Sound Affects
The PopMatters Music Blog
Pop Past
27 August 2008
God Is Dead (Again): Remembering Stevie Ray Vaughan
With art, it helps that we will always have the gifts the artist left behind. It’s never enough; it’s more than enough.
Eighteen years ago today.
First day of classes, junior year. Standing in the bathroom with too much shaving cream and not enough whiskers, getting geared up for another semester of partying too much and studying too little. No e-mails to check, no cell phone messages to return, just listening to the clock radio on the counter, because that’s how we rolled. Not that we had much choice in the matter.
Roommate walks into the bathroom with a look on his face like someone told him that Milwaukee’s Best raised the price of six packs.
“Dude, Eric Clapton is dead.”
God is dead? I thought, reflexively.
“His helicopter crashed.”
Not that again. You get used to the overdoses, no matter how pointless or accidental or idiotic. It doesn’t make them easier to accept, or justify, but there is some semblance of accountability. But these random acts of mechanical destruction? Intolerable. Unacceptable on any level.
Of course, as we shortly found out, it was Stevie Ray Vaughan who had actually died (part of the confusion came from the fact that he was on tour with Clapton, and had just played on the same stage the night before). Same principle applies: shocking, inexplicable, unacceptable.
And even worse, in a way. To put it in as respectful and delicate fashion as possible, this one hit home a lot harder. Eric Clapton was another, earlier generation’s Genius. Stevie Ray Vaughan was my generation’s guitar god, the one whose albums coincided with those crucial high school years, the formative times in your life when each album is a revelation. And, with an artist like Vaughan, a living chain connecting the past to present. This is the dude who, not to put too fine a point on it, had the audacity to cover Jimi Hendrix’s “Little Wing” and take it places even the best guitar player who ever strapped on a Stratocaster didn’t go.
Plus, I knew Stevie. Not personally, of course. But the summer before, I worked at the local record store just as Stevie’s new album In Step dropped. We used to spin that baby a few times per day, and it wasn’t even personal, it was strictly business. The album sold well, as it should have. The back-story elevated its import: after years of struggle with drugs and drink, Vaughan had cleaned up and was enjoying sobriety (indeed, the album’s title refers directly to his recovery process, which he was understandably proud of). The album remains top notch, but—as last albums from artists taken entirely too soon tend to do--it has an almost eerily elegiac feel that is difficult to deny. That the last song on the last album released in his lifetime is the sublime “Riviera Paradise” seems, at once fitting and devastating. It teases and cajoles with its promises of what should have been—all the great music this man undoubtedly would make. It also, being a near perfect song to end any album (much less a final album), feels entirely fitting. That is not nearly enough in terms of consolation for our loss, but it helps. And, as always, with art, it helps that we will always have the gifts the artist left behind. It’s never enough; it’s more than enough.
God is dead, again.
I can’t say for sure that I thought this, but maybe I did.
And speaking of God:
The 20 year old kid couldn’t help but wonder: “What kind of God would take a man like this from us?”
The 38 year old kid thinks: “The same one who gave him to us?”
That, of course, is not good enough. It’s never enough.
But it will have to do.
—Sean Murphy
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Five Reggae Albums You Cannot Live Without: Part Four (Popmatters.com blog)
Sound Affects
The PopMatters Music Blog
Pop Past
22 August 2008
Five Reggae Albums You Cannot Live Without: Part Four
After more than five years of struggling, sharing and singing, Israel Vibration's vision -- and sound -- was fully formed when they entered the studio.
Walking the Streets of Glory: Israel Vibration’s The Same Song
The cardinal rule for any serious appraisal of art involves a necessity to separate all discussion of the artist from the artifact. Mostly this is essential because so many unsavory characters have managed to create amazing art despite—or because of—their self absorption and nastiness. Monomania is sometimes obligatory, as we have seen from masters ranging from Tolstoy to Miles Davis. In short, it seldom sheds meaningful insight on a famous (or infamous) work to stand either on a pedestal or in the trenches, attempting to offer up easy (or difficult) analysis.
The list of artists known as assholes—or worse—to their friends or enemies is not short, but it’s a mistaken assumption that only difficult people create works that last. On the other hand, the list of genuinely decent human beings who have managed to make meaningful art is short but sweet: John Coltrane, Curtis Mayfield and Eric Dolphy come immediately to mind. However, hagiography rarely augments an individual’s oeuvre; in fact, it usually besmirches it. The only thing excessive praise and inappropriate criticism share is that they almost always say more about the commentator than the art being commented upon. The proponents of either extreme usually betray religious leanings that render their insights instantly dated and ultimately irrelevant (postmodern literary criticism and political correctness have been the more popular—and culpable—cults of the critical arena in recent decades).
And yet. All of that being said, sometimes it is impossible to ignore the life and the way(s) it influenced an artist’s development. With one group in particular, it is not only impossible, but negligent to make no mention of their exceptional trajectory from obscure and impoverished kids to adored legends of reggae music. Make no mistake, Israel Vibration’s debut, The Same Song is an indispensable classic, and would be loved—and discussed—if no biographical information on the artists was available. Nevertheless, the blissful sense of wonderment these songs provide accrue additional layers of meaning, and import, when the lives and circumstances of the young men who created them are considered. Long story shortened: Jamaica endured a polio epidemic in the latter years of the 1950s. Three of the boys disabled by the disease, Lascelle Bulgin, Albert Craig and Cecil Spence, met at a rehabilitation facility in Kingston. They bonded over the love of music and a dedication to Rastafarianism (legend has it that once they grew out their dreadlocks they were summarily evicted from the Mona Heights Centre).
Eventually they formed a vocal trio and, calling themselves Israel Vibration, began singing for change on various street corners throughout the city of Kingston. They were rescued from performing (and living) on the streets by the Twelve Tribes of Israel, who helped fund the recording of their first album. After more than five years of struggling, sharing and singing, their vision, and sound, was fully formed when they entered the studio. The results, quite simply, are staggering. The title track is, like the Mighty Diamonds’ “Right Time”, an opening salvo that also serves as a powerful—and empowering—statement of purpose: young men who had faced little other than hardship and discrimination, wise beyond their years, crafting an open letter of acceptance, unity and inevitability.
They tackle similar issues as the other landmark albums already discussed (this being roots reggae, the themes and sounds are not dissimilar), but where the Mighty Diamonds and Culture confront injustice and preach peace with, respectively, heavy doses of soul-influence and celebratory abandon, Israel Vibration balance the two styles with their own unique groove. On the more upbeat songs, like “Why Worry” and especially the ebullient “Walk the Streets of Glory”, the voices are appropriately buoyant; on the more topical, defiant songs, like “Weep & Mourn” and “Ball of Fire”, the pace—and the voices—are languid, even solemn. This manages to be powerfully elegant (or elