, and while it retains Ellington’s elegant imprint, we hear more of that Cheshire Cat who had already spent a decade confounding the imperceptive critics: in under four minutes, it’s possible to experience what is at once so enthralling yet indescribable about Monk’s technique. The tune never ventures anywhere near chaos or affectation; indeed it is simple to nod along without missing a beat. And yet, if one listens again, a bit more closely, the piano is (ever so subtly, ever so slyly) making sounds quite unlike anything before or since: Monk plays it straight, yet stops, circles back, fills in every appropriate space with old school stride that recalls Luckey Roberts, then, on a dime, shifts into syncopated flourishes that incorporate bebop—and beyond. Dissonant, angular, twisting, coruscating: those who attempt to describe Monk’s playing tend to use the same words time and again, partly because it’s inevitable, mostly because they are accurate. Monk, after a while, begins to remind you of a wily raconteur, retelling a funny story that you’ve never heard before.
More of the same follows, with “Mood Indigo” and the exuberant “I Let A Song Go Out Of My Heart”. Perhaps the most effective, and emotional selection is “Solitude”, which features Monk, appropriately, alone at the piano. Here his unparalleled use of space and silence is exhibited to stunning effect; like any true genius, it sounds almost easy the way he does it, and exactly no one has come close to replicating his style in the fifty-something years since this recording. As the man himself once observed, he used the same notes—just differently. Finally, a righteous romp of “Caravan” closes the set on an exultant note: Clarke lends his most perceptible support, and Pettiford remains unflappably cool in the pocket. Mission accomplished; Monk not only delivers an unadulterated homage to Ellington, he somehow manages to make the master sound even more ahead of his time than he already was.
Implausible, yet easy to believe that only a year later, Monk dropped Brilliant Corners, the title track alone so intricate and demanding that it frustrated the very capable cast of characters assembled to tackle it (notably Sonny Rollins, who was no stranger to the woodshed). A year after that an up and coming saxophonist named John Coltrane joined his group. Nothing was ever the same—for him, or for us—after that.
Thelonious Monk - Off Minor
RATING:
— 5 October 2007
Thelonious Monk Plays Duke Ellington
(Riverside)
US release date: 27 March 2007
UK release date: 16 April 2007
by Sean Murphy
Share
Del.icio.us
Digg
Newsvine
StumbleUpon
Yahoo
Write to the editor
Feeds
PopMatters
Listen
PopShop
Amazon
Amazon UK
Thelonious. The name, like the man, is unique, exceptional. We are, thankfully, at a point where the first name will suffice, and it is generally understood that Thelonious Sphere Monk is one of the singular, and important, artists in all jazz, as well as one of the authentic geniuses America can proudly claim as a native son. It wasn’t always thus. Although commonly acknowledged as one of the founding fathers—along with Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach and Miles Davis—of bebop, Monk was the quintessential “musician’s musician”, mostly respected, if not entirely understood, by colleagues. Even so, the prevailing judgment—promulgated by many less than perspicacious critics of the time—was that he was too eccentric and his compositions too difficult. Moreover, an inability to easily describe his music diminished the prospect of any type of commercial breakthrough. When, in 1954, he signed on with the upstart label, Riverside Records, his contract with the well-established Prestige label was bought out for $108.27.
This reissue, then, of Thelonious Monk Plays Duke Ellington is significant on a variety of levels. For starters, it is an outstanding album, and tends to exist as an overlooked gem in the Monk discography, sandwiched as it is between his earlier “genius of modern music” stage and the mid ‘50s through mid ‘60s, when he made his most enduring work. It is also important for what it signified, in 1955, to have Monk cover Ellington—already a legend with a capital L—(though he certainly had some major statements of his own yet to make). On the surface, Ellington and Monk could not be more dissimilar; in terms of personality, style, and what might unimaginatively, if accurately, be called “universal appeal”. Of course, understanding that the things Monk did, on his own terms, now attract comparisons with Ellington—at least in terms of influence and signature tunes routinely performed as standards—speaks volumes. Lastly, this release is a most welcome tribute to its producer, Orrin Keepnews, and the new series of reissues fittingly called the “Keepnews Collection”. If these remasters help even a few folks learn who Keepnews is and what he has meant to the music, all the better. For those not in the know, now hear this: Orrin Keepnews is one of the most important producers of the last century, and his innumerable achievements should be appreciatively venerated.
In the expanded liner notes, Keepnews recalls the circumstances under which Monk—largely considered damaged goods, or at best a risky wildcard for any record label—came to Riverside, a relationship that produced subsequent masterpieces such as Brilliant Corners, Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane, Monk’s Music, and 5 By Monk By 5 (arguably Keepnews’ finest hour). His strategy was to have Monk dedicate an entire album to Ellington, not so much to sanitize Monk’s vision, but to ingeniously allow it to fully flower in the context of already classic recordings. Keepnews was one of the first to grasp not only how important Monk was, but how crucial he could (and should) be in the advancement of jazz music: he understood, displaying a judicious acumen that served him well thereafter, that with the appropriate primer, a wider audience would inexorably learn to love Thelonious.
In a move that managed to be both safe and inspired, veteran sidemen Oscar Pettiford and Kenny Clarke were recruited to handle bass and drum duties, respectively. Both of these men, like Monk, were veterans of the nascent bebop scene, their names associated with many seminal early bop recordings. Appropriately, all three have sufficient familiarity with the songs chosen, and with one another, to impart an effortless solidarity of purpose upon these proceedings. The end result contains exactly what one might expect: an abundance of riches packaged as an enticing sampler of Ellingtonia interpreted by a genuine iconoclast.
It only takes the first, familiar notes of the opening selection to make one thing abundantly clear: Monk playing Ellington makes perfect sense. The very calculated placement of “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing)” at the forefront of this set is both a statement and an affirmation: this will be a celebratory affair, and it’s going to swing. Clarke employs laid back brushwork to satisfying effect, while Pettiford establishes a stone solid, swinging (yes, that word again) foundation, freeing Monk to dance circles around the theme. A faithful, if slightly safe rendition of “Sophisticated Lady” follows, which puts to rest any lingering doubts (unfathomable as it is to consider that there ever were any) that Monk, the “irreverent” outsider, had fully absorbed the tradition well before he began incorporating his own innovations. “I Got It Bad (And That Ain’t Good)” almost implores the presence of a saxophone or trumpet to accentuate the plaintive mood; but then Pettiford accelerates the pace with his irrepressible groove, and once more Monk reconstructs the Duke with his own peerless logic.
“Black and Tan Fantasy” is—or becomes—a composition Monk had to cover, and while it retains Ellington’s elegant imprint, we hear more of that Cheshire Cat who had already spent a decade confounding the imperceptive critics: in under four minutes, it’s possible to experience what is at once so enthralling yet indescribable about Monk’s technique. The tune never ventures anywhere near chaos or affectation; indeed it is simple to nod along without missing a beat. And yet, if one listens again, a bit more closely, the piano is (ever so subtly, ever so slyly) making sounds quite unlike anything before or since: Monk plays it straight, yet stops, circles back, fills in every appropriate space with old school stride that recalls Luckey Roberts, then, on a dime, shifts into syncopated flourishes that incorporate bebop—and beyond. Dissonant, angular, twisting, coruscating: those who attempt to describe Monk’s playing tend to use the same words time and again, partly because it’s inevitable, mostly because they are accurate. Monk, after a while, begins to remind you of a wily raconteur, retelling a funny story that you’ve never heard before.
More of the same follows, with “Mood Indigo” and the exuberant “I Let A Song Go Out Of My Heart”. Perhaps the most effective, and emotional selection is “Solitude”, which features Monk, appropriately, alone at the piano. Here his unparalleled use of space and silence is exhibited to stunning effect; like any true genius, it sounds almost easy the way he does it, and exactly no one has come close to replicating his style in the fifty-something years since this recording. As the man himself once observed, he used the same notes—just differently. Finally, a righteous romp of “Caravan” closes the set on an exultant note: Clarke lends his most perceptible support, and Pettiford remains unflappably cool in the pocket. Mission accomplished; Monk not only delivers an unadulterated homage to Ellington, he somehow manages to make the master sound even more ahead of his time than he already was.
Implausible, yet easy to believe that only a year later, Monk dropped Brilliant Corners, the title track alone so intricate and demanding that it frustrated the very capable cast of characters assembled to tackle it (notably Sonny Rollins, who was no stranger to the woodshed). A year after that an up and coming saxophonist named John Coltrane joined his group. Nothing was ever the same—for him, or for us—after that.
Thelonious Monk - Off Minor
RATING:
— 5 October 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Kids in the Hall--from Popmatters.com
The Kids in the Hall existed in a sort of parallel universe to the much more popular, much less brilliant Saturday Night Live. Though comparisons between the two are inevitable, perhaps because of the Lorne Michaels connection, Kids in the Hall should be appraised—and appreciated—as part of the crooked line connecting Monty Python, which preceded it, and Mr. Show, which followed. While attracting an intense cult fan base, the Kids faced at least three major obstacles that made crossover success pretty much an impossibility. They were Canadian and had a pronounced—and, for fans, most welcome—quirkiness. They were disarmingly intelligent, yet always willing and eager to embrace the oddness of life. Their one-two punch of ingenuity and eccentricity could be like Gary Larson’s Far Side cartoons—you either got them, immediately, or you did not. Lastly, they dressed in drag. Often, and convincingly. Too convincingly, perhaps, for the average American sensibility circa 1990-something.
Although only one member of the ensemble is gay, queer culture was featured prominently—or, at least unabashedly—waaaaay before it was as widely accepted, or commonplace as it would thankfully be less than two decades later. Perhaps the primary reason it was easier for some to describe, or dismiss the show as a bunch of dudes in dresses is because it was, and remains, pretty difficult to pinpoint what they were up to. Precious few impersonations, less than a little political pot-shotting, The Kids in the Hall managed to consistently skewer piety and send up our ever-uptight social mores through the creation of insanely indelible characters: they understood that to effectively ridicule the world they had to make themselves ridiculous. In one skit, fur trappers cruise office buildings, killing yuppies in order to sell their “pelts” to a high-end haberdashery. In another a harried corporate big shot, in the midst of a stress-driven cardiac arrest, rips his heart out of his chest, pouring coffee on it and yelling “Get back to work!” And how inadequate would our world be without the Head Crusher, the Chicken Lady, Buddy Cole or Cabbage Head?
The definitive sketch? Every fan will claim one, but it’s difficult to deny the exceptional “Retelling of a Complicated Italian Movie”, which features everything that made The Kids in the Hall so inimitable: as two guys in a bar discuss a foreign film, the happy hour crowd slowly assumes the roles being described. All of a sudden the storyteller is holding a pistol and melodramatic shots ring out. “Wow, what a complicated plot!” his friend says, still holding his buffalo wing as he collapses, clutching his bleeding stomach. You have to see it to disbelieve it, but it manages to be clever, surreal and, as always, hysterical. Naturally, one character is dressed in drag.
—Sean Murphy
Although only one member of the ensemble is gay, queer culture was featured prominently—or, at least unabashedly—waaaaay before it was as widely accepted, or commonplace as it would thankfully be less than two decades later. Perhaps the primary reason it was easier for some to describe, or dismiss the show as a bunch of dudes in dresses is because it was, and remains, pretty difficult to pinpoint what they were up to. Precious few impersonations, less than a little political pot-shotting, The Kids in the Hall managed to consistently skewer piety and send up our ever-uptight social mores through the creation of insanely indelible characters: they understood that to effectively ridicule the world they had to make themselves ridiculous. In one skit, fur trappers cruise office buildings, killing yuppies in order to sell their “pelts” to a high-end haberdashery. In another a harried corporate big shot, in the midst of a stress-driven cardiac arrest, rips his heart out of his chest, pouring coffee on it and yelling “Get back to work!” And how inadequate would our world be without the Head Crusher, the Chicken Lady, Buddy Cole or Cabbage Head?
The definitive sketch? Every fan will claim one, but it’s difficult to deny the exceptional “Retelling of a Complicated Italian Movie”, which features everything that made The Kids in the Hall so inimitable: as two guys in a bar discuss a foreign film, the happy hour crowd slowly assumes the roles being described. All of a sudden the storyteller is holding a pistol and melodramatic shots ring out. “Wow, what a complicated plot!” his friend says, still holding his buffalo wing as he collapses, clutching his bleeding stomach. You have to see it to disbelieve it, but it manages to be clever, surreal and, as always, hysterical. Naturally, one character is dressed in drag.
—Sean Murphy
Monday, September 17, 2007
Eyvind Kang "Athlantis" (Popmatters.com Review)
http://www.popmatters.com/pm/music/reviews/47581/eyvind-kang-athlantis/
Eyvind Kang
Athlantis
(Ipecac Recordings)
US release date: 10 July 2007
UK release date: 16 July 2007
by Sean Murphy
Email
Print
Write to the editor
PopShop
Amazon
Amazon UK
Athlantis is the musical equivalent of what lurks just out of reach on the top shelf of some dusty stacks in an ancient library.
Eyvind Kang inhabits other worlds so that the rest of us don’t have to.
Chances are, if you are even moderately acquainted with contemporary avant garde recordings cutting across jazz and rock genres you’ve heard him play, perhaps without realizing it. To list a handful of musicians whose company he has kept won’t do his considerable discography justice, but should suffice to demonstrate his diversity. It also confirms that the upper echelon of serious artists tend to attract and locate one another across generations. Kang has played with Bill Frisell (notably on the excellent Quartet, from 1994); he appeared on Mr. Bungle’s California and is featured prominently on mid-‘90’s Bungle side project (now full time act of escalating significance) Secret Chiefs 3 (their first two albums are interesting; their next two, 2001’s Book M and 2004’s Book of Horizons , are essential). Then, of course, there are his own proper albums, the titles of which hint at their exotic, challenging, and intriguing nature: Theater of Mineral NADEs, The Story of Iceland, Live Low to the Earth, in the Iron Age, and Virginal Co Ordinates.
There are many ways to explain Eyvind Kang, but for the uninitiated, it may be helpful to describe him an artist who is inspired by and incorporates other times and far-off places, always interpreting history and humanity with the curiosity of an explorer and the delight of a devoted scholar. He manages to make strange and exquisite music, at once embracing improvisation yet always guided by central themes and feelings. You can, in short, most assuredly feel Kang’s music.
So, what to make of the (as usual, enchantingly entitled) Athlantis? Well, for starters, it does not manage to be all things at once (a la the history-of-the-universe in sound as sonic experiment that is Theater of Mineral NADEs, or the out-of-somewhere tour de force of his masterpiece Virginal Co Ordinates. It is a more focused work, an earthy tone poem more along the lines of The Story of Iceland; it is the musical equivalent of what lurks just out of reach on the top shelf of some dusty stacks in an ancient library. In a good way. Those who cherish the oddness in Kang (or, to invoke another of his wonderfully appropriate album titles, the “sweetness of sickness”), won’t be disappointed here.
It would be insulting to suggest that this recording represents a less stuffy or esoteric type of contemporary classical music. And yet, it is, among other things, rather like a Cliff’s Notes overview of the sorts of choral and orchestral performances that used to be performed for popes or kings. In a good way. Think Gregorian chant meets sacred church hymns meets Olivier Messiaen and Arvo Part, only edgier. It might, in its distinctly odd but undeniably accessible fashion, be a gateway to some of the places Kang has already explored. Athlantis is an extended choral piece the artist himself describes as “something like an oratorio”, that incorporates the text from Cantus Circaeus by Giordano Bruno, a Renaissance Era philosopher who was burned at the stake during the Inquisition. Medieval voices and pastoral sounds float around and frame Bruno’s words (untranslated, naturally), featuring the indefatigable Mike Patton, used to delightful effect here, as he was on Virginal Co Ordinates, reminding us, and hopefully himself, how incomparably plangent his voice can be when he uses it for singing, as opposed to animal noises (although a smattering of those can be detected early on, undoubtedly due to contractual obligations). The other featured soloist is Jessica Kenney, whose delicate and inviting delivery is the ideal sweet to counter Patton’s restrained sour. Acoustic guitars, trumpets, sitars, a choir, and cerebral use of silence all combine to make music as it’s not made anymore, if indeed it ever was.
It is difficult to describe, or understand how he does it, but Kang, as always, draws from a deep well of styles and emotions. He is once again able to assemble several ostensibly incongruous elements, create an appropriate foundation, and instigate stellar performances from his collective team. Once more he succeeds in creating something unique and familiar. It is neither intimidating nor off-putting at first listen, but it nevertheless demands several spins to work its magic, and soon enough the listener becomes acquainted with these irresistible sounds and voices.
In an ideal world Kang would be, if not a household name, an artist properly appreciated by a curious and discerning majority that did not depend upon network television to tell them whom they should idolize. No matter. By continuing to depict forgotten as well as imagined worlds, Eyvind Kang manages to tell us new things about the one in which we dwell.
RATING: 7
— 17 September 2007
Eyvind Kang
Athlantis
(Ipecac Recordings)
US release date: 10 July 2007
UK release date: 16 July 2007
by Sean Murphy
Write to the editor
PopShop
Amazon
Amazon UK
Athlantis is the musical equivalent of what lurks just out of reach on the top shelf of some dusty stacks in an ancient library.
Eyvind Kang inhabits other worlds so that the rest of us don’t have to.
Chances are, if you are even moderately acquainted with contemporary avant garde recordings cutting across jazz and rock genres you’ve heard him play, perhaps without realizing it. To list a handful of musicians whose company he has kept won’t do his considerable discography justice, but should suffice to demonstrate his diversity. It also confirms that the upper echelon of serious artists tend to attract and locate one another across generations. Kang has played with Bill Frisell (notably on the excellent Quartet, from 1994); he appeared on Mr. Bungle’s California and is featured prominently on mid-‘90’s Bungle side project (now full time act of escalating significance) Secret Chiefs 3 (their first two albums are interesting; their next two, 2001’s Book M and 2004’s Book of Horizons , are essential). Then, of course, there are his own proper albums, the titles of which hint at their exotic, challenging, and intriguing nature: Theater of Mineral NADEs, The Story of Iceland, Live Low to the Earth, in the Iron Age, and Virginal Co Ordinates.
There are many ways to explain Eyvind Kang, but for the uninitiated, it may be helpful to describe him an artist who is inspired by and incorporates other times and far-off places, always interpreting history and humanity with the curiosity of an explorer and the delight of a devoted scholar. He manages to make strange and exquisite music, at once embracing improvisation yet always guided by central themes and feelings. You can, in short, most assuredly feel Kang’s music.
So, what to make of the (as usual, enchantingly entitled) Athlantis? Well, for starters, it does not manage to be all things at once (a la the history-of-the-universe in sound as sonic experiment that is Theater of Mineral NADEs, or the out-of-somewhere tour de force of his masterpiece Virginal Co Ordinates. It is a more focused work, an earthy tone poem more along the lines of The Story of Iceland; it is the musical equivalent of what lurks just out of reach on the top shelf of some dusty stacks in an ancient library. In a good way. Those who cherish the oddness in Kang (or, to invoke another of his wonderfully appropriate album titles, the “sweetness of sickness”), won’t be disappointed here.
It would be insulting to suggest that this recording represents a less stuffy or esoteric type of contemporary classical music. And yet, it is, among other things, rather like a Cliff’s Notes overview of the sorts of choral and orchestral performances that used to be performed for popes or kings. In a good way. Think Gregorian chant meets sacred church hymns meets Olivier Messiaen and Arvo Part, only edgier. It might, in its distinctly odd but undeniably accessible fashion, be a gateway to some of the places Kang has already explored. Athlantis is an extended choral piece the artist himself describes as “something like an oratorio”, that incorporates the text from Cantus Circaeus by Giordano Bruno, a Renaissance Era philosopher who was burned at the stake during the Inquisition. Medieval voices and pastoral sounds float around and frame Bruno’s words (untranslated, naturally), featuring the indefatigable Mike Patton, used to delightful effect here, as he was on Virginal Co Ordinates, reminding us, and hopefully himself, how incomparably plangent his voice can be when he uses it for singing, as opposed to animal noises (although a smattering of those can be detected early on, undoubtedly due to contractual obligations). The other featured soloist is Jessica Kenney, whose delicate and inviting delivery is the ideal sweet to counter Patton’s restrained sour. Acoustic guitars, trumpets, sitars, a choir, and cerebral use of silence all combine to make music as it’s not made anymore, if indeed it ever was.
It is difficult to describe, or understand how he does it, but Kang, as always, draws from a deep well of styles and emotions. He is once again able to assemble several ostensibly incongruous elements, create an appropriate foundation, and instigate stellar performances from his collective team. Once more he succeeds in creating something unique and familiar. It is neither intimidating nor off-putting at first listen, but it nevertheless demands several spins to work its magic, and soon enough the listener becomes acquainted with these irresistible sounds and voices.
In an ideal world Kang would be, if not a household name, an artist properly appreciated by a curious and discerning majority that did not depend upon network television to tell them whom they should idolize. No matter. By continuing to depict forgotten as well as imagined worlds, Eyvind Kang manages to tell us new things about the one in which we dwell.
RATING: 7
— 17 September 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Roky Erickson: You're Gonna Miss Me (Popmatters.com Review)
Roky Erickson
You’re Gonna Miss Me: A Film About Roky Erickson [DVD]
(Palm Pictures) Rated: N/A
US release date: 10 July 2007
UK release date: 10 July 2007
by Sean Murphy
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Genius
Preface
You’re Gonna Miss Me is an instant classic and will likely be regarded as essential years from now. Two critical things it has going for it: one, its subject, Roky Erickson, is a filmmaker’s fantasy—the type of character who could never be adequately fictionalized because the story outstrips imagination, and two, instead of being overwhelmed by the material or trying to either sensationalize or sterilize it, director Keven McAlester, by simply standing in the right places at the right times, captures success, insanity, disintegration and redemption. It’s almost impossible to imagine the viewer coming away from this documentary without a better understanding of popular music, mental illness, frailty and faith. It’s likely viewers will something about themselves, as well. What else could one ask for?
I. Pictures (Leave Your Body Behind)
There are a handful of artistic archetypes we know and love—or loathe—in cinema, literature, and music, especially rock ‘n’ roll music. To take just a sampling of some of the more obvious ones, there is the cautionary tale (see Keith Moon); the tragic hero case study (see Jimi Hendrix); the unrecognized master (see Shuggie Otis); the posthumously recognized master (see Nick Drake); the redemption song (see Brian Wilson), et cetera . And yet, has there ever been an individual who encompasses several of the above, creating an entirely unique category? Yes: Roky Erickson. Who? Exactly. Roky Erickson is indeed many things, all at once. The greatest singer not many people have ever heard. The saddest could-have-been-a-contender parable in the annals of rock. An authentic icon who, while written off even by those who at one time followed him, attracted artists such as R.E.M., ZZ Top, Julian Cope and The Jesus and Mary Chain to take part in the excellent 1990 tribute album Where The Pyramid Meets The Eye .
So, who was Roky Erickson? Envision a psychedelic era band that combined the darker energy of Love and The Doors with the bluesy kitchen sink vocal assault of Janis Joplin, alongside the musical proficiency of The Yardbirds or The Mothers of Invention. That amalgamation begins to approximate what the 13th Floor Elevators, from Austin Texas, sounded like before the Summer of Love. When they eventually (inevitably) headed up the coast toward the burgeoning Bay Area scene in 1966, they blew the minds, so to speak, of many of the groups who were still cultivating a more mellow, folk-based sound. The Elevators were heavier, edgier and more exotic, drawing on an electric blues foundation that at once assimilated the aggression of The Who and the more cerebral introspection of Dylan. It was anything but a simple, hit-seeking sound, yet their first album yielded a song, “You’re Gonna Miss Me”—featuring the full range of Erickson’s vocals and the trademark electric jug playing of Tommy Hall—that caused some excitement, reaching #55 on the charts.
Much like seemingly everyone else on the accelerating edge of the rock scene, Erickson found stimulation, solace and eventually (inevitably) distraction via the LSD he ingested like lemon drops. Along with his better-known acid casualty compatriots Syd Barrett and Brian Wilson, Erickson fell to earth. Chronic behavioral and legal issues ensued. Unlike Wilson, who headed for the relative security of his sandbox, and Barrett, who — after turning on and tuning in — dropped out entirely and disengaged from the outside world, Erickson returned to Austin and found himself the target of an overly enthusiastic police department anxious to make an example out of him. Popped for possession of marijuana joint and facing the possibility of serious jail time, Erickson’s lawyer proposed the dubious stratagem of pleading insanity, which led to an eventual confinement in Rusk State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He remained there for three years.
II. Roller Coaster
You’re Gonna Miss Me traces the early adventures that led Roky to Rusk, and fills in the following decades, which have mostly been a tragic void for all but the most dedicated fans. Erickson may have been gone, but he was far from forgotten, as evidenced by the commentary provided by an impressively disparate array of musicians, including Billy Gibbons (of Texas legends ZZ Top), Patti Smith, Thurston Moore (Sonic Youth) and Gibby Haynes (Butthole Surfers). It is a documentary that unfolds like a mystery story, each anecdote and interview revealing another layer that helps explain who he was, who he became, and who he is now.
III. Slip Inside This House
Seminal scene number one: Roky Erickson, now under the exclusive care of his mother back in Texas (circa 1999), enters his modest and messy apartment. He turns on the radio. Then he turns on a second radio. Then he turns on a television, and another. Then he turns on an electric Casio piano. Eventually he has plugged in or turned on a beehive of competing sounds; the room is a cacophony of random stimulation. He puts on a pair of sunglasses and announces in a soft voice (barely audible above the chaos) “Okay, I’m gonna lay down now.” His mother, who had presumably seen it all before, remarks matter-of-factly: “He falls asleep with all that stuff on…it’s when I turn it off that he wakes up.”
IV. If You Have Ghosts
A few things that the assembled evidence seems to render indisputable: Roky Erickson was, and remains, a sensitive and sweet human being; he was blessed with an extraordinary voice and had an intense interest in music very early on; his upbringing was complicated, even when measured against the understood assumption that some dysfunctional families are more dysfunctional than others.
V. Earthquake
Seminal scene number two: The camera pans down a long, empty hallway with white walls. A voice speaks; it is Roky, taped in a 1975 interview: “I felt like a male Jane Eyre in that place…all I had to look forward to was (being told) ‘You’re still insane.’” Back-story: June ’68, Roky abruptly returns home from San Francisco. He is filthy, scab-ridden and incoherent. Alarmed, his mother takes him to a doctor, who promptly, if blithely, declares him an incurable schizophrenic. He is subsequently “rescued” by one of his band mates and they hitchhike back to the Bay Area, where Roky eschews LSD for heroin. He begins hearing voices. Upon contracting serum hepatitis from a dirty needle, he returns to Austin, and that fateful marijuana bust. In a matter of months Roky has gone from the center of a psychedelic summertime to bunking up amongst the profoundly disturbed, and violent, residents of Rusk Hospital.
VI. Fire Engine
The similarities between Roky Erickson and Syd Barrett, while obvious, are nevertheless extraordinary. Barrett was more popular, his story more often told, and he was more missed once he was gone. But once Syd was gone, he stayed gone: after 1975, when he shocked his old mates by showing up at the studio as they were putting the finishing touches on the Barrett-inspired Wish You Were Here, he retreated to the care of his mother and abandoned all interest in music. Erickson, despite a similar appetite for acid (not to mention the heroin abuse) and regular shock treatments at Rusk, never stopped thinking about music. Unlike Syd, the fire of creating and making music never died inside Roky and was, ultimately, inextinguishable.
VII. Unforced Peace
Seminal scene number three: Bob Priest, Rusk’s resident psychologist, recalls how Roky played in a makeshift band that included a rapist, and two murderers. “Most of the time he’d have a yellow legal pad, sitting in the hallway writing music…he was a real nice little guy, he didn’t have a whole lot to say; he wanted to write his music, he wanted to play his music — and that’s all.”
VIII. I Walked With A Zombie
It’s 1972: finally released from Rusk, Rocky begins making music, but is plagued by paranoia and the aftereffects of what was, to say the least, his not exactly salubrious recent environment. Increasingly, he is convinced that he’s an alien and conniving humans are “zapping” his mind. His attorney takes him to the dime store several times to buy toy laser guns so he can zap them back. It does not work. Finally, she hits upon the idea of preparing a document declaring that Roky is, in fact, an alien, with the hope that whoever is sending telepathic shocks to his head will stop. It works.
IX. Starry Eyes
Seminal scene number four: A man out of time, he looks like it’s 1969, he sounds like it’s 1969, but it’s actually 1983. The same year synth-heavy pop was lip-synched around the clock on MTV, the man who may have invented psychedelic rock is in his mother’s house, being videotaped as he strums a song he wrote for her. He is disheveled and most of his teeth are now gone. It is poignant, but also more than a little painful to watch. And yet. That voice, those eyes, the honesty. As Melville wrote “You cannot hide the soul.”
X. She Lives in a Time of Her Own
At this point you are thinking: his mother is a saint. She took him in when no one else would, and every indication suggests that she accepts him and genuinely loves him, without reservation. If her rigid distrust of doctors and medication is unfortunate, it is also understandable, considering how she has seen her eldest son suffer. Certainly, she is eccentric; she could easily be the focus of a captivating documentary herself, recalling how Robert Crumb’s brothers occasionally, if chillingly, stole the spotlight in Terry Zwigoff’s justly celebrated film (speaking of controversial, odd artists). When Roky is interviewed at one point he confesses, sounding not only vulnerable and guileless, but childlike, “I wish I could be somewhere else.” The door of domestic unease creaks open and one wonders: how much of a good thing is this arrangement, after all?
XI. Don’t Slander Me
While the documentary keeps the focus firmly on Roky, the broiling undercurrent of familial tension (past and present) moves to the forefront when Erickson’s younger brother, Sumner (who plays tuba with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra) asserts that years of therapy have helped him understand how domineering their mother has always been. While at first his sentiments seem more driven by an obsession to exorcise painful childhood demons, Sumner’s intentions to assist Roky are made touchingly clear when he offers to let his brother come live with him.
Eventually, it is up to a judge to determine who is best able to help Roky: his mother correctly claims to have helped him out when nobody else was able or interested; his brother insists that Roky now deserves the opportunity to help himself. The judge ultimately concurs with Sumner’s assessment that his mother, by refusing to let Roky take any medication, is effectively suppressing any possibility of improvement and, intentionally or not, keeping him in a state of dependence. The documentary, at this point, has portrayed enough candid incidents and interviews that the viewer will likely endorse the judge’s decision, but it is still an uneasy resolution.
XII. I Have Always Been Here Before
Seminal scene number five: After the court rules that Sumner can take his brother back with him to Pittsburgh, their mother silently leaves the courthouse. She stops by Roky’s apartment and, one by one, turns off the machines he’d left on when he left home, leaving her behind.
XIII. Splash I (Now I’m Home)
One year later, Roky is preparing to return home to visit his mother for the first time. Sumner, who seems wary whenever her name is mentioned, acknowledges that she probably did the best that she could to provide for her son. Nevertheless, Sumner’s influence has been profound, and positive: Roky’s teeth are fixed, he has been prescribed (and is taking) modern meds, and he is seeing a therapist, who encourages him to play songs. He seems happy and healthy, sitting outside on a balcony, playing his guitar again. The voice is still not of this earth, but there can no longer be any doubt, if there ever was any, that Roky Erickson is indeed an earthling. The greatest ending of all is that the story has not ended.
(Postscript)
Special mention must be made of the extra features, which are generous bordering on mind-boggling. In an era where, unfortunately, one almost expects to get less for more (if there is material for two albums, try and stretch it into three; if there are any leftovers, package them up and push it for the “deluxe” edition), the bonus footage could comprise another full documentary—one of equal value and interest.
Huge kudos to McAlester and company for doing the right thing for the fans, and for Erickson: newcomers who see this footage will almost certainly be inclined to check out some vintage 13th Floor Elevators, as well as the unconscionably overlooked post-Elevators music Erickson made. In addition to an incredible collection of vintage performances from over the years (mostly solo acoustic), there are deleted scenes and readings of original material by Roky and his mother.
Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, at least one more amazing chapter is presented here: the documentary wrapped in 2002, but Roky’s astonishing recovery saw him performing live for the first time in almost 20 years at the 2005 Austin City Limits Festival. To watch the reception he gets, to hear how great he sounds, and to behold how fulfilled he appears, it is not possible to be unmoved. “It’s a cold night for alligators,” he sings. Damn right it is.
You're Gonna Miss Me Trailer
RATING:
EXTRAS:
— 9 August 2007
You’re Gonna Miss Me: A Film About Roky Erickson [DVD]
(Palm Pictures) Rated: N/A
US release date: 10 July 2007
UK release date: 10 July 2007
by Sean Murphy
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Genius
Preface
You’re Gonna Miss Me is an instant classic and will likely be regarded as essential years from now. Two critical things it has going for it: one, its subject, Roky Erickson, is a filmmaker’s fantasy—the type of character who could never be adequately fictionalized because the story outstrips imagination, and two, instead of being overwhelmed by the material or trying to either sensationalize or sterilize it, director Keven McAlester, by simply standing in the right places at the right times, captures success, insanity, disintegration and redemption. It’s almost impossible to imagine the viewer coming away from this documentary without a better understanding of popular music, mental illness, frailty and faith. It’s likely viewers will something about themselves, as well. What else could one ask for?
I. Pictures (Leave Your Body Behind)
There are a handful of artistic archetypes we know and love—or loathe—in cinema, literature, and music, especially rock ‘n’ roll music. To take just a sampling of some of the more obvious ones, there is the cautionary tale (see Keith Moon); the tragic hero case study (see Jimi Hendrix); the unrecognized master (see Shuggie Otis); the posthumously recognized master (see Nick Drake); the redemption song (see Brian Wilson), et cetera . And yet, has there ever been an individual who encompasses several of the above, creating an entirely unique category? Yes: Roky Erickson. Who? Exactly. Roky Erickson is indeed many things, all at once. The greatest singer not many people have ever heard. The saddest could-have-been-a-contender parable in the annals of rock. An authentic icon who, while written off even by those who at one time followed him, attracted artists such as R.E.M., ZZ Top, Julian Cope and The Jesus and Mary Chain to take part in the excellent 1990 tribute album Where The Pyramid Meets The Eye .
So, who was Roky Erickson? Envision a psychedelic era band that combined the darker energy of Love and The Doors with the bluesy kitchen sink vocal assault of Janis Joplin, alongside the musical proficiency of The Yardbirds or The Mothers of Invention. That amalgamation begins to approximate what the 13th Floor Elevators, from Austin Texas, sounded like before the Summer of Love. When they eventually (inevitably) headed up the coast toward the burgeoning Bay Area scene in 1966, they blew the minds, so to speak, of many of the groups who were still cultivating a more mellow, folk-based sound. The Elevators were heavier, edgier and more exotic, drawing on an electric blues foundation that at once assimilated the aggression of The Who and the more cerebral introspection of Dylan. It was anything but a simple, hit-seeking sound, yet their first album yielded a song, “You’re Gonna Miss Me”—featuring the full range of Erickson’s vocals and the trademark electric jug playing of Tommy Hall—that caused some excitement, reaching #55 on the charts.
Much like seemingly everyone else on the accelerating edge of the rock scene, Erickson found stimulation, solace and eventually (inevitably) distraction via the LSD he ingested like lemon drops. Along with his better-known acid casualty compatriots Syd Barrett and Brian Wilson, Erickson fell to earth. Chronic behavioral and legal issues ensued. Unlike Wilson, who headed for the relative security of his sandbox, and Barrett, who — after turning on and tuning in — dropped out entirely and disengaged from the outside world, Erickson returned to Austin and found himself the target of an overly enthusiastic police department anxious to make an example out of him. Popped for possession of marijuana joint and facing the possibility of serious jail time, Erickson’s lawyer proposed the dubious stratagem of pleading insanity, which led to an eventual confinement in Rusk State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He remained there for three years.
II. Roller Coaster
You’re Gonna Miss Me traces the early adventures that led Roky to Rusk, and fills in the following decades, which have mostly been a tragic void for all but the most dedicated fans. Erickson may have been gone, but he was far from forgotten, as evidenced by the commentary provided by an impressively disparate array of musicians, including Billy Gibbons (of Texas legends ZZ Top), Patti Smith, Thurston Moore (Sonic Youth) and Gibby Haynes (Butthole Surfers). It is a documentary that unfolds like a mystery story, each anecdote and interview revealing another layer that helps explain who he was, who he became, and who he is now.
III. Slip Inside This House
Seminal scene number one: Roky Erickson, now under the exclusive care of his mother back in Texas (circa 1999), enters his modest and messy apartment. He turns on the radio. Then he turns on a second radio. Then he turns on a television, and another. Then he turns on an electric Casio piano. Eventually he has plugged in or turned on a beehive of competing sounds; the room is a cacophony of random stimulation. He puts on a pair of sunglasses and announces in a soft voice (barely audible above the chaos) “Okay, I’m gonna lay down now.” His mother, who had presumably seen it all before, remarks matter-of-factly: “He falls asleep with all that stuff on…it’s when I turn it off that he wakes up.”
IV. If You Have Ghosts
A few things that the assembled evidence seems to render indisputable: Roky Erickson was, and remains, a sensitive and sweet human being; he was blessed with an extraordinary voice and had an intense interest in music very early on; his upbringing was complicated, even when measured against the understood assumption that some dysfunctional families are more dysfunctional than others.
V. Earthquake
Seminal scene number two: The camera pans down a long, empty hallway with white walls. A voice speaks; it is Roky, taped in a 1975 interview: “I felt like a male Jane Eyre in that place…all I had to look forward to was (being told) ‘You’re still insane.’” Back-story: June ’68, Roky abruptly returns home from San Francisco. He is filthy, scab-ridden and incoherent. Alarmed, his mother takes him to a doctor, who promptly, if blithely, declares him an incurable schizophrenic. He is subsequently “rescued” by one of his band mates and they hitchhike back to the Bay Area, where Roky eschews LSD for heroin. He begins hearing voices. Upon contracting serum hepatitis from a dirty needle, he returns to Austin, and that fateful marijuana bust. In a matter of months Roky has gone from the center of a psychedelic summertime to bunking up amongst the profoundly disturbed, and violent, residents of Rusk Hospital.
VI. Fire Engine
The similarities between Roky Erickson and Syd Barrett, while obvious, are nevertheless extraordinary. Barrett was more popular, his story more often told, and he was more missed once he was gone. But once Syd was gone, he stayed gone: after 1975, when he shocked his old mates by showing up at the studio as they were putting the finishing touches on the Barrett-inspired Wish You Were Here, he retreated to the care of his mother and abandoned all interest in music. Erickson, despite a similar appetite for acid (not to mention the heroin abuse) and regular shock treatments at Rusk, never stopped thinking about music. Unlike Syd, the fire of creating and making music never died inside Roky and was, ultimately, inextinguishable.
VII. Unforced Peace
Seminal scene number three: Bob Priest, Rusk’s resident psychologist, recalls how Roky played in a makeshift band that included a rapist, and two murderers. “Most of the time he’d have a yellow legal pad, sitting in the hallway writing music…he was a real nice little guy, he didn’t have a whole lot to say; he wanted to write his music, he wanted to play his music — and that’s all.”
VIII. I Walked With A Zombie
It’s 1972: finally released from Rusk, Rocky begins making music, but is plagued by paranoia and the aftereffects of what was, to say the least, his not exactly salubrious recent environment. Increasingly, he is convinced that he’s an alien and conniving humans are “zapping” his mind. His attorney takes him to the dime store several times to buy toy laser guns so he can zap them back. It does not work. Finally, she hits upon the idea of preparing a document declaring that Roky is, in fact, an alien, with the hope that whoever is sending telepathic shocks to his head will stop. It works.
IX. Starry Eyes
Seminal scene number four: A man out of time, he looks like it’s 1969, he sounds like it’s 1969, but it’s actually 1983. The same year synth-heavy pop was lip-synched around the clock on MTV, the man who may have invented psychedelic rock is in his mother’s house, being videotaped as he strums a song he wrote for her. He is disheveled and most of his teeth are now gone. It is poignant, but also more than a little painful to watch. And yet. That voice, those eyes, the honesty. As Melville wrote “You cannot hide the soul.”
X. She Lives in a Time of Her Own
At this point you are thinking: his mother is a saint. She took him in when no one else would, and every indication suggests that she accepts him and genuinely loves him, without reservation. If her rigid distrust of doctors and medication is unfortunate, it is also understandable, considering how she has seen her eldest son suffer. Certainly, she is eccentric; she could easily be the focus of a captivating documentary herself, recalling how Robert Crumb’s brothers occasionally, if chillingly, stole the spotlight in Terry Zwigoff’s justly celebrated film (speaking of controversial, odd artists). When Roky is interviewed at one point he confesses, sounding not only vulnerable and guileless, but childlike, “I wish I could be somewhere else.” The door of domestic unease creaks open and one wonders: how much of a good thing is this arrangement, after all?
XI. Don’t Slander Me
While the documentary keeps the focus firmly on Roky, the broiling undercurrent of familial tension (past and present) moves to the forefront when Erickson’s younger brother, Sumner (who plays tuba with the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra) asserts that years of therapy have helped him understand how domineering their mother has always been. While at first his sentiments seem more driven by an obsession to exorcise painful childhood demons, Sumner’s intentions to assist Roky are made touchingly clear when he offers to let his brother come live with him.
Eventually, it is up to a judge to determine who is best able to help Roky: his mother correctly claims to have helped him out when nobody else was able or interested; his brother insists that Roky now deserves the opportunity to help himself. The judge ultimately concurs with Sumner’s assessment that his mother, by refusing to let Roky take any medication, is effectively suppressing any possibility of improvement and, intentionally or not, keeping him in a state of dependence. The documentary, at this point, has portrayed enough candid incidents and interviews that the viewer will likely endorse the judge’s decision, but it is still an uneasy resolution.
XII. I Have Always Been Here Before
Seminal scene number five: After the court rules that Sumner can take his brother back with him to Pittsburgh, their mother silently leaves the courthouse. She stops by Roky’s apartment and, one by one, turns off the machines he’d left on when he left home, leaving her behind.
XIII. Splash I (Now I’m Home)
One year later, Roky is preparing to return home to visit his mother for the first time. Sumner, who seems wary whenever her name is mentioned, acknowledges that she probably did the best that she could to provide for her son. Nevertheless, Sumner’s influence has been profound, and positive: Roky’s teeth are fixed, he has been prescribed (and is taking) modern meds, and he is seeing a therapist, who encourages him to play songs. He seems happy and healthy, sitting outside on a balcony, playing his guitar again. The voice is still not of this earth, but there can no longer be any doubt, if there ever was any, that Roky Erickson is indeed an earthling. The greatest ending of all is that the story has not ended.
(Postscript)
Special mention must be made of the extra features, which are generous bordering on mind-boggling. In an era where, unfortunately, one almost expects to get less for more (if there is material for two albums, try and stretch it into three; if there are any leftovers, package them up and push it for the “deluxe” edition), the bonus footage could comprise another full documentary—one of equal value and interest.
Huge kudos to McAlester and company for doing the right thing for the fans, and for Erickson: newcomers who see this footage will almost certainly be inclined to check out some vintage 13th Floor Elevators, as well as the unconscionably overlooked post-Elevators music Erickson made. In addition to an incredible collection of vintage performances from over the years (mostly solo acoustic), there are deleted scenes and readings of original material by Roky and his mother.
Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, at least one more amazing chapter is presented here: the documentary wrapped in 2002, but Roky’s astonishing recovery saw him performing live for the first time in almost 20 years at the 2005 Austin City Limits Festival. To watch the reception he gets, to hear how great he sounds, and to behold how fulfilled he appears, it is not possible to be unmoved. “It’s a cold night for alligators,” he sings. Damn right it is.
You're Gonna Miss Me Trailer
RATING:
EXTRAS:
— 9 August 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
So It Goes: Reflections on Kurt Vonnegut (Popmatters.com)
http://www.popmatters.com/pm/blogs/reprint_post/43363/reflections-on-kurt-vonnegut/
June 29, 2007
Reflections on Kurt Vonnegut
Kurt Vonnegut would say in speeches that a plausible mission of artists is to make people appreciate being alive at least a little bit. Often, he was asked: Have any artists successfully accomplished this? “The Beatles did”, he replied.
Vonnegut, whom time finally stuck to last week, lived a lot longer than he thought he would. For fans, he lived longer than many of them thought he would, too. Most of his avid readers have been preparing for his death, in earnest, since his suicide attempt in 1984. As it turned out, there were many more Pall Malls left to smoke. Then, in 1997, the author’s caliginous assertion that Timequake was to be his last novel did seem rather like a settling of accounts.
Fortunately, there was still time to tend to some unfinished business, and for another decade he would clean out the proverbial closets and compile the essays found in A Man Without a Country. He managed to remain active, and indignant, right up to the end, most recently sounding off on the idiocy of the Iraq misadventure. That the current administration caused him to consider Nixon in a fonder light speaks volumes of Vonnegut’s sensibility, and needs no elaboration. To be certain, Vonnegut made many people appreciate being alive more than a little bit; indeed, his greatest achievement may have been helping some people realize that they were alive, with his body of work that at once admonishes us to question reality and, whenever possible, to enjoy the ride.
And yet, Vonnegut was, in critical terms, on borrowed time pretty much for the duration after the unanticipated—and unimaginable—success of Slaughterhouse Five in 1969. The good news: maybe about five writers per half-century write defining texts that they can be certain, while they are still alive, will live on after them. The bad news: having to live with that (and never achieving that height again) while still trying to write new novels. That is to say, it is all but impossible for an author to impress anyone—his readers, the critics paid to write about what he has written, and mostly, himself—after composing a masterpiece in the middle of his life. The only thing more arduous is the incessant hangover of dread and expectation awaiting the novelist who knocks off a tour de force right out of the gate. Suffice it to say, Slaughterhouse Five proved to be a line in the literary sand he could never jump across (and not many other authors have either, for that matter), although he came as close as anyone should have reasonably hoped with Breakfast of Champions , a book that looked forward from World War II and its aftermath to the here and now of a country confronted by new concerns, such as Watergate, and more of the same old problems, like growing old and dying. That book, from 1973, if written by anyone else, could constitute a career. It’s not even unreasonable to imagine that, if Vonnegut had never parked himself in front of a typewriter after 1963, Cat’s Cradle would garner even more attention and receive more accolades than it already does.
(Too often, it seems, we are either celebrating artists too late, or we coronate the unworthy too early. It is not as complicated with our athletes when they retire: it’s generally a buoyant affair, with the extended goodwill of a swan song season, complete with gifts, accolades and standing ovations. Sure, there is some sadness in seeing a great performer leave the limelight, but the more famous the athlete is, the easier the transition to sanctified superstar afterlife. They are allowed (and perhaps entitled) to assume membership in an elite fraternity that never expires. Theirs is the glory to unrepentantly live in the past, invoke (even embellish) former flights of fancy, and generally rest on the laurels established in their youth.
With artists—novelists in particular—there are a completely different set of standards and expectations. The only ones at liberty to soar on the effulgent wings of yesterday’s triumph are those who have died, which renders them largely unable to appreciate the accolades. Indeed, not only is the living novelist forbidden from basking in the refractory glow of a former conquest, they are often haunted by it, forever in its insatiable shadow. One thinks of Ralph Ellison and the irremediable pressure he faced to somehow achieve anything after composing one of the surpassing texts of the 20th century, Invisible Man.)
In any event, one could sense a disappointment, even a petty resentment, in the rather tepid reviews and faint praise that Timequake generated. It was as if the prospect of an author of Vonnegut’s stature declaring, with his faculties intact, that he did not think he had any more novels in him called unaccustomed attention to the evanescent nature of any life. The fact is, Timequake did, in many ways, effectively and gracefully sum up several of the themes and concerns we could clumsily, if accurately call “Vonnegutian”.
If, on the other hand, he had just disappeared after writing Slaughterhouse Five—pulling a willful J.D. Salinger, or an inadvertent Percy Bysshe Shelley or a tedious, haphazard Malcolm Lowry—we would be in more familiar territory, allowed to write our own stories of what might have been. As socially perceptive literary architect, Vonnegut’s body of work simultaneously reflected and defined our times—often with a generous dose of humor, irreverence and buoyant elasticity. Vonnegut often confirmed what we already know (the world is crazy) while finding innovative ways to depict and deconstruct the machinations causing the craziness. He did not hold a mirror up to the world, per se, so much as he provided a blurred distinction between the sensible and the insane, the powerful and the unprotected, between justice and charade, reality and simulation. He understood, in short, that for most of us, our better angels are busy drowning in acculturated gray matter.
While never considered one of the more authoritative literary technicians, Vonnegut nonetheless was a model for clean writing that avoided pretense and overly polished prose. He wrote, directly, about concepts and chaos that are anything but simple to understand, and even more challenging to describe in a novel. Always with that grouchy finesse, not quite the wizened grandfather, more the wise uncle. Where Mark Twain, with whom he is often compared, could justifiably be accused of occasional crankiness, Vonnegut came off as a curmudgeon (at times) only in interviews; in his fiction his heart was so large and soft the pages are practically wet.
Autobiographical elements abound in Vonnegut’s work, and significantly, he paid the types of dues that were once a bit more obligatory: after the military he labored in a job he detested (working in public relations for General Electric) before managing to support himself, barely, through his writing. Still, his pain was our profit: he had already witnessed enough inanity and atrocity to provide fodder for the obsessions that would inform practically every line he wrote. What Vonnegut made seem effortless is a talent every writer should seek to emulate, and what more writers than you may think do desperately want to imitate: writing books that are embraced by the so-called highbrow and lowbrow readers. Vonnegut established a style that went deep by seeming simple and was disarming by being accessible. Take, for instance, Breakfast of Champions, which features actual drawings (by the author) scattered amongst the action: in just about anyone else’s hands this impertinence would seem distracting, even self-indulgent. Likewise, there is an authorial intrusion late in the novel that perhaps best evinces the dialogic narrative strategy Vonnegut used—mostly to perfection—throughout his work. His novels remain able to make all the copycats who tried to imitate him seem bromidic and drably predictable.
And yet Slaughterhouse Five, like virtually all of Vonnegut’s novels, concerns itself with one of the oldest—and most perplexingly commonplace—human dilemmas: man’s inhumanity to man. But how does one discuss war, violence, insanity, and injustice (for starters) without either preaching or unintentionally trivializing? This was Vonnegut’s special gift, and why the concept of Billy Pilgrim coming “unstuck in time” is revelatory: the author was not using science fiction pyrotechnics to mask an inability to express his ideas directly, he had actually hit upon a means by which he could communicate what our increasingly disjointed world was like to live in. In this way, Billy Pilgrim is everyman even as everything he describes is unlike anything the average reader is likely to have experienced (walking in the snow behind enemy lines, living through the Dresden firebombing, being abducted by aliens, and being taught an entirely different theory of relativity by those aliens, the Tralfamadorians). Vonnegut, of course, was really writing about the ways in which the alienated, often lonely person is affected by the pressure and perversity of life. Never before had hilarity and horror danced on the same page in quite this way. Not surprisingly, people (especially younger people) responded. On the other hand, the fact that Kurt Vonnegut was—and remains—much more popular with college students than adults says more about us than it does about his novels.
Interestingly, the sporadic outer space antics that surface in much of Vonnegut’s early work are, in fact, a prescient strategy of grappling with the very real—if inexplicable—horrors of our world after The Bomb, one of the many ways science fiction was—and remains—well equipped to critique today by projecting where we might be tomorrow. We look to works like Catch-22 that lampoons the military, books like Revolutionary Road or A Fan’s Notes that peel back the noisome carcass of quiet desperation hidden under the sit-com sensibility of the ‘50s, or anything from, for instance, Flannery O’Connor and Charles Bukowski that depict the desperate, the seedy, the unredeemed and mostly the inconspicuous citizens whom nobody otherwise acknowledges. But Kurt Vonnegut, as much as any single writer, connected these copious threads, and his collected works comprise a sort of freak flag that flies in the face of complacency, offering an alternative version of the official alibi: he managed to merge the lunacy and the aggression of his time in a broth of brio and vulnerability that could literally make you cackle and weep, all at once. In this regard, his writing is very much connected to the 20th Century, yet it is unlikely to lose its immediacy or relevance since it deals with the same problems that plagued us before he lived and will remain with us, long after we are gone.
So it goes.
June 29, 2007
Reflections on Kurt Vonnegut
Kurt Vonnegut would say in speeches that a plausible mission of artists is to make people appreciate being alive at least a little bit. Often, he was asked: Have any artists successfully accomplished this? “The Beatles did”, he replied.
Vonnegut, whom time finally stuck to last week, lived a lot longer than he thought he would. For fans, he lived longer than many of them thought he would, too. Most of his avid readers have been preparing for his death, in earnest, since his suicide attempt in 1984. As it turned out, there were many more Pall Malls left to smoke. Then, in 1997, the author’s caliginous assertion that Timequake was to be his last novel did seem rather like a settling of accounts.
Fortunately, there was still time to tend to some unfinished business, and for another decade he would clean out the proverbial closets and compile the essays found in A Man Without a Country. He managed to remain active, and indignant, right up to the end, most recently sounding off on the idiocy of the Iraq misadventure. That the current administration caused him to consider Nixon in a fonder light speaks volumes of Vonnegut’s sensibility, and needs no elaboration. To be certain, Vonnegut made many people appreciate being alive more than a little bit; indeed, his greatest achievement may have been helping some people realize that they were alive, with his body of work that at once admonishes us to question reality and, whenever possible, to enjoy the ride.
And yet, Vonnegut was, in critical terms, on borrowed time pretty much for the duration after the unanticipated—and unimaginable—success of Slaughterhouse Five in 1969. The good news: maybe about five writers per half-century write defining texts that they can be certain, while they are still alive, will live on after them. The bad news: having to live with that (and never achieving that height again) while still trying to write new novels. That is to say, it is all but impossible for an author to impress anyone—his readers, the critics paid to write about what he has written, and mostly, himself—after composing a masterpiece in the middle of his life. The only thing more arduous is the incessant hangover of dread and expectation awaiting the novelist who knocks off a tour de force right out of the gate. Suffice it to say, Slaughterhouse Five proved to be a line in the literary sand he could never jump across (and not many other authors have either, for that matter), although he came as close as anyone should have reasonably hoped with Breakfast of Champions , a book that looked forward from World War II and its aftermath to the here and now of a country confronted by new concerns, such as Watergate, and more of the same old problems, like growing old and dying. That book, from 1973, if written by anyone else, could constitute a career. It’s not even unreasonable to imagine that, if Vonnegut had never parked himself in front of a typewriter after 1963, Cat’s Cradle would garner even more attention and receive more accolades than it already does.
(Too often, it seems, we are either celebrating artists too late, or we coronate the unworthy too early. It is not as complicated with our athletes when they retire: it’s generally a buoyant affair, with the extended goodwill of a swan song season, complete with gifts, accolades and standing ovations. Sure, there is some sadness in seeing a great performer leave the limelight, but the more famous the athlete is, the easier the transition to sanctified superstar afterlife. They are allowed (and perhaps entitled) to assume membership in an elite fraternity that never expires. Theirs is the glory to unrepentantly live in the past, invoke (even embellish) former flights of fancy, and generally rest on the laurels established in their youth.
With artists—novelists in particular—there are a completely different set of standards and expectations. The only ones at liberty to soar on the effulgent wings of yesterday’s triumph are those who have died, which renders them largely unable to appreciate the accolades. Indeed, not only is the living novelist forbidden from basking in the refractory glow of a former conquest, they are often haunted by it, forever in its insatiable shadow. One thinks of Ralph Ellison and the irremediable pressure he faced to somehow achieve anything after composing one of the surpassing texts of the 20th century, Invisible Man.)
In any event, one could sense a disappointment, even a petty resentment, in the rather tepid reviews and faint praise that Timequake generated. It was as if the prospect of an author of Vonnegut’s stature declaring, with his faculties intact, that he did not think he had any more novels in him called unaccustomed attention to the evanescent nature of any life. The fact is, Timequake did, in many ways, effectively and gracefully sum up several of the themes and concerns we could clumsily, if accurately call “Vonnegutian”.
If, on the other hand, he had just disappeared after writing Slaughterhouse Five—pulling a willful J.D. Salinger, or an inadvertent Percy Bysshe Shelley or a tedious, haphazard Malcolm Lowry—we would be in more familiar territory, allowed to write our own stories of what might have been. As socially perceptive literary architect, Vonnegut’s body of work simultaneously reflected and defined our times—often with a generous dose of humor, irreverence and buoyant elasticity. Vonnegut often confirmed what we already know (the world is crazy) while finding innovative ways to depict and deconstruct the machinations causing the craziness. He did not hold a mirror up to the world, per se, so much as he provided a blurred distinction between the sensible and the insane, the powerful and the unprotected, between justice and charade, reality and simulation. He understood, in short, that for most of us, our better angels are busy drowning in acculturated gray matter.
While never considered one of the more authoritative literary technicians, Vonnegut nonetheless was a model for clean writing that avoided pretense and overly polished prose. He wrote, directly, about concepts and chaos that are anything but simple to understand, and even more challenging to describe in a novel. Always with that grouchy finesse, not quite the wizened grandfather, more the wise uncle. Where Mark Twain, with whom he is often compared, could justifiably be accused of occasional crankiness, Vonnegut came off as a curmudgeon (at times) only in interviews; in his fiction his heart was so large and soft the pages are practically wet.
Autobiographical elements abound in Vonnegut’s work, and significantly, he paid the types of dues that were once a bit more obligatory: after the military he labored in a job he detested (working in public relations for General Electric) before managing to support himself, barely, through his writing. Still, his pain was our profit: he had already witnessed enough inanity and atrocity to provide fodder for the obsessions that would inform practically every line he wrote. What Vonnegut made seem effortless is a talent every writer should seek to emulate, and what more writers than you may think do desperately want to imitate: writing books that are embraced by the so-called highbrow and lowbrow readers. Vonnegut established a style that went deep by seeming simple and was disarming by being accessible. Take, for instance, Breakfast of Champions, which features actual drawings (by the author) scattered amongst the action: in just about anyone else’s hands this impertinence would seem distracting, even self-indulgent. Likewise, there is an authorial intrusion late in the novel that perhaps best evinces the dialogic narrative strategy Vonnegut used—mostly to perfection—throughout his work. His novels remain able to make all the copycats who tried to imitate him seem bromidic and drably predictable.
And yet Slaughterhouse Five, like virtually all of Vonnegut’s novels, concerns itself with one of the oldest—and most perplexingly commonplace—human dilemmas: man’s inhumanity to man. But how does one discuss war, violence, insanity, and injustice (for starters) without either preaching or unintentionally trivializing? This was Vonnegut’s special gift, and why the concept of Billy Pilgrim coming “unstuck in time” is revelatory: the author was not using science fiction pyrotechnics to mask an inability to express his ideas directly, he had actually hit upon a means by which he could communicate what our increasingly disjointed world was like to live in. In this way, Billy Pilgrim is everyman even as everything he describes is unlike anything the average reader is likely to have experienced (walking in the snow behind enemy lines, living through the Dresden firebombing, being abducted by aliens, and being taught an entirely different theory of relativity by those aliens, the Tralfamadorians). Vonnegut, of course, was really writing about the ways in which the alienated, often lonely person is affected by the pressure and perversity of life. Never before had hilarity and horror danced on the same page in quite this way. Not surprisingly, people (especially younger people) responded. On the other hand, the fact that Kurt Vonnegut was—and remains—much more popular with college students than adults says more about us than it does about his novels.
Interestingly, the sporadic outer space antics that surface in much of Vonnegut’s early work are, in fact, a prescient strategy of grappling with the very real—if inexplicable—horrors of our world after The Bomb, one of the many ways science fiction was—and remains—well equipped to critique today by projecting where we might be tomorrow. We look to works like Catch-22 that lampoons the military, books like Revolutionary Road or A Fan’s Notes that peel back the noisome carcass of quiet desperation hidden under the sit-com sensibility of the ‘50s, or anything from, for instance, Flannery O’Connor and Charles Bukowski that depict the desperate, the seedy, the unredeemed and mostly the inconspicuous citizens whom nobody otherwise acknowledges. But Kurt Vonnegut, as much as any single writer, connected these copious threads, and his collected works comprise a sort of freak flag that flies in the face of complacency, offering an alternative version of the official alibi: he managed to merge the lunacy and the aggression of his time in a broth of brio and vulnerability that could literally make you cackle and weep, all at once. In this regard, his writing is very much connected to the 20th Century, yet it is unlikely to lose its immediacy or relevance since it deals with the same problems that plagued us before he lived and will remain with us, long after we are gone.
So it goes.
Studio One: Soul Jazz Records, Redux (Popmatters.com)
http://www.popmatters.com/pm/music/reviews/42643/various-artists-studio-one-kings-and-studio-one-rub-a-dub/
Various Artists
Studio One Kings
(Soul Jazz Records)
Studio One Rub-A-Dub
(Soul Jazz Records)
by Sean Murphy
Soul Jazz Records: Keeping Essential, if Largely Unheralded Music Alive.
This music is instantly recognizable: nectar-sweet falsettos, soaring harmonies, socially conscious lyrics, all backed by a tight stable of top-notch session players. Sound familiar? It could be Motown, obviously, but the descriptions above are equally applicable to what, in many ways, was its equivalent in a lesser-known, much less funded parallel universe: what Detroit was for soul music in the ‘60s, Kingston’s Studio One was for reggae music in the ‘70s. And, to belabor an easy analogy, the Berry Gordy of Studio One was Clement “Sir Coxsone” Dodd—the owner, producer, and mastermind behind some of the best-loved music of the last century, as well as a treasure trove of forgotten, unknown, and undiscovered material.
When it comes to reggae, ignorance is not bliss, but it is easier to simply overlook the world beyond Bob Marley, in part because there are so few prominent advocates for this music. The fortunate folks who may have picked up a Steel Pulse or Black Uhuru collection in college (invariably thanks to the influence of that one hacky sack enthusiast down the hall in the dormitory) may feel they’ve heard all there is to hear. And for the unfortunate, adventurous individuals who are up for an exploration of this genre, one quickly finds that, like jazz or blues—or especially classical—music, there are styles, sub-genres, and no particularly painless way to even guess how to begin. Trying to grapple with the breadth and substance of reggae is not unlike learning another language: the most effective way to do so is to immerse oneself in that area code for a while. Regrettably, one cannot live inside music (as much as one might try).
So… where to start? What guideposts are available for the uninitiated? Enter Soul Jazz Records. Since the ‘90s, this British label has done aficionados and novices alike an incalculable service, courtesy of their ongoing series featuring Studio One recordings. Suffice it to say, two more recent volumes, Studio One Rub-A-Dub and Studio One Kings, come warmly recommended. Each edition in this series revolves loosely around a specific theme, such as previous standouts like Studio One Rockers, Studio One Roots, Studio One Ska and, of course, Studio One Dub. These releases are as close to a sonic encyclopedia of this impossible to categorize era as we’ve seen or are every likely to have: Soul Jazz Records is an indispensable force for good and deserves all the appreciation and acclaim we can offer.
For starters, the music collected in this series provides a refreshing alternative narrative for the prevailing, Eurocentric version of how we should properly assess (or understand) what happened behind the scenes in the ‘70s. When rock music was seemingly hijacked by either progressive-minded mad scientists concocting sidelong Frankensteins, or else slouching greedily toward the disco apocalypse, over in Jamaica—for a literal fraction of the cost—human minds produced human voices and instruments played by actual human hands.
The best, if most efficient, way to delineate the import and influence of Studio One, founded by Dodd in 1954—a full two decades before Eric Clapton appropriated “I Shot the Sheriff” and helped reggae grab a foothold outside the islands—is to simply name the roster of geniuses who recorded and paid youthful dues there: Bob Marley, Burning Spear, Toots Hibbert (and the Maytals), Horace Andy, Alton Ellis, and, perhaps most significantly, Lee “Scratch” Perry. Get the picture? After many of these artists hit what passed at the time for pay dirt in the late ‘60s, the demand was high and, thankfully, the supply was strong. Studio One Rub-A-Dub features some of the incredible new faces who would make names for themselves (Cornell Campbell, Horace Andy, Freddie McGregor) and others who remain, regrettably, obscure (Len Allen Jr., Willie Williams, Lone Ranger).
Rub-a-dub, which may or may not have devolved into dancehall in the ‘80s and ‘90s, depending upon who you ask, unquestionably ruled in the early ‘70s. Roots reggae was never quite the same once Lee Perry began cooking up those strangely delicious sounds in his cauldron, creating dub in the Black Ark. Rub-a-dub was an amalgamation of classic roots reggae (in fact, many of the songs are versions of well-known originals, with different lyrics and singers), and while there are some early elements of dub, the focus here is on the vocals. Granted, in reggae the focus is always on the singer(s), with good reason, but dub eventually proved the powerful exception to that rule. Studio One Rub-A-Dub presents, then, the apotheosis of a style perfected by many of the best singers of that time. And these songs should satisfy anyone: the reggae enthusiast can feast on some previously unearthed bounty; soul music lovers can savor the song craft and, above all, the singing.
Magical moments abound. Fans of trip-hop maestros Massive Attack should recognize elder statesman Horace Andy, and be appropriately awestruck hearing a much younger, even more ethereal, almost feminine sounding version of this living legend. Andy’s rendition of “Happiness” goes right for the gut, all honesty and emotion, infused with the extra, ineffable quality that distinguishes the best music. Cornell Campbell, whose falsetto is occasionally, if unimaginatively compared to Curtis Mayfield, is in fine form on “My Conversation”. The musical accompaniment—as it is on all of these songs—is first rate, but Campbell could make any song compelling all by himself. Ditto for Barry Brown (“Give My Love a Try”) and Johnny Osbourne (“Forgive Them”). Judah Eskender Tafari’s “Danger in Your Eyes” is delivered with vulnerability bordering on desperation—it actually sounds as though he is singing his heart out.
Rapper Robert and Jim Brown provide a high note (inevitable pun intended) with their clever and hilarious “Minister for Ganja”. This selection alone is well worth the cost of admission: the infectious, free-form vocal antics in the opening seconds anticipate a style immortalized by Mikey Dread and, after him, Musical Youth (whose hit “Pass the Dutchie” may actually represent the last time reggae music had a song on the radio that everyone knew); and the mirthful coughing sounds during the choruses provide an obvious inspiration for the brilliant cough/inhale noises employed to replicate the cash register on Easy Star All Stars’ cover of Pink Floyd’s “Money” (from their must-have Dub Side of the Moon). If all this sub-referencing seems gratuitous, it is an opportune time to mention how crucial—even inextricable—quoting and referencing is in reggae (especially dub). As is the case with jazz, this clever signal of respect and solidarity provides a ceaselessly enjoyable facet of the music. Finally, some free advice for Red Stripe: if they have any sense they would immediately option “Minister” for their TV ads and watch their revenues increase about a million percent.
Last, and far from least, special acknowledgment must be made regarding Len Allen Jr. (wherever he may be) for his soulful, softly devastating delivery on “White Belly Rat”. This underdog morality tale is a three minute tour de force, that rarest of songs that you can’t imagine your life without as soon as you’ve heard it for the first time. It is for unearthing small miracles like this that Soul Jazz Records should not only be appreciated, but worshipped.
Studio One Kings is more of the same, boasting a larger number of famous, familiar names. Burning Spear, Joe Higgs, Devon Russell, and Ken Boothe all appear, in typically top form. Alton Ellis contributes “The Well Run Dry” and Horace Andy delivers the goods, again, with “Every Tongue Shall Tell”. A case could easily be made that Ellis and Andy are the two most purely talented and distinctive vocalists from this era. On the other hand, a similarly compelling case could be made for at least a dozen of their compatriots. Take, for instance, the inimitable Burning Spear: if the uninitiated or unconvinced listen to “Them a Come” and remain unmoved, they are advised to check for a pulse. One of pleasant surprises from either collection is Freddie McGregor’s ten-minute celebration of Bob Dylan’s “I Shall Be Released”; it is as definitive a reworking as Jimi Hendrix’s scorching rendition of “All Along the Watchtower”.
And so, like jazz and blues, there are hundreds (thousands?) of reggae compilations out there (some better than others, many copying an uninspiring formula, safely skimming the surface of vast and forbidding waters), and while the good people at Blood and Fire and On U/Pressure Sounds are noteworthy labels contributing admirably to the cause, Soul Jazz Records is leading the charge in an effort to keep this essential, if largely unheralded music alive. It is all but impossible to attempt collecting or keeping pace with all this indelible art, but it remains among the most rewarding and life-affirming endeavors in which anyone can engage.
Various Artists
Studio One Kings
(Soul Jazz Records)
Studio One Rub-A-Dub
(Soul Jazz Records)
by Sean Murphy
Soul Jazz Records: Keeping Essential, if Largely Unheralded Music Alive.
This music is instantly recognizable: nectar-sweet falsettos, soaring harmonies, socially conscious lyrics, all backed by a tight stable of top-notch session players. Sound familiar? It could be Motown, obviously, but the descriptions above are equally applicable to what, in many ways, was its equivalent in a lesser-known, much less funded parallel universe: what Detroit was for soul music in the ‘60s, Kingston’s Studio One was for reggae music in the ‘70s. And, to belabor an easy analogy, the Berry Gordy of Studio One was Clement “Sir Coxsone” Dodd—the owner, producer, and mastermind behind some of the best-loved music of the last century, as well as a treasure trove of forgotten, unknown, and undiscovered material.
When it comes to reggae, ignorance is not bliss, but it is easier to simply overlook the world beyond Bob Marley, in part because there are so few prominent advocates for this music. The fortunate folks who may have picked up a Steel Pulse or Black Uhuru collection in college (invariably thanks to the influence of that one hacky sack enthusiast down the hall in the dormitory) may feel they’ve heard all there is to hear. And for the unfortunate, adventurous individuals who are up for an exploration of this genre, one quickly finds that, like jazz or blues—or especially classical—music, there are styles, sub-genres, and no particularly painless way to even guess how to begin. Trying to grapple with the breadth and substance of reggae is not unlike learning another language: the most effective way to do so is to immerse oneself in that area code for a while. Regrettably, one cannot live inside music (as much as one might try).
So… where to start? What guideposts are available for the uninitiated? Enter Soul Jazz Records. Since the ‘90s, this British label has done aficionados and novices alike an incalculable service, courtesy of their ongoing series featuring Studio One recordings. Suffice it to say, two more recent volumes, Studio One Rub-A-Dub and Studio One Kings, come warmly recommended. Each edition in this series revolves loosely around a specific theme, such as previous standouts like Studio One Rockers, Studio One Roots, Studio One Ska and, of course, Studio One Dub. These releases are as close to a sonic encyclopedia of this impossible to categorize era as we’ve seen or are every likely to have: Soul Jazz Records is an indispensable force for good and deserves all the appreciation and acclaim we can offer.
For starters, the music collected in this series provides a refreshing alternative narrative for the prevailing, Eurocentric version of how we should properly assess (or understand) what happened behind the scenes in the ‘70s. When rock music was seemingly hijacked by either progressive-minded mad scientists concocting sidelong Frankensteins, or else slouching greedily toward the disco apocalypse, over in Jamaica—for a literal fraction of the cost—human minds produced human voices and instruments played by actual human hands.
The best, if most efficient, way to delineate the import and influence of Studio One, founded by Dodd in 1954—a full two decades before Eric Clapton appropriated “I Shot the Sheriff” and helped reggae grab a foothold outside the islands—is to simply name the roster of geniuses who recorded and paid youthful dues there: Bob Marley, Burning Spear, Toots Hibbert (and the Maytals), Horace Andy, Alton Ellis, and, perhaps most significantly, Lee “Scratch” Perry. Get the picture? After many of these artists hit what passed at the time for pay dirt in the late ‘60s, the demand was high and, thankfully, the supply was strong. Studio One Rub-A-Dub features some of the incredible new faces who would make names for themselves (Cornell Campbell, Horace Andy, Freddie McGregor) and others who remain, regrettably, obscure (Len Allen Jr., Willie Williams, Lone Ranger).
Rub-a-dub, which may or may not have devolved into dancehall in the ‘80s and ‘90s, depending upon who you ask, unquestionably ruled in the early ‘70s. Roots reggae was never quite the same once Lee Perry began cooking up those strangely delicious sounds in his cauldron, creating dub in the Black Ark. Rub-a-dub was an amalgamation of classic roots reggae (in fact, many of the songs are versions of well-known originals, with different lyrics and singers), and while there are some early elements of dub, the focus here is on the vocals. Granted, in reggae the focus is always on the singer(s), with good reason, but dub eventually proved the powerful exception to that rule. Studio One Rub-A-Dub presents, then, the apotheosis of a style perfected by many of the best singers of that time. And these songs should satisfy anyone: the reggae enthusiast can feast on some previously unearthed bounty; soul music lovers can savor the song craft and, above all, the singing.
Magical moments abound. Fans of trip-hop maestros Massive Attack should recognize elder statesman Horace Andy, and be appropriately awestruck hearing a much younger, even more ethereal, almost feminine sounding version of this living legend. Andy’s rendition of “Happiness” goes right for the gut, all honesty and emotion, infused with the extra, ineffable quality that distinguishes the best music. Cornell Campbell, whose falsetto is occasionally, if unimaginatively compared to Curtis Mayfield, is in fine form on “My Conversation”. The musical accompaniment—as it is on all of these songs—is first rate, but Campbell could make any song compelling all by himself. Ditto for Barry Brown (“Give My Love a Try”) and Johnny Osbourne (“Forgive Them”). Judah Eskender Tafari’s “Danger in Your Eyes” is delivered with vulnerability bordering on desperation—it actually sounds as though he is singing his heart out.
Rapper Robert and Jim Brown provide a high note (inevitable pun intended) with their clever and hilarious “Minister for Ganja”. This selection alone is well worth the cost of admission: the infectious, free-form vocal antics in the opening seconds anticipate a style immortalized by Mikey Dread and, after him, Musical Youth (whose hit “Pass the Dutchie” may actually represent the last time reggae music had a song on the radio that everyone knew); and the mirthful coughing sounds during the choruses provide an obvious inspiration for the brilliant cough/inhale noises employed to replicate the cash register on Easy Star All Stars’ cover of Pink Floyd’s “Money” (from their must-have Dub Side of the Moon). If all this sub-referencing seems gratuitous, it is an opportune time to mention how crucial—even inextricable—quoting and referencing is in reggae (especially dub). As is the case with jazz, this clever signal of respect and solidarity provides a ceaselessly enjoyable facet of the music. Finally, some free advice for Red Stripe: if they have any sense they would immediately option “Minister” for their TV ads and watch their revenues increase about a million percent.
Last, and far from least, special acknowledgment must be made regarding Len Allen Jr. (wherever he may be) for his soulful, softly devastating delivery on “White Belly Rat”. This underdog morality tale is a three minute tour de force, that rarest of songs that you can’t imagine your life without as soon as you’ve heard it for the first time. It is for unearthing small miracles like this that Soul Jazz Records should not only be appreciated, but worshipped.
Studio One Kings is more of the same, boasting a larger number of famous, familiar names. Burning Spear, Joe Higgs, Devon Russell, and Ken Boothe all appear, in typically top form. Alton Ellis contributes “The Well Run Dry” and Horace Andy delivers the goods, again, with “Every Tongue Shall Tell”. A case could easily be made that Ellis and Andy are the two most purely talented and distinctive vocalists from this era. On the other hand, a similarly compelling case could be made for at least a dozen of their compatriots. Take, for instance, the inimitable Burning Spear: if the uninitiated or unconvinced listen to “Them a Come” and remain unmoved, they are advised to check for a pulse. One of pleasant surprises from either collection is Freddie McGregor’s ten-minute celebration of Bob Dylan’s “I Shall Be Released”; it is as definitive a reworking as Jimi Hendrix’s scorching rendition of “All Along the Watchtower”.
And so, like jazz and blues, there are hundreds (thousands?) of reggae compilations out there (some better than others, many copying an uninspiring formula, safely skimming the surface of vast and forbidding waters), and while the good people at Blood and Fire and On U/Pressure Sounds are noteworthy labels contributing admirably to the cause, Soul Jazz Records is leading the charge in an effort to keep this essential, if largely unheralded music alive. It is all but impossible to attempt collecting or keeping pace with all this indelible art, but it remains among the most rewarding and life-affirming endeavors in which anyone can engage.
Mingus and Coltrane (from Popmatters.com Best Protest Songs Feature)
1957
Charles Mingus: “Haitian Fight Song”
From the album The Clown (Atlantic)
Charles Mingus had many things to say, and he used his mouth, his pen, his fists, and mostly his music to say them. Of the myriad words that describe Mingus, passionate would trump all others. Mingus cared—deeply. Of the many compositions that could be chosen to define him, “Haitian Fight Song” endures as the best articulation of the inequities that consistently inspired his best work. The song is, of course, about everything (as is pretty much all of Mingus’s music), but it is mostly about the tensions and turmoil inherent in the lives of the dispossessed. Not for nothing was his autobiography entitled Beneath the Underdog. The momentum of the song (after a snake-charming sax solo from Shafi Hadi) stops in its tracks when Mingus breaks it down and, as the band slowly drops out, deconstructs the theme with only his bass, then goes on to say some of the things that needed to be said in 1957. And for anyone who understandably does not wish to analyze or sterilize music that can easily account for itself, let’s cut to the chase: “Haitian Fight Song” is one of the most angry yet eloquent, ardent yet erudite and—this is the key—most jaw-droppingly swinging and kickass compositions ever. It is a statement that speaks volumes and not a single word is spoken. Significantly, this was quite a few years before artists’ statements regarding racial strife became commonplace or mainstream. But this is just one of many instances where Mingus was ahead of the crowd. Mingus led several big bands later in his career, but listening half a century later to the sheer force of sound this quintet made remains a revelation. It is a hurricane that blows through your life and changes everything.
—Sean Murphy
1963
John Coltrane: “Alabama”
From the album Live at Birdland (Impulse!)
Inspired by the disgraceful 16th Street Baptist Church bombing in 1963, Coltrane said of his elegy: “It represents, musically, something that I saw down there translated into music from inside me.” It is one of Coltrane’s enduring and devastating performances. Recorded with the “classic quartet” (McCoy Tyner on piano, Elvin Jones on drums, Jimmy Garrison on bass), Coltrane, already considered one of jazz music’s most emotional and sensitive players, managed to articulate the grief and the rage the occasion called for. A deeply spiritual man, Coltrane also conveyed the immutable senselessness of violence instigated by ignorance, but also, miraculously, managed to hint at the redemption of peaceful power through unified awareness. If Mingus’s “Haitian Fight Song” in part predicted the turmoil around the corner, “Alabama” was directly inspired by an actual event that demanded an outraged reaction. As only he could, Coltrane crafted a solo that is angry, somber, and somehow hopeful; a subdued epitaph for the innocent dead, but also a rallying cry for the not-so-innocent bystanders who needed to join the cause. The Alabama bombing was a tipping point in the civil rights movement, and Coltrane captured that moment where confusion and rage inspired an outpouring of solidarity.
—Sean Murphy
Charles Mingus: “Haitian Fight Song”
From the album The Clown (Atlantic)
Charles Mingus had many things to say, and he used his mouth, his pen, his fists, and mostly his music to say them. Of the myriad words that describe Mingus, passionate would trump all others. Mingus cared—deeply. Of the many compositions that could be chosen to define him, “Haitian Fight Song” endures as the best articulation of the inequities that consistently inspired his best work. The song is, of course, about everything (as is pretty much all of Mingus’s music), but it is mostly about the tensions and turmoil inherent in the lives of the dispossessed. Not for nothing was his autobiography entitled Beneath the Underdog. The momentum of the song (after a snake-charming sax solo from Shafi Hadi) stops in its tracks when Mingus breaks it down and, as the band slowly drops out, deconstructs the theme with only his bass, then goes on to say some of the things that needed to be said in 1957. And for anyone who understandably does not wish to analyze or sterilize music that can easily account for itself, let’s cut to the chase: “Haitian Fight Song” is one of the most angry yet eloquent, ardent yet erudite and—this is the key—most jaw-droppingly swinging and kickass compositions ever. It is a statement that speaks volumes and not a single word is spoken. Significantly, this was quite a few years before artists’ statements regarding racial strife became commonplace or mainstream. But this is just one of many instances where Mingus was ahead of the crowd. Mingus led several big bands later in his career, but listening half a century later to the sheer force of sound this quintet made remains a revelation. It is a hurricane that blows through your life and changes everything.
—Sean Murphy
1963
John Coltrane: “Alabama”
From the album Live at Birdland (Impulse!)
Inspired by the disgraceful 16th Street Baptist Church bombing in 1963, Coltrane said of his elegy: “It represents, musically, something that I saw down there translated into music from inside me.” It is one of Coltrane’s enduring and devastating performances. Recorded with the “classic quartet” (McCoy Tyner on piano, Elvin Jones on drums, Jimmy Garrison on bass), Coltrane, already considered one of jazz music’s most emotional and sensitive players, managed to articulate the grief and the rage the occasion called for. A deeply spiritual man, Coltrane also conveyed the immutable senselessness of violence instigated by ignorance, but also, miraculously, managed to hint at the redemption of peaceful power through unified awareness. If Mingus’s “Haitian Fight Song” in part predicted the turmoil around the corner, “Alabama” was directly inspired by an actual event that demanded an outraged reaction. As only he could, Coltrane crafted a solo that is angry, somber, and somehow hopeful; a subdued epitaph for the innocent dead, but also a rallying cry for the not-so-innocent bystanders who needed to join the cause. The Alabama bombing was a tipping point in the civil rights movement, and Coltrane captured that moment where confusion and rage inspired an outpouring of solidarity.
—Sean Murphy
Pink Floyd: Meddle (Popmatters.com Review)
Pink Floyd
Meddle: A Classic Album Under Review [DVD]
(Chrome Dreams / Music Video Distributors) Rated: N/A
US release date: 12 March 2007
UK release date: 19 March 2007
by Sean Murphy
1971’s Meddle captured the moment when Floyd finally found their sound.
Pink Floyd were hardly an inconsequential group in the late ‘60s and very early ‘70s, and yet, without 1973’s The Dark Side of the Moon and the albums that followed, their status today would be decidedly diminished. Most everyone would agree that Dark Side made them who they are today, but not as many people might appreciate that, if it were not for 1971’s Meddle, there would have been no The Dark Side of the Moon.
Meddle is indeed a classic album that is not accorded the level of attention it would otherwise receive if it did not exist within the ever expanding shadow of the subsequent string of albums it helped inspire. This is not an uncommon occurrence in rock (or any genre of music for that matter): it’s likely, to take one obvious example, that The Who Sell Out would receive those accolades generally reserved for Tommy or Who’s Next, the better known albums that came just after it.
It is appropriate then that, 40 years after the release of their first album, we have a serious critical appraisal of the pivotal record that served to end one era and instigate another. Regarding that earlier era, casual fans might not realize that Pink Floyd made as many albums before Meddle than they did after it (more casual fans might not even realize that Floyd made any albums before Meddle).
For this reason alone, the first section of this DVD provides an excellent overview of not only the group, but also the London underground for which they served as de facto house band. There were, really, three different Pink Floyds: the initial one led by Syd Barrett, the one forced to soldier on after Barrett’s LSD-induced demolition (at which point he was replaced by his good friend David Gilmour), and the one that eventually made the string of masterpieces starting with The Dark Side of the Moon.
Getting from Piper to Dark Side required several years and several albums, none of which sounded especially alike—a fact that seems more remarkable with the benefit of hindsight. Each album, however, had one particular track, often an extended instrumental piece, that served as a centerpiece that at once set it apart and connected the sonic dots that burst through the pyramid in 1973: “Interstellar Overdrive” (from Piper), “Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun” (from A Saucerful Of Secrets), “Quicksilver” (from More), “The Narrow Way” (from Ummagumma) and “Atom Heart Mother Suite” (from Atom Heart Mother). As the band has indicated repeatedly over the years, there would be no “Echoes” without “Atom Heart Mother Suite”, and so on working backward.
The assembled critics interviewed for this DVD express varying opinions on the overall merits of these transitional albums (all of them generally agree that Piper is a masterpiece, although that one was Syd Barrett’s baby whereas the others were assuredly group efforts), but the consensus seems to be that while Floyd should be commended for their bold experimentation and constant evolution, the results were decidedly mixed. True, yet the participants seem to overlook how important Floyd’s live performances were in terms of reshaping and refining many older songs. The critics correctly single out “Set The Controls” as a crucial track, but none of them mention the title track of that album as a major cornerstone that Floyd built a foundation of sound upon.
The ways in which “A Saucerful Of Secrets” expanded and crystallized is documented on the live section of Ummugumma, as well as the definitive version, which they recorded live for their movie Live At Pompeii: Gilmour’s guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as the major musical force within the group (a very positive development), forging an increasingly melodic and ethereal sound. The point that cannot be overemphasized is that Meddle was not so much an inspired product of its time as much as it was the realization of a sound and style the band had been inching toward, carving away at the stone with each successive effort, until the pieces finally came together (or fell apart, if you like) in the form of “Echoes”.
Ping…ping…ping. That is how it begins: the song that many still consider their definitive statement, the first track completed for the new album (like “Atom Heart Mother Suite”, it was a side-long opus; unlike the previous album, it was saved for the second side): “Echoes” unfolds deliberately, with carefully structured precision. This remains a striking departure from the previous album’s centerpiece which, in fairness, might well enjoy a better reputation, or at least seem less pretentiously impenetrable for many fans, if Floyd had stuck with its working title, “The Amazing Pudding”—quite apropos for such a gloppy, sweet, not especially easy to digest jumble.
Virtually every element Floyd had attempted to incorporate into their best songs is unified in “Echoes”, with no false notes or forced feeling: the moods and colors captured on those shorter instrumental pieces remain, stretched out to utilize the group’s considerable ambition and enthusiasm. The merging of Gilmour and Wright’s voices—a harbinger of good things to come, although on “Time” Wright sings the choruses while Gilmour handles the verses—is appropriately mesmerizing, and the two remain uncannily in synch on their respective instruments. “Echoes” also signals a minor step forward for Waters lyrically (the major step would be Dark Side of the Moon :
Strangers passing in the streetBy chance two separate glances meetAnd I am you and what I see is me…
The pace intensifies, with some extraordinary playing by Gilmour who employs an array of distortion, feedback and effects, culminating in a groove that inspired a billion jam bands. Then, the bottom drops out, spiraling into the great disintegration, an abyss of whale cries and subterranean shadows (courtesy of Wright and Gilmour, and what at the time was cutting edge use of an echo unit, which is discussed in some detail on the DVD). Out of the darkness the song slowly returns, bringing release as well as realization as the music fades into infinity.
What elevates Meddle from being a very good album to a great album is the fact that most of the remaining songs are quite memorable. The opening track signals the artistic leap forward Floyd had taken in only one year: “One of These Days” features contributions from the entire band, creating a sound that, like “Echoes”, manages to be abrupt yet unrestrained. The song materializes out of a sonic fog, like a laser closing in from a great distance, with Waters’ bass and Mason’s drums offering thudding contrast to Wright’s icy keyboards, then—after Mason’s singular, and amusing, vocal contribution: “One of these days I’m going to cut you into little pieces!”—Gilmour torches the track with a slide guitar assault, the most powerful soloing he’d put on record to this point.
The future is now; Pink Floyd have found their sound. Gilmour, having already assumed primary vocal duties on the recent albums, is now firmly established at the forefront, his guitar truly (finally?) a lead instrument. Like the album itself, this is more a culmination than a revelation: on the less self-consciously psychedelic soundtrack More, Gilmour smokes on several tunes (listen to “Main Theme”, “More Blues”, “Ibiza Bar” and “Dramatic Theme” for hints at what was to come, and how overdue this unfettered sound, either overly refined or actively suppressed, really was).
The next song encapsulates much of what Floyd had attempted, but not quite mastered, on songs such as “If” and “Grantchester Meadows”. “A Pillow of Winds” is a fuller, more realized take on the Pink Floyd pastoral song, variations of it having appeared on each album after Piper. Again, Gilmour figures prominently; where his vocals had been, at times, tentative and even frail, there is a warmth and authority here that suggests augmented confidence and comfort with the superior material.
Two elements solidly established (the guitar sound and the vocals), a final one—Roger Waters’ increasingly mature and topical lyrics—comes to fruition on the third track, “Fearless”. This tune, which could be viewed as a poignant nod to Syd Barrett, is definitely an early installment of a growing Waters obsession: namely the alienated and isolated protagonist railing against (or reeling from) a mechanized, soulless machine called society. Another distinctly Floydian touch is the decision to insert a recording of fans at Liverpool’s football stadium chanting “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, which concludes the song on a hopeful and human note. This tactic also serves as an early blueprint for the sound effects and ironic employment of actual voices used on later albums, specifically The Dark Side of the Moon.
The next two tracks are considered less than essential by most fans (and certainly the critics assembled on the DVD), but “San Tropez” is not without its charms. Despite pleasant enough vocals from Waters, this one might have worked rather nicely as an instrumental (no doubt to Waters’ considerable chagrin), as it once again features some incandescent guitar work from Gilmour. The song that closes the first side, “Seamus” is a throwaway…and yet. The idea of incorporating a dog howling alongside the band in a lighthearted call and response literally anticipates Animals, but indirectly, and importantly, reveals a band doing everything they can to avoid and obliterate cliché.
So, it can fairly be asked: who would want to watch a bunch of British music critics talking about a semi-obscure Pink Floyd album? The usual suspects, obviously: the hardcore fans and the curious novices. Neither will be disappointed. Of course, it must be reiterated that no members of the group participate which, while not shocking, is still disappointing. The collected writers know their stuff, but their remarks are similar and mostly surface-level, making the absence of input from the artists more glaring.
One delightful exception is the presence of Norman Smith, whose gentlemanly observations on producing the first three Floyd albums are charming and heartwarming. Heartbreaking, too, when he discusses the challenges (to put it kindly) he faced while trying to record the Salvation Army band Syd Barrett dragged into the studio for the track that eventually became “Jugband Blues”, Syd’s last song with the band.
The somewhat paltry extras include “The Hardest Interactive Pink Floyd Trivia Quiz In The World Ever” which is ridiculously challenging. There are screen shot bios of the participating commentators and a short but sweet special feature entitled “The Remarkable Syd Barrett”. This 10-minute bonus examines, in some depth, Syd Barrett and his fleeting trajectory, including another interview with Norman Smith who, it’s fair to say, was Pink Floyd’s George Martin—which brings things somewhat full circle as he worked as an engineer on the early Beatles’ albums.
— 1 June 2007
Meddle: A Classic Album Under Review [DVD]
(Chrome Dreams / Music Video Distributors) Rated: N/A
US release date: 12 March 2007
UK release date: 19 March 2007
by Sean Murphy
1971’s Meddle captured the moment when Floyd finally found their sound.
Pink Floyd were hardly an inconsequential group in the late ‘60s and very early ‘70s, and yet, without 1973’s The Dark Side of the Moon and the albums that followed, their status today would be decidedly diminished. Most everyone would agree that Dark Side made them who they are today, but not as many people might appreciate that, if it were not for 1971’s Meddle, there would have been no The Dark Side of the Moon.
Meddle is indeed a classic album that is not accorded the level of attention it would otherwise receive if it did not exist within the ever expanding shadow of the subsequent string of albums it helped inspire. This is not an uncommon occurrence in rock (or any genre of music for that matter): it’s likely, to take one obvious example, that The Who Sell Out would receive those accolades generally reserved for Tommy or Who’s Next, the better known albums that came just after it.
It is appropriate then that, 40 years after the release of their first album, we have a serious critical appraisal of the pivotal record that served to end one era and instigate another. Regarding that earlier era, casual fans might not realize that Pink Floyd made as many albums before Meddle than they did after it (more casual fans might not even realize that Floyd made any albums before Meddle).
For this reason alone, the first section of this DVD provides an excellent overview of not only the group, but also the London underground for which they served as de facto house band. There were, really, three different Pink Floyds: the initial one led by Syd Barrett, the one forced to soldier on after Barrett’s LSD-induced demolition (at which point he was replaced by his good friend David Gilmour), and the one that eventually made the string of masterpieces starting with The Dark Side of the Moon.
Getting from Piper to Dark Side required several years and several albums, none of which sounded especially alike—a fact that seems more remarkable with the benefit of hindsight. Each album, however, had one particular track, often an extended instrumental piece, that served as a centerpiece that at once set it apart and connected the sonic dots that burst through the pyramid in 1973: “Interstellar Overdrive” (from Piper), “Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun” (from A Saucerful Of Secrets), “Quicksilver” (from More), “The Narrow Way” (from Ummagumma) and “Atom Heart Mother Suite” (from Atom Heart Mother). As the band has indicated repeatedly over the years, there would be no “Echoes” without “Atom Heart Mother Suite”, and so on working backward.
The assembled critics interviewed for this DVD express varying opinions on the overall merits of these transitional albums (all of them generally agree that Piper is a masterpiece, although that one was Syd Barrett’s baby whereas the others were assuredly group efforts), but the consensus seems to be that while Floyd should be commended for their bold experimentation and constant evolution, the results were decidedly mixed. True, yet the participants seem to overlook how important Floyd’s live performances were in terms of reshaping and refining many older songs. The critics correctly single out “Set The Controls” as a crucial track, but none of them mention the title track of that album as a major cornerstone that Floyd built a foundation of sound upon.
The ways in which “A Saucerful Of Secrets” expanded and crystallized is documented on the live section of Ummugumma, as well as the definitive version, which they recorded live for their movie Live At Pompeii: Gilmour’s guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as the major musical force within the group (a very positive development), forging an increasingly melodic and ethereal sound. The point that cannot be overemphasized is that Meddle was not so much an inspired product of its time as much as it was the realization of a sound and style the band had been inching toward, carving away at the stone with each successive effort, until the pieces finally came together (or fell apart, if you like) in the form of “Echoes”.
Ping…ping…ping. That is how it begins: the song that many still consider their definitive statement, the first track completed for the new album (like “Atom Heart Mother Suite”, it was a side-long opus; unlike the previous album, it was saved for the second side): “Echoes” unfolds deliberately, with carefully structured precision. This remains a striking departure from the previous album’s centerpiece which, in fairness, might well enjoy a better reputation, or at least seem less pretentiously impenetrable for many fans, if Floyd had stuck with its working title, “The Amazing Pudding”—quite apropos for such a gloppy, sweet, not especially easy to digest jumble.
Virtually every element Floyd had attempted to incorporate into their best songs is unified in “Echoes”, with no false notes or forced feeling: the moods and colors captured on those shorter instrumental pieces remain, stretched out to utilize the group’s considerable ambition and enthusiasm. The merging of Gilmour and Wright’s voices—a harbinger of good things to come, although on “Time” Wright sings the choruses while Gilmour handles the verses—is appropriately mesmerizing, and the two remain uncannily in synch on their respective instruments. “Echoes” also signals a minor step forward for Waters lyrically (the major step would be Dark Side of the Moon :
Strangers passing in the streetBy chance two separate glances meetAnd I am you and what I see is me…
The pace intensifies, with some extraordinary playing by Gilmour who employs an array of distortion, feedback and effects, culminating in a groove that inspired a billion jam bands. Then, the bottom drops out, spiraling into the great disintegration, an abyss of whale cries and subterranean shadows (courtesy of Wright and Gilmour, and what at the time was cutting edge use of an echo unit, which is discussed in some detail on the DVD). Out of the darkness the song slowly returns, bringing release as well as realization as the music fades into infinity.
What elevates Meddle from being a very good album to a great album is the fact that most of the remaining songs are quite memorable. The opening track signals the artistic leap forward Floyd had taken in only one year: “One of These Days” features contributions from the entire band, creating a sound that, like “Echoes”, manages to be abrupt yet unrestrained. The song materializes out of a sonic fog, like a laser closing in from a great distance, with Waters’ bass and Mason’s drums offering thudding contrast to Wright’s icy keyboards, then—after Mason’s singular, and amusing, vocal contribution: “One of these days I’m going to cut you into little pieces!”—Gilmour torches the track with a slide guitar assault, the most powerful soloing he’d put on record to this point.
The future is now; Pink Floyd have found their sound. Gilmour, having already assumed primary vocal duties on the recent albums, is now firmly established at the forefront, his guitar truly (finally?) a lead instrument. Like the album itself, this is more a culmination than a revelation: on the less self-consciously psychedelic soundtrack More, Gilmour smokes on several tunes (listen to “Main Theme”, “More Blues”, “Ibiza Bar” and “Dramatic Theme” for hints at what was to come, and how overdue this unfettered sound, either overly refined or actively suppressed, really was).
The next song encapsulates much of what Floyd had attempted, but not quite mastered, on songs such as “If” and “Grantchester Meadows”. “A Pillow of Winds” is a fuller, more realized take on the Pink Floyd pastoral song, variations of it having appeared on each album after Piper. Again, Gilmour figures prominently; where his vocals had been, at times, tentative and even frail, there is a warmth and authority here that suggests augmented confidence and comfort with the superior material.
Two elements solidly established (the guitar sound and the vocals), a final one—Roger Waters’ increasingly mature and topical lyrics—comes to fruition on the third track, “Fearless”. This tune, which could be viewed as a poignant nod to Syd Barrett, is definitely an early installment of a growing Waters obsession: namely the alienated and isolated protagonist railing against (or reeling from) a mechanized, soulless machine called society. Another distinctly Floydian touch is the decision to insert a recording of fans at Liverpool’s football stadium chanting “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, which concludes the song on a hopeful and human note. This tactic also serves as an early blueprint for the sound effects and ironic employment of actual voices used on later albums, specifically The Dark Side of the Moon.
The next two tracks are considered less than essential by most fans (and certainly the critics assembled on the DVD), but “San Tropez” is not without its charms. Despite pleasant enough vocals from Waters, this one might have worked rather nicely as an instrumental (no doubt to Waters’ considerable chagrin), as it once again features some incandescent guitar work from Gilmour. The song that closes the first side, “Seamus” is a throwaway…and yet. The idea of incorporating a dog howling alongside the band in a lighthearted call and response literally anticipates Animals, but indirectly, and importantly, reveals a band doing everything they can to avoid and obliterate cliché.
So, it can fairly be asked: who would want to watch a bunch of British music critics talking about a semi-obscure Pink Floyd album? The usual suspects, obviously: the hardcore fans and the curious novices. Neither will be disappointed. Of course, it must be reiterated that no members of the group participate which, while not shocking, is still disappointing. The collected writers know their stuff, but their remarks are similar and mostly surface-level, making the absence of input from the artists more glaring.
One delightful exception is the presence of Norman Smith, whose gentlemanly observations on producing the first three Floyd albums are charming and heartwarming. Heartbreaking, too, when he discusses the challenges (to put it kindly) he faced while trying to record the Salvation Army band Syd Barrett dragged into the studio for the track that eventually became “Jugband Blues”, Syd’s last song with the band.
The somewhat paltry extras include “The Hardest Interactive Pink Floyd Trivia Quiz In The World Ever” which is ridiculously challenging. There are screen shot bios of the participating commentators and a short but sweet special feature entitled “The Remarkable Syd Barrett”. This 10-minute bonus examines, in some depth, Syd Barrett and his fleeting trajectory, including another interview with Norman Smith who, it’s fair to say, was Pink Floyd’s George Martin—which brings things somewhat full circle as he worked as an engineer on the early Beatles’ albums.
— 1 June 2007
The Doors: Open for Business (Again) PopMatters.com Review
http://www.popmatters.com/pm/features/article/33678/the-doors-open-for-business-again/
The Doors: Open for Business (Again)
If the first two Doors albums are drugs, they’d be of the decidedly psychedelic variety; the next couple are a dangerous cocktail of amphetamines and Quaaludes. Morrison Hotel is beer: authentic, unfiltered, as American as it gets. L.A. Woman manages to be all of the above.
by Sean Murphy
Ten days, ten thousand dollars. That is the time and money required to craft one of rock music’s significant debut albums. If the Doors had simply disbanded after their eponymous first effort, they would unquestionably hold a sacrosanct space in the ‘60s canon. Recorded around the same time as Sgt. Pepper (not after, which is noteworthy), The Doors helped establish the possibility that a rock and roll album could—and should—be a complete, fully-formed statement. If, inevitably, this raising of the artistic bar inexorably led to unwelcome excesses, such as the progressive rock “concept album” in the early-to-mid ‘70s, it also elevated the music from the short, fluff-filled releases of the early-to-mid ‘60s.
How did it happen?
First and foremost, so much ink gets spilled rehashing and aggrandizing the living legend of the Lizard King that it is, unfortunately, easy to overlook the certainty that the Doors were a first-rate band capable of creating incredible music. And they did: the often exceptional compositions were not conjured up from the bong water—all three of the musicians (Ray Manzarek played keyboards, Robbie Krieger played guitar and John Densmore played drums) were trained players with experience, reaching across classical, jazz, folk and blues. (A more extensive analysis of Jim Morrison’s ceaselessly controversial status as a poet was recently undertaken and can be found here).
A propitious way to create a near perfect album is to begin with an indelible opening salvo, and “Break on Through”, the first song and first single, still sounds fresh and essential 40 years later. This song delivers in every way: a signature sound (nothing else, then or now, sounds anything like this) and an urgency that balances aggression and acumen, in under three minutes. In terms of influence, it should suffice to say that the testimonials from bands in subsequent generations are numerous, and from a historical perspective, this dark but dynamic concision anticipates punk rock every bit as much as, say, the Velvet Underground.
Admittedly, “Light My Fire”—the second single and the one that actually broke them through, topping the charts in the infamous Summer of Love—reverberates, today, with more of that free-love vibe (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but the incredible trifecta that kicks off the proceedings remains remarkably, even improbably edgy and unique. Again, no other band made music that sounded like this and it is, to a large degree, attributable to Ray Manzarek, who, in addition to piano and organ, handled the role of bassist, utilizing his Fender Rhodes piano bass (on later albums the band would indulge themselves with the services of a session bassist, but on most of the early albums Manzarek did double duty). His versatility is on full display throughout these first three songs, and nowhere is his handiwork better represented than on the third track, “The Crystal Ship”: his restrained, often ethereal organ sound is always the water that the rest of the band could cook with, while his discerning, almost elegant, turn at the piano provides cerebral counterpoint.
A few more remarks about Manzarek: up to this point (and, to a large extent, outside of the mellotron mini-revolution pioneered by King Crimson and the Moody Blues in the late ‘60s, and the keyboards so essential to most progressive rock acts like Yes, Jethro Tull and Genesis in the early ‘70s) organ music was—and remains—generally relegated to the sideline on the rare occasions it appears at all. Certain groups might employ the use of an organ for one of their mellow or somber songs, but bringing an organ to the forefront was an original, and risky undertaking. Aside from the piano/organ interplay, Manzarek consistently creates different sounds with his instrument. At times he opts for funky and cool (“Soul Kitchen” or “I Looked at You”), other times carnivalesque (the group’s spirited cover of Brecht and Weill’s “Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)”, or “Take It As It Comes”), and occasionally jazzy. Although any mention of this causes supercilious purists to puke, there is no getting around the reality that those extended and groundbreaking solos in “Light My Fire” were modeled, in part, on the standard improvised chord changes of bebop.
Let’s face it, one reason it is so easy, even imperative, to poke fun at the Doors is because Manzarek himself, who has been anything but tongue-tied in interviews over the years, seems entirely too eager to elucidate the ways in which the band consciously emulated John Coltrane while composing their most important song. It might have behooved him a bit to understand that the considerable majority of even the most proficient jazz musicians are wary of drawing any sort of overt comparisons to Coltrane (mostly because the first thing it does is amplify the rather extreme divergence between the very good and the Great). And yet. Robby Krieger, through lessons and discipline, had developed a facility on the flamenco guitar before moving on to amplified blues, then rock; John Densmore received classical training and played in jazz bands for years; Manzarek too had classical training. Nevertheless, there is no shortage of musicians (in rock and even in jazz) who have all the technique and ambition in the world, but cannot craft truly original, irrevocable melodies. Only the most obstreperous haters will deny that, as a tune, “Light My Fire” is irresistible … at least the first million times.
Certainly, the first album contains some less essential moments, such as “Twentieth Century Fox”, “I Looked At You” and “Take It As It Comes”, but two covers (the aforementioned “Alabama Song”, and an improbably convincing rendition of the pretty much uncoverable Howlin’ Wolf’s “Back Door Man”) work in wonderful ways. Listen, again to “Back Door Man” and compare it to the paint-by-numbers pastiches of classic blues songs the Rolling Stones and the Beatles were attempting only a few years earlier. “End of the Night” is undeniably of its time, but still provides pleasure, particularly in its economy and the way it anticipates the expansive final track which, if not the Doors’ best song, is definitely among their most cherished and controversial. “The End” is the Doors’ “Stairway To Heaven”, the song that is the Dead Sea Scrolls for adolescent seekers: it entices and disorients not unlike the narcotic, agitating effect that Edgar Allan Poe’s stories initially have on young readers. Morrison’s stream of consciousness Götterdämmerung will incite debates until the sacred cows come home, but there can be no quarrel with the music. Manzarek and Krieger do some of their finest—if understated—work here, but it is Densmore’s passive-aggressive percussion that represents, certainly at the time of its recording, an apotheosis of sorts. It is scarcely conceivable how many psychedelic adventures this song has provided a soundtrack for, which is entirely appropriate considering that, according to legend, Morrison laid down his vocals (in two takes) while reeling from a particularly intense acid trip. Whatever else it may signify, “The End” is an ideal, inevitable coda, and one of the best closing songs on one of the very best rock albums.
Only the authority and influence of the first album keeps its follow-up somewhat in its shadow. More than a few fans, however, might insist that Strange Days is actually superior. Overall, the sophomore effort (also released in 1967) sounds more tied to its time, but as an artifact of that era, it holds its own all these years later. Not unlike the first album, Strange Days features an extended closing statement, the more straightforward but also more calculated (and less arresting) anthem “When The Music’s Over”. To its credit, the band did not ardently attempt to duplicate the formula that worked so well the first time around (not that this would have been possible anyway), and were willing, even eager, to take some risks. The results are mixed, but mostly very good and occasionally exceptional. For starters, the somewhat overproduced title track (with its dated echo effects on the vocal) might not catch LSD in a bottle like “Break On Through”, but it more than adequately conveys, lyrically and musically, a foreboding menace that anticipates the not-so-loving summer of ’68:
Strange eyes fill strange roomsVoices will signal their tired endThe hostess is grinningHer guests sleep from sinningHear me talk of sin and you know this is it.
Radio staples “People Are Strange” and “Love Me Two Times” are shadowy nuggets of tight, intelligent song craft: even after you’ve heard them each a thousand times (and who hasn’t?), they always deliver the goods. A trio of obscure gems make this album essential for the casual fan who thinks a greatest hits collection will suffice: “You’re Lost Little Girl” is a lithe ballad with propulsive choruses (it’s always a delight to hear Densmore elevate the energy at exactly the right moment with his cymbal rides and rim shots); “I Can’t See Your Face In My Mind” is one of the experiments that comes off spectacularly (the eastern vibe seems neither forced nor affected, no matter how much incense was probably obscuring the air during recording); “Unhappy Girl” has Manzarek mixing things up by overdubbing organ on top of a backing track playing backward. Oddly, it works. Perhaps the shining moment is the sublime “Moonlight Drive”, allegedly the song Morrison first sang to Manzarek on a beach in Venice before the band officially formed. It sounds like a ‘50s love song spun through a psychedelic wheel, with dirty bottleneck grounding it in the here and now (that being 1967 or 2007). And so, a little bit slighter, but quite solid, Strange Days remains an album everyone should own.
Love (or even tolerance) of the group’s next two albums is what separates the cautious Doors fans from the true believers: each is extremely brief with several throwaways and a handful of the band’s better moments. Waiting For the Sun is the one that almost never got made, discourtesy of Morrison’s now chronic capriciousness; the antics that bolstered his myth, but more often than not derailed the delicate act of making good music. The obvious example of this dynamic is epitomized by the song that is not on the album. An ambitious composition, “The Celebration of the Lizard”, based on a poem by Morrison, was intended to fill up an entire side of the album. For myriad reasons (Morrison’s histrionics in the studio, the inability to record songs when the singer didn’t bother making it to the studio, general lethargy and uninspired musical ideas), the band never came close to a worthwhile take, and fans would have to wait a couple of years to hear a version on Absolutely Live!. A section of the song survived, and based on the quality of “Not To Touch The Earth”, it might have been the group’s masterpiece.
Although it was a huge hit single, “Hello I Love You” is as close to bubblegum schlock as the Doors ever came (not to mention the rather blatant larceny of the Kinks’ “All Day and All the Night”), yet Morrison, even on a lightweight tune, could craft a dazzling line: “Sidewalk crouches at her feet / Like a dog that begs for something sweet”. “Love Street” is an enchanting love song that still injects the dark undercurrent the singer could seldom resist:
She has robes and she has monkeysLazy diamond studded flunkiesShe has wisdom and knows what to doShe has me and she has you.
More lyrical virtuosity appears on the short but astounding “Summer’s Almost Gone”—also one of Morrison’s better vocal performances:
Morning found us calmly unawareNoon burned gold into our hairAt night we swam the laughing seaWhen summer’s gone, where will we be?
A couple of fan favorites, “The Unknown Soldier” (which has not aged especially well) and “Five To One” (which has) conclude the first and second sides. In the end, not at all bad for a record that came dangerously close to imploding at the launch pad.
By 1969 Morrison, if not phoning it in, was otherwise preoccupied by more urgent matters of wine, women and sloth. As the rest of the band struggled to assemble the odds, ends, snippets and unfinished blueprints that would eventually become The Soft Parade, the front man applied himself to the full-time activity of mutating from Adonis to Falstaff, having (mostly) eschewed acid for alcohol. Krieger, who had quietly contributed several songs to the last two albums, stepped up and wrote lyrics for half the tunes this time out. (People tend to forget, if they ever actually knew, that even on the earlier albums, many of the singles came from Krieger’s pen: he co-wrote “Light My Fire”, not to mention “Love Me Two Times”. For iThe Soft Parade, he supplied “Touch Me”, making him the de-facto hit maker of the group). Still, despite Krieger’s admirable enthusiasm—or survival instinct—the band missed Morrison’s inimitable edge:
Come on take me by the handGonna bury all our trouble in the sand.(from “Tell All The People”—Krieger)
The mask that you woreMy fingers will exploreThe costume of controlExcitement soon unfolds.(from “Easy Ride”—Morrison)
Or,
Wishful sinful, our love is beautiful to seeI know where I would like to be …(from “Wishful Sinful”—Krieger)
The lights are getting brighterThe radio is moaningCalling to the dogsThere are still a few animalsLeft out in the yardBut it’s getting harderTo describeSailorsTo the underfed.(from “The Soft Parade”—Morrison)
And yet, uneven as this one is, like the previous album there are some beauties. “Wild Child” is as close to perfection as the Doors got between their first and last album, featuring Krieger’s effortlessly smooth slide guitar, and some of Densmore’s most cocksure, kickass drumming. Arguably, the elastic essence of what often set the Doors slightly apart from the pack is represented by what is probably the most unfamiliar track, “Do It”. To say it is lyrically thin is beneficent, but the authority of Morrison’s vocals—mostly repeating “Please, please listen to me, children”—is exhilarating (and special kudos must be offered to long-suffering perfectionist Paul Rothchild: he had produced all the albums thus far, and uses the studio brilliantly here to capture a clean sound, particularly on Densmore’s drums, and always augmenting Morrison’s range, bringing out all the warmth he could wring out of his vocal takes. Another way of putting it is to say he made Morrison sound like he could actually sing, something not in abundant display on the live albums).
The title track, a cut and paste job of previously uncompleted shreds and fragments, manages to be messy, embarrassing and brilliant, sometimes all at once. Take it or leave it, no other band would ever conclude a song with the words, “When all fails we can whip the horse’s eyes / And make them sleep, and cry”. In between accelerated turns in his coffin, Dostoyevsky had to grin at least a little bit. To be certain, this is a trillion light years from “Soul Kitchen” or “People Are Strange”, but the horns and strings and somewhat indulgent envelope-pushing prove that the Doors were anything but a self imitating machine. Like any other group that endures through successive generations, their songs have an authentic, instantly identifiable sound; even when—as is often the case—the actual songs sound nothing alike. Untalented opportunists have sold their souls for much less, and in fact are doing so right now on prime time TV.
Morrison Hotel was, rightly, lauded as a stunning return to form, although that appraisal is only halfway accurate. It was a return to the days when the Doors put out unreservedly great records, but Morrison Hotel is nothing at all like its predecessors. A stripped down, blues-flavored affair, the entire band is on fire, with Krieger continuing to make a case for being perhaps the most under appreciated guitarist in a major rock group. From the moment this sucker hit the streets, one needed only a cursory glance at the revealing band photo spread out across the inside foldout cover (for those who can recall that album covers were minor works of art in their own right; for those who can recall albums): in a bar, sporting casual threads, surrounded by cigarette smoking, unpretentious patrons, this is a group that had lived a little but was still alive.
If the first two Doors albums are drugs, they’d be of the decidedly psychedelic variety; the next couple are a dangerous cocktail of amphetamines and Quaaludes—highs and lows surging in an uneasy rush. Morrison Hotel is beer: authentic, unfiltered, as American as it gets. Plain and simple, some of the band’s most indispensable material appears on this one, and the tone is set with ballsy assurance on the familiar opener, “Roadhouse Blues”. It is the next song, however, that showcases what this new and improved model sounded like. “Waiting for the Sun” is ominous, yet inviting; there are traces of the psychedelic fog, mostly thanks to Manzarek, but it’s Krieger and Densmore (along with raw and refreshingly live-sounding vocals from Morrison) that propel this song into a new decade. Significantly, the band finally had the wherewithal to complete a track intended to appear on the earlier album that bore its name.
Even the ostensibly expendable numbers are bristling with a rediscovered energy. For instance, Manzarek is all over the ivories on “You Make Me Real” and, again, Morrison sounds like he not only showed up, but he actually cares. When, toward the end of the song, he recalls “Roadhouse Blues” with the reprised shout of “Let it roll baby roll”, there is no mistaking the purpose, and this most undemonstrative of bands seems to actually be enjoying themselves. Perhaps this is too much of a good thing, as the lame closer “Maggie M’Gill” represents one of the band’s weakest moments, and “Land Ho!” is so-so. It’s the kind of track that, if initially left off the album and “rediscovered” for a subsequent box set, would be a delight. On the other hand, the effortless synergy of a band clicking on all cylinders is in full effect on “Queen of the Highway”. If the brief, bittersweet “Indian Summer” uncannily conjures up the sound and feel from the first album, this is understandable since it was actually recorded in 1966 (an outtake from that album, this early—and amazing—love song’s subtle nod to “The End” is more obvious, and poignant considering it came first).
Special mention must be made of those indispensable songs. “Peace Frog” alone should satisfy either the curious or the unconvinced that Robbie Krieger is a bad man. These are indelible riffs from a man who grew up listening to old school blues and was helping author the codebook of rock and roll, still very much a work in progress at that point. Likewise, for anyone who insists Morrison can’t sing, cue up “Blue Sunday” (which “Peace Frog” segues seamlessly into), and stop resisting. Finally, the definitive track, and the one that pointed the way to the road ahead, is “The Spy”. A straight up, slow blues, Krieger and Densmore hang back like bar band veterans and allow Manzarek to do his thing. For folks who associate Manzarek with the alternately dated and occasionally clumsy-sounding organ, it might be a surprise to hear how authentic and authoritative his piano touch still sounds (and perhaps you’ll even catch yourself wishing he had employed it a bit more often before and after this particular album). Like “Indian Summer”, this one could be quite effective as an instrumental, but it happens to boast one of Morrison’s finest vocal performances. It almost seems, in retrospect, that in 1967, Morrison tapped into potential even he didn’t realize he had, and then spent a few years struggling—and at times, understandably paralyzed—to meet the inevitable expectations (at best) or avoid copying his younger self (at worst). Here, he finds a newer voice, the voice his body and brain had grown into, and it’s almost unthinkable that the old soul singing had recently turned 26.
If Morrison Hotel served as an unequivocal acknowledgment that the ‘60s were over (on multiple levels, not least of which the literal one), then L.A. Woman is another stride toward the future. It remains more than a little tantalizing to conjecture what, and how much, ammunition the band had up their collective sleeves, but judging solely on the increasing quality of their final two recordings, it is reasonable to lament some spectacular music that never had the opportunity to get made. Of course, it wouldn’t be a Doors album without some drama. This time, producer Paul Rothchild decided the band was a spent force, or, he had done all he could do to wrangle what he felt were acceptable versions of the assembled works in progress. Based solely on the strength of the eventual results, one wonders what he was thinking. In an inspired move based mostly on necessity, the band rallied around longtime engineer Bruce Botnick and decided to record the album pretty much live in the studio. What happened next could be a combination of luck, skill and the innate advantages of a band operating like a family, but whatever it was, the songs recall what worked so well on Morrison Hotel but also go places the band had not come close to approaching thus far. One obvious difference was the group’s employment of an actual bassist (Jerry Scheff) as well as a rhythm guitarist (Marc Benno); where the band had utilized session bassists on and off, it’s no coincidence that the meatier, bluesier sound is directly attributable to these welcome additions.
Krieger, the one-man hit machine, is back with “Love Her Madly” which, like “Love Me Two Times”, is a perfectly constructed pop confection that never gets stale. Two “fat Jim” songs feature raw vocals that turn to actual hollers and screams at times. To belabor an earlier point, Morrison sounds about a hundred years older than he did only a few years before, but his voice, and lyrics, have evolved with the band meeting him halfway. This singer would bludgeon the earlier material, but the young lion could never have gotten his paws around a song like “The Changeling”: “I had money, I had none / But I never been so broke that I couldn’t leave town”. On “Been Down So Long”, Morrison and Krieger sound raw, even angry, it’s a clever desperation that balances exhaustion and release. A dubious selection makes for the only false note: a lazy and half-assed obliteration of John Lee Hooker’s “Crawling King Snake”, which should have been left at the lake with the other snake. (Quick fantasy: if they had held onto “The Spy”, and put that in the exact same spot as “Crawling King Snake”, and—if you really want to kick it up a notch—they swapped “Been Down So Long” for “Peace Frog/Blue Sunday”, L.A. Woman would go from being a great album to the short list of rock masterpieces.)
Solid departures like “L’America” and “The Wasp (Texas Radio and the Big Beat)” provide further indications of the different, and desirable, direction the band might have continued to travel toward, and the startling vulnerability (the Lizard King was human, after all) of “Hyacinth House” assumes an added poignancy considering Morrison would not be alive to listen to this album:
Why did you throw the Jack of Hearts away?It was the only card in the deck that I had left to playAnd I’ll say it again, I need a brand new friendAnd I’ll say it again, I need a brand new friend, the end.
One of the great one-two punches in the Doors’ catalog concludes side one: “Cars Hiss By My Window” is arguably the band’s best song that no one has heard:
Headlights through my window, shinin’ on the wallCan’t hear my baby, though I call and call …Windows started trembling with a sonic boomA cold girl will kill you, in a darkened room.
If you gave Lightnin’ Hopkins a lot of acid, he might have sounded something like this: lower than mellow, aged way beyond his years, but still seeing the sweetness and the humor and mostly telling it like it is. As straightforward as this song is, it is deceptively deep and reveals the considerable dividends of Scheff and Benno’s presence. Morrison’s human guitar howl at the end of the song sets up a sublime segue into what might be the band’s ultimate song. The title track is not as long or loquacious as the epics that closed out the first two albums, and while it is every bit as dark, it is also accessible and direct, a love letter and farewell note to the city the singer embodied:
I see your hair is burningHills are filled with fireIf they say I never loved youYou know they are a liar …Are you a lucky little lady in the City of LightOr just another lost angel … City of Night.
Morrison captured L.A. for the ages, and notably, he did not need to status-check at the Chateau Marmont to conjure it up. The city was in his blood: it was the back-alley bars, rat-trap hotels and squalid side streets that he prowled, equal parts inspiration and escape. So much dissipated potential, to be certain, but it’s also reasonable to suggest that his accelerated stretch in the spotlight enabled him to write the songs on L. A. Woman, not unlike Malcolm Lowry’s extended period of self destruction instigated Under the Volcano.
Finally, while the Doors, obviously, did not realize this would be their last album, could any band ask for a more perfect finale than “Riders On the Storm”? If “L.A. Woman” depicts the claustrophobic, corrupted city of angels, “Riders On the Storm” takes on the big questions: Who are we? Why are we here? Where are we going? Perhaps the definitive marriage of music and words, this song could be an intriguing poem and a first-rate instrumental piece, but Morrison’s mellow, mature vocals (the decision to whisper the lyrics over the recorded take is an expert move) and Manzarek’s trickling rain on the keyboards make this, by any criteria, a stunner:
Riders on the stormInto this house we’re bornInto this world we’re thrownLike a dog without a boneAn actor out on loanRiders on the storm.
There will always be plenty of speculation about how much more Morrison could have done, what he might have achieved, what other things he had to say. On the other hand, looking back on the way he left things, what more needed to be said?
Addendum: Behind The Music or, Detritus, Destruction and Resurrection
A few thoughts regarding these remasters, which are advertised as “40th Anniversary Mixes”. Enticement: the entire Doors catalog—all six studio albums—have been remastered, again, and given the lavish liner note treatment to commemorate the four decades since the debut album. Warning: these albums have been tampered with (hence, remixed) in ways that may be refreshing or sacrilegious, depending upon one’s perspective. Verdict: it is a bit of both, mostly good. These remixes are, in the words of the man primarily responsible (then and now) for engineering/producing them, “The Doors, as they were originally intended to be heard!”
We are all, by now, accustomed to the inevitable re-releases, with studio banter and false starts: they are advertised as such, obviously designed with the more passionate fans in mind. On the other hand, some caveat emptor action is applicable in this instance. Any prospective shopper should be fairly warned that the discs have been remastered and remixed, so these won’t sound like the albums you grew up with. (For those who are not aware, the initial pressing of compact discs, from the mid ‘80s, were properly redone in the late ‘90s via straight-up digital remastering that removed hiss and improved audio quality). In his breathless liner notes, Botnick alerts us to his (our?) revelation that the first Doors album has, for the last 40 years, been pressed at the wrong speed (!) Listen: “When the album was mixed at Elektra studios … either the four-track playback recorder was running slow or the stereo two-track was running fast.” And all these years I thought Iwas the only one who had noticed this! My guess is that the same people who will be flabbergasted by this development are the same folks who swear they can hear discernible warmth emanating from their system’s $600 gold plated connecting cables.
Sound aside—and the remastering job is, for the most part, an improvement in terms of clarity and instrumental balance—it’s the “bonus” material that fans will likely love or hate. If, for instance, you think it’s cool to actually hear Morrison sing “She get high” instead of “She get …” (was I the only person who, for many years, thought he was saying “Seek it”?), and can dig all the “fucks” restored to the, uh, climactic section of “The End”, then these reissues might, in the (actual) words of Mr. Botnick, “possibly change your life!” Interestingly, the first time the “fuck” version of “The End” was unleashed was during the powerful and disturbing opening scene of Apocalypse Now. This is more than a little ironic, because Botnick’s (and the remaining band members, who are not on record as having raised any objections) rationale painfully recalls Francis Ford Coppola’s insistance, upon reissuing his extended, bloated vision (Apocalypse Now Redux), that this was the real film in all its glory. Needless to say, it is entirely appropriate if the artist decides, decades later, that certain mistakes, false starts and excesses initially edited out deserve (demand!) to be resurrected. But that does not mean it improves the material; indeed, as we now see quite often with posthumous novels-in-progress (or worse, ones the author trashed for good reasons), alternate takes of old songs and director’s cut material (the latter two at least added as bonus material so as to not sully the initial versions that audiences are familiar with), there can be too much of a good thing.
Suffice it to say, similar sorts of embellishments exist on all of these reissues. Some are intriguing, some are appalling, and several are so incredibly ill-conceived you literally aren’t sure if you should laugh or sob. Again, assuming you are the type of fan who wants to hear snatches of lyrics or notes that didn’t make the first cut, it’s worth checking out these versions. For the first four albums, the slightly cleaner sound is a plus, especially on Waiting for the Sun and The Soft Parade. Of these two, Waiting for the Sun is probably the best bet, as the clarity is quite noticeable, but the bonus material includes the previously unreleased demo of “The Celebration of the Lizard”. Don’t get too excited: for anyone who has long wondered whether or not this song was meant to be the Doors’ magnum opus, the material here does little to make a case for it. The version on Absolutely Live! is half-decent, so between that and the polished section that became “Not to Touch the Earth”, it was not unreasonable to hope this song should have been among the band’s best—a genuinely tantalizing thought. Sadly, based on the take that survives, it’s not merely a work in progress, it’s a mess.
On the other hand, Morrison Hotel has bountiful bonus material—most of which is various takes of “Roadhouse Blues” under construction; they are interesting the first time around, but unlikely to inspire repeat listens. More importantly, this one is too slick by a half, rendering a raw, dirty classic straitjacketed into pristine submission. Finally, L.A. Woman provides a bit of a conundrum: moderately improved sound, but do you want to have anyone tampering with perfection? (Wait until you hear what they’ve done to “Cars Hiss By My Window”.) Lest anyone think, understandably, that I’m advising against picking up these reissues, remember that I’ve had the benefit of listening to them. In conclusion, I know I would not have taken anyone else’s opinion too seriously until I’d heard them for myself.
The Doors: Open for Business (Again)
If the first two Doors albums are drugs, they’d be of the decidedly psychedelic variety; the next couple are a dangerous cocktail of amphetamines and Quaaludes. Morrison Hotel is beer: authentic, unfiltered, as American as it gets. L.A. Woman manages to be all of the above.
by Sean Murphy
Ten days, ten thousand dollars. That is the time and money required to craft one of rock music’s significant debut albums. If the Doors had simply disbanded after their eponymous first effort, they would unquestionably hold a sacrosanct space in the ‘60s canon. Recorded around the same time as Sgt. Pepper (not after, which is noteworthy), The Doors helped establish the possibility that a rock and roll album could—and should—be a complete, fully-formed statement. If, inevitably, this raising of the artistic bar inexorably led to unwelcome excesses, such as the progressive rock “concept album” in the early-to-mid ‘70s, it also elevated the music from the short, fluff-filled releases of the early-to-mid ‘60s.
How did it happen?
First and foremost, so much ink gets spilled rehashing and aggrandizing the living legend of the Lizard King that it is, unfortunately, easy to overlook the certainty that the Doors were a first-rate band capable of creating incredible music. And they did: the often exceptional compositions were not conjured up from the bong water—all three of the musicians (Ray Manzarek played keyboards, Robbie Krieger played guitar and John Densmore played drums) were trained players with experience, reaching across classical, jazz, folk and blues. (A more extensive analysis of Jim Morrison’s ceaselessly controversial status as a poet was recently undertaken and can be found here).
A propitious way to create a near perfect album is to begin with an indelible opening salvo, and “Break on Through”, the first song and first single, still sounds fresh and essential 40 years later. This song delivers in every way: a signature sound (nothing else, then or now, sounds anything like this) and an urgency that balances aggression and acumen, in under three minutes. In terms of influence, it should suffice to say that the testimonials from bands in subsequent generations are numerous, and from a historical perspective, this dark but dynamic concision anticipates punk rock every bit as much as, say, the Velvet Underground.
Admittedly, “Light My Fire”—the second single and the one that actually broke them through, topping the charts in the infamous Summer of Love—reverberates, today, with more of that free-love vibe (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but the incredible trifecta that kicks off the proceedings remains remarkably, even improbably edgy and unique. Again, no other band made music that sounded like this and it is, to a large degree, attributable to Ray Manzarek, who, in addition to piano and organ, handled the role of bassist, utilizing his Fender Rhodes piano bass (on later albums the band would indulge themselves with the services of a session bassist, but on most of the early albums Manzarek did double duty). His versatility is on full display throughout these first three songs, and nowhere is his handiwork better represented than on the third track, “The Crystal Ship”: his restrained, often ethereal organ sound is always the water that the rest of the band could cook with, while his discerning, almost elegant, turn at the piano provides cerebral counterpoint.
A few more remarks about Manzarek: up to this point (and, to a large extent, outside of the mellotron mini-revolution pioneered by King Crimson and the Moody Blues in the late ‘60s, and the keyboards so essential to most progressive rock acts like Yes, Jethro Tull and Genesis in the early ‘70s) organ music was—and remains—generally relegated to the sideline on the rare occasions it appears at all. Certain groups might employ the use of an organ for one of their mellow or somber songs, but bringing an organ to the forefront was an original, and risky undertaking. Aside from the piano/organ interplay, Manzarek consistently creates different sounds with his instrument. At times he opts for funky and cool (“Soul Kitchen” or “I Looked at You”), other times carnivalesque (the group’s spirited cover of Brecht and Weill’s “Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)”, or “Take It As It Comes”), and occasionally jazzy. Although any mention of this causes supercilious purists to puke, there is no getting around the reality that those extended and groundbreaking solos in “Light My Fire” were modeled, in part, on the standard improvised chord changes of bebop.
Let’s face it, one reason it is so easy, even imperative, to poke fun at the Doors is because Manzarek himself, who has been anything but tongue-tied in interviews over the years, seems entirely too eager to elucidate the ways in which the band consciously emulated John Coltrane while composing their most important song. It might have behooved him a bit to understand that the considerable majority of even the most proficient jazz musicians are wary of drawing any sort of overt comparisons to Coltrane (mostly because the first thing it does is amplify the rather extreme divergence between the very good and the Great). And yet. Robby Krieger, through lessons and discipline, had developed a facility on the flamenco guitar before moving on to amplified blues, then rock; John Densmore received classical training and played in jazz bands for years; Manzarek too had classical training. Nevertheless, there is no shortage of musicians (in rock and even in jazz) who have all the technique and ambition in the world, but cannot craft truly original, irrevocable melodies. Only the most obstreperous haters will deny that, as a tune, “Light My Fire” is irresistible … at least the first million times.
Certainly, the first album contains some less essential moments, such as “Twentieth Century Fox”, “I Looked At You” and “Take It As It Comes”, but two covers (the aforementioned “Alabama Song”, and an improbably convincing rendition of the pretty much uncoverable Howlin’ Wolf’s “Back Door Man”) work in wonderful ways. Listen, again to “Back Door Man” and compare it to the paint-by-numbers pastiches of classic blues songs the Rolling Stones and the Beatles were attempting only a few years earlier. “End of the Night” is undeniably of its time, but still provides pleasure, particularly in its economy and the way it anticipates the expansive final track which, if not the Doors’ best song, is definitely among their most cherished and controversial. “The End” is the Doors’ “Stairway To Heaven”, the song that is the Dead Sea Scrolls for adolescent seekers: it entices and disorients not unlike the narcotic, agitating effect that Edgar Allan Poe’s stories initially have on young readers. Morrison’s stream of consciousness Götterdämmerung will incite debates until the sacred cows come home, but there can be no quarrel with the music. Manzarek and Krieger do some of their finest—if understated—work here, but it is Densmore’s passive-aggressive percussion that represents, certainly at the time of its recording, an apotheosis of sorts. It is scarcely conceivable how many psychedelic adventures this song has provided a soundtrack for, which is entirely appropriate considering that, according to legend, Morrison laid down his vocals (in two takes) while reeling from a particularly intense acid trip. Whatever else it may signify, “The End” is an ideal, inevitable coda, and one of the best closing songs on one of the very best rock albums.
Only the authority and influence of the first album keeps its follow-up somewhat in its shadow. More than a few fans, however, might insist that Strange Days is actually superior. Overall, the sophomore effort (also released in 1967) sounds more tied to its time, but as an artifact of that era, it holds its own all these years later. Not unlike the first album, Strange Days features an extended closing statement, the more straightforward but also more calculated (and less arresting) anthem “When The Music’s Over”. To its credit, the band did not ardently attempt to duplicate the formula that worked so well the first time around (not that this would have been possible anyway), and were willing, even eager, to take some risks. The results are mixed, but mostly very good and occasionally exceptional. For starters, the somewhat overproduced title track (with its dated echo effects on the vocal) might not catch LSD in a bottle like “Break On Through”, but it more than adequately conveys, lyrically and musically, a foreboding menace that anticipates the not-so-loving summer of ’68:
Strange eyes fill strange roomsVoices will signal their tired endThe hostess is grinningHer guests sleep from sinningHear me talk of sin and you know this is it.
Radio staples “People Are Strange” and “Love Me Two Times” are shadowy nuggets of tight, intelligent song craft: even after you’ve heard them each a thousand times (and who hasn’t?), they always deliver the goods. A trio of obscure gems make this album essential for the casual fan who thinks a greatest hits collection will suffice: “You’re Lost Little Girl” is a lithe ballad with propulsive choruses (it’s always a delight to hear Densmore elevate the energy at exactly the right moment with his cymbal rides and rim shots); “I Can’t See Your Face In My Mind” is one of the experiments that comes off spectacularly (the eastern vibe seems neither forced nor affected, no matter how much incense was probably obscuring the air during recording); “Unhappy Girl” has Manzarek mixing things up by overdubbing organ on top of a backing track playing backward. Oddly, it works. Perhaps the shining moment is the sublime “Moonlight Drive”, allegedly the song Morrison first sang to Manzarek on a beach in Venice before the band officially formed. It sounds like a ‘50s love song spun through a psychedelic wheel, with dirty bottleneck grounding it in the here and now (that being 1967 or 2007). And so, a little bit slighter, but quite solid, Strange Days remains an album everyone should own.
Love (or even tolerance) of the group’s next two albums is what separates the cautious Doors fans from the true believers: each is extremely brief with several throwaways and a handful of the band’s better moments. Waiting For the Sun is the one that almost never got made, discourtesy of Morrison’s now chronic capriciousness; the antics that bolstered his myth, but more often than not derailed the delicate act of making good music. The obvious example of this dynamic is epitomized by the song that is not on the album. An ambitious composition, “The Celebration of the Lizard”, based on a poem by Morrison, was intended to fill up an entire side of the album. For myriad reasons (Morrison’s histrionics in the studio, the inability to record songs when the singer didn’t bother making it to the studio, general lethargy and uninspired musical ideas), the band never came close to a worthwhile take, and fans would have to wait a couple of years to hear a version on Absolutely Live!. A section of the song survived, and based on the quality of “Not To Touch The Earth”, it might have been the group’s masterpiece.
Although it was a huge hit single, “Hello I Love You” is as close to bubblegum schlock as the Doors ever came (not to mention the rather blatant larceny of the Kinks’ “All Day and All the Night”), yet Morrison, even on a lightweight tune, could craft a dazzling line: “Sidewalk crouches at her feet / Like a dog that begs for something sweet”. “Love Street” is an enchanting love song that still injects the dark undercurrent the singer could seldom resist:
She has robes and she has monkeysLazy diamond studded flunkiesShe has wisdom and knows what to doShe has me and she has you.
More lyrical virtuosity appears on the short but astounding “Summer’s Almost Gone”—also one of Morrison’s better vocal performances:
Morning found us calmly unawareNoon burned gold into our hairAt night we swam the laughing seaWhen summer’s gone, where will we be?
A couple of fan favorites, “The Unknown Soldier” (which has not aged especially well) and “Five To One” (which has) conclude the first and second sides. In the end, not at all bad for a record that came dangerously close to imploding at the launch pad.
By 1969 Morrison, if not phoning it in, was otherwise preoccupied by more urgent matters of wine, women and sloth. As the rest of the band struggled to assemble the odds, ends, snippets and unfinished blueprints that would eventually become The Soft Parade, the front man applied himself to the full-time activity of mutating from Adonis to Falstaff, having (mostly) eschewed acid for alcohol. Krieger, who had quietly contributed several songs to the last two albums, stepped up and wrote lyrics for half the tunes this time out. (People tend to forget, if they ever actually knew, that even on the earlier albums, many of the singles came from Krieger’s pen: he co-wrote “Light My Fire”, not to mention “Love Me Two Times”. For iThe Soft Parade, he supplied “Touch Me”, making him the de-facto hit maker of the group). Still, despite Krieger’s admirable enthusiasm—or survival instinct—the band missed Morrison’s inimitable edge:
Come on take me by the handGonna bury all our trouble in the sand.(from “Tell All The People”—Krieger)
The mask that you woreMy fingers will exploreThe costume of controlExcitement soon unfolds.(from “Easy Ride”—Morrison)
Or,
Wishful sinful, our love is beautiful to seeI know where I would like to be …(from “Wishful Sinful”—Krieger)
The lights are getting brighterThe radio is moaningCalling to the dogsThere are still a few animalsLeft out in the yardBut it’s getting harderTo describeSailorsTo the underfed.(from “The Soft Parade”—Morrison)
And yet, uneven as this one is, like the previous album there are some beauties. “Wild Child” is as close to perfection as the Doors got between their first and last album, featuring Krieger’s effortlessly smooth slide guitar, and some of Densmore’s most cocksure, kickass drumming. Arguably, the elastic essence of what often set the Doors slightly apart from the pack is represented by what is probably the most unfamiliar track, “Do It”. To say it is lyrically thin is beneficent, but the authority of Morrison’s vocals—mostly repeating “Please, please listen to me, children”—is exhilarating (and special kudos must be offered to long-suffering perfectionist Paul Rothchild: he had produced all the albums thus far, and uses the studio brilliantly here to capture a clean sound, particularly on Densmore’s drums, and always augmenting Morrison’s range, bringing out all the warmth he could wring out of his vocal takes. Another way of putting it is to say he made Morrison sound like he could actually sing, something not in abundant display on the live albums).
The title track, a cut and paste job of previously uncompleted shreds and fragments, manages to be messy, embarrassing and brilliant, sometimes all at once. Take it or leave it, no other band would ever conclude a song with the words, “When all fails we can whip the horse’s eyes / And make them sleep, and cry”. In between accelerated turns in his coffin, Dostoyevsky had to grin at least a little bit. To be certain, this is a trillion light years from “Soul Kitchen” or “People Are Strange”, but the horns and strings and somewhat indulgent envelope-pushing prove that the Doors were anything but a self imitating machine. Like any other group that endures through successive generations, their songs have an authentic, instantly identifiable sound; even when—as is often the case—the actual songs sound nothing alike. Untalented opportunists have sold their souls for much less, and in fact are doing so right now on prime time TV.
Morrison Hotel was, rightly, lauded as a stunning return to form, although that appraisal is only halfway accurate. It was a return to the days when the Doors put out unreservedly great records, but Morrison Hotel is nothing at all like its predecessors. A stripped down, blues-flavored affair, the entire band is on fire, with Krieger continuing to make a case for being perhaps the most under appreciated guitarist in a major rock group. From the moment this sucker hit the streets, one needed only a cursory glance at the revealing band photo spread out across the inside foldout cover (for those who can recall that album covers were minor works of art in their own right; for those who can recall albums): in a bar, sporting casual threads, surrounded by cigarette smoking, unpretentious patrons, this is a group that had lived a little but was still alive.
If the first two Doors albums are drugs, they’d be of the decidedly psychedelic variety; the next couple are a dangerous cocktail of amphetamines and Quaaludes—highs and lows surging in an uneasy rush. Morrison Hotel is beer: authentic, unfiltered, as American as it gets. Plain and simple, some of the band’s most indispensable material appears on this one, and the tone is set with ballsy assurance on the familiar opener, “Roadhouse Blues”. It is the next song, however, that showcases what this new and improved model sounded like. “Waiting for the Sun” is ominous, yet inviting; there are traces of the psychedelic fog, mostly thanks to Manzarek, but it’s Krieger and Densmore (along with raw and refreshingly live-sounding vocals from Morrison) that propel this song into a new decade. Significantly, the band finally had the wherewithal to complete a track intended to appear on the earlier album that bore its name.
Even the ostensibly expendable numbers are bristling with a rediscovered energy. For instance, Manzarek is all over the ivories on “You Make Me Real” and, again, Morrison sounds like he not only showed up, but he actually cares. When, toward the end of the song, he recalls “Roadhouse Blues” with the reprised shout of “Let it roll baby roll”, there is no mistaking the purpose, and this most undemonstrative of bands seems to actually be enjoying themselves. Perhaps this is too much of a good thing, as the lame closer “Maggie M’Gill” represents one of the band’s weakest moments, and “Land Ho!” is so-so. It’s the kind of track that, if initially left off the album and “rediscovered” for a subsequent box set, would be a delight. On the other hand, the effortless synergy of a band clicking on all cylinders is in full effect on “Queen of the Highway”. If the brief, bittersweet “Indian Summer” uncannily conjures up the sound and feel from the first album, this is understandable since it was actually recorded in 1966 (an outtake from that album, this early—and amazing—love song’s subtle nod to “The End” is more obvious, and poignant considering it came first).
Special mention must be made of those indispensable songs. “Peace Frog” alone should satisfy either the curious or the unconvinced that Robbie Krieger is a bad man. These are indelible riffs from a man who grew up listening to old school blues and was helping author the codebook of rock and roll, still very much a work in progress at that point. Likewise, for anyone who insists Morrison can’t sing, cue up “Blue Sunday” (which “Peace Frog” segues seamlessly into), and stop resisting. Finally, the definitive track, and the one that pointed the way to the road ahead, is “The Spy”. A straight up, slow blues, Krieger and Densmore hang back like bar band veterans and allow Manzarek to do his thing. For folks who associate Manzarek with the alternately dated and occasionally clumsy-sounding organ, it might be a surprise to hear how authentic and authoritative his piano touch still sounds (and perhaps you’ll even catch yourself wishing he had employed it a bit more often before and after this particular album). Like “Indian Summer”, this one could be quite effective as an instrumental, but it happens to boast one of Morrison’s finest vocal performances. It almost seems, in retrospect, that in 1967, Morrison tapped into potential even he didn’t realize he had, and then spent a few years struggling—and at times, understandably paralyzed—to meet the inevitable expectations (at best) or avoid copying his younger self (at worst). Here, he finds a newer voice, the voice his body and brain had grown into, and it’s almost unthinkable that the old soul singing had recently turned 26.
If Morrison Hotel served as an unequivocal acknowledgment that the ‘60s were over (on multiple levels, not least of which the literal one), then L.A. Woman is another stride toward the future. It remains more than a little tantalizing to conjecture what, and how much, ammunition the band had up their collective sleeves, but judging solely on the increasing quality of their final two recordings, it is reasonable to lament some spectacular music that never had the opportunity to get made. Of course, it wouldn’t be a Doors album without some drama. This time, producer Paul Rothchild decided the band was a spent force, or, he had done all he could do to wrangle what he felt were acceptable versions of the assembled works in progress. Based solely on the strength of the eventual results, one wonders what he was thinking. In an inspired move based mostly on necessity, the band rallied around longtime engineer Bruce Botnick and decided to record the album pretty much live in the studio. What happened next could be a combination of luck, skill and the innate advantages of a band operating like a family, but whatever it was, the songs recall what worked so well on Morrison Hotel but also go places the band had not come close to approaching thus far. One obvious difference was the group’s employment of an actual bassist (Jerry Scheff) as well as a rhythm guitarist (Marc Benno); where the band had utilized session bassists on and off, it’s no coincidence that the meatier, bluesier sound is directly attributable to these welcome additions.
Krieger, the one-man hit machine, is back with “Love Her Madly” which, like “Love Me Two Times”, is a perfectly constructed pop confection that never gets stale. Two “fat Jim” songs feature raw vocals that turn to actual hollers and screams at times. To belabor an earlier point, Morrison sounds about a hundred years older than he did only a few years before, but his voice, and lyrics, have evolved with the band meeting him halfway. This singer would bludgeon the earlier material, but the young lion could never have gotten his paws around a song like “The Changeling”: “I had money, I had none / But I never been so broke that I couldn’t leave town”. On “Been Down So Long”, Morrison and Krieger sound raw, even angry, it’s a clever desperation that balances exhaustion and release. A dubious selection makes for the only false note: a lazy and half-assed obliteration of John Lee Hooker’s “Crawling King Snake”, which should have been left at the lake with the other snake. (Quick fantasy: if they had held onto “The Spy”, and put that in the exact same spot as “Crawling King Snake”, and—if you really want to kick it up a notch—they swapped “Been Down So Long” for “Peace Frog/Blue Sunday”, L.A. Woman would go from being a great album to the short list of rock masterpieces.)
Solid departures like “L’America” and “The Wasp (Texas Radio and the Big Beat)” provide further indications of the different, and desirable, direction the band might have continued to travel toward, and the startling vulnerability (the Lizard King was human, after all) of “Hyacinth House” assumes an added poignancy considering Morrison would not be alive to listen to this album:
Why did you throw the Jack of Hearts away?It was the only card in the deck that I had left to playAnd I’ll say it again, I need a brand new friendAnd I’ll say it again, I need a brand new friend, the end.
One of the great one-two punches in the Doors’ catalog concludes side one: “Cars Hiss By My Window” is arguably the band’s best song that no one has heard:
Headlights through my window, shinin’ on the wallCan’t hear my baby, though I call and call …Windows started trembling with a sonic boomA cold girl will kill you, in a darkened room.
If you gave Lightnin’ Hopkins a lot of acid, he might have sounded something like this: lower than mellow, aged way beyond his years, but still seeing the sweetness and the humor and mostly telling it like it is. As straightforward as this song is, it is deceptively deep and reveals the considerable dividends of Scheff and Benno’s presence. Morrison’s human guitar howl at the end of the song sets up a sublime segue into what might be the band’s ultimate song. The title track is not as long or loquacious as the epics that closed out the first two albums, and while it is every bit as dark, it is also accessible and direct, a love letter and farewell note to the city the singer embodied:
I see your hair is burningHills are filled with fireIf they say I never loved youYou know they are a liar …Are you a lucky little lady in the City of LightOr just another lost angel … City of Night.
Morrison captured L.A. for the ages, and notably, he did not need to status-check at the Chateau Marmont to conjure it up. The city was in his blood: it was the back-alley bars, rat-trap hotels and squalid side streets that he prowled, equal parts inspiration and escape. So much dissipated potential, to be certain, but it’s also reasonable to suggest that his accelerated stretch in the spotlight enabled him to write the songs on L. A. Woman, not unlike Malcolm Lowry’s extended period of self destruction instigated Under the Volcano.
Finally, while the Doors, obviously, did not realize this would be their last album, could any band ask for a more perfect finale than “Riders On the Storm”? If “L.A. Woman” depicts the claustrophobic, corrupted city of angels, “Riders On the Storm” takes on the big questions: Who are we? Why are we here? Where are we going? Perhaps the definitive marriage of music and words, this song could be an intriguing poem and a first-rate instrumental piece, but Morrison’s mellow, mature vocals (the decision to whisper the lyrics over the recorded take is an expert move) and Manzarek’s trickling rain on the keyboards make this, by any criteria, a stunner:
Riders on the stormInto this house we’re bornInto this world we’re thrownLike a dog without a boneAn actor out on loanRiders on the storm.
There will always be plenty of speculation about how much more Morrison could have done, what he might have achieved, what other things he had to say. On the other hand, looking back on the way he left things, what more needed to be said?
Addendum: Behind The Music or, Detritus, Destruction and Resurrection
A few thoughts regarding these remasters, which are advertised as “40th Anniversary Mixes”. Enticement: the entire Doors catalog—all six studio albums—have been remastered, again, and given the lavish liner note treatment to commemorate the four decades since the debut album. Warning: these albums have been tampered with (hence, remixed) in ways that may be refreshing or sacrilegious, depending upon one’s perspective. Verdict: it is a bit of both, mostly good. These remixes are, in the words of the man primarily responsible (then and now) for engineering/producing them, “The Doors, as they were originally intended to be heard!”
We are all, by now, accustomed to the inevitable re-releases, with studio banter and false starts: they are advertised as such, obviously designed with the more passionate fans in mind. On the other hand, some caveat emptor action is applicable in this instance. Any prospective shopper should be fairly warned that the discs have been remastered and remixed, so these won’t sound like the albums you grew up with. (For those who are not aware, the initial pressing of compact discs, from the mid ‘80s, were properly redone in the late ‘90s via straight-up digital remastering that removed hiss and improved audio quality). In his breathless liner notes, Botnick alerts us to his (our?) revelation that the first Doors album has, for the last 40 years, been pressed at the wrong speed (!) Listen: “When the album was mixed at Elektra studios … either the four-track playback recorder was running slow or the stereo two-track was running fast.” And all these years I thought Iwas the only one who had noticed this! My guess is that the same people who will be flabbergasted by this development are the same folks who swear they can hear discernible warmth emanating from their system’s $600 gold plated connecting cables.
Sound aside—and the remastering job is, for the most part, an improvement in terms of clarity and instrumental balance—it’s the “bonus” material that fans will likely love or hate. If, for instance, you think it’s cool to actually hear Morrison sing “She get high” instead of “She get …” (was I the only person who, for many years, thought he was saying “Seek it”?), and can dig all the “fucks” restored to the, uh, climactic section of “The End”, then these reissues might, in the (actual) words of Mr. Botnick, “possibly change your life!” Interestingly, the first time the “fuck” version of “The End” was unleashed was during the powerful and disturbing opening scene of Apocalypse Now. This is more than a little ironic, because Botnick’s (and the remaining band members, who are not on record as having raised any objections) rationale painfully recalls Francis Ford Coppola’s insistance, upon reissuing his extended, bloated vision (Apocalypse Now Redux), that this was the real film in all its glory. Needless to say, it is entirely appropriate if the artist decides, decades later, that certain mistakes, false starts and excesses initially edited out deserve (demand!) to be resurrected. But that does not mean it improves the material; indeed, as we now see quite often with posthumous novels-in-progress (or worse, ones the author trashed for good reasons), alternate takes of old songs and director’s cut material (the latter two at least added as bonus material so as to not sully the initial versions that audiences are familiar with), there can be too much of a good thing.
Suffice it to say, similar sorts of embellishments exist on all of these reissues. Some are intriguing, some are appalling, and several are so incredibly ill-conceived you literally aren’t sure if you should laugh or sob. Again, assuming you are the type of fan who wants to hear snatches of lyrics or notes that didn’t make the first cut, it’s worth checking out these versions. For the first four albums, the slightly cleaner sound is a plus, especially on Waiting for the Sun and The Soft Parade. Of these two, Waiting for the Sun is probably the best bet, as the clarity is quite noticeable, but the bonus material includes the previously unreleased demo of “The Celebration of the Lizard”. Don’t get too excited: for anyone who has long wondered whether or not this song was meant to be the Doors’ magnum opus, the material here does little to make a case for it. The version on Absolutely Live! is half-decent, so between that and the polished section that became “Not to Touch the Earth”, it was not unreasonable to hope this song should have been among the band’s best—a genuinely tantalizing thought. Sadly, based on the take that survives, it’s not merely a work in progress, it’s a mess.
On the other hand, Morrison Hotel has bountiful bonus material—most of which is various takes of “Roadhouse Blues” under construction; they are interesting the first time around, but unlikely to inspire repeat listens. More importantly, this one is too slick by a half, rendering a raw, dirty classic straitjacketed into pristine submission. Finally, L.A. Woman provides a bit of a conundrum: moderately improved sound, but do you want to have anyone tampering with perfection? (Wait until you hear what they’ve done to “Cars Hiss By My Window”.) Lest anyone think, understandably, that I’m advising against picking up these reissues, remember that I’ve had the benefit of listening to them. In conclusion, I know I would not have taken anyone else’s opinion too seriously until I’d heard them for myself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)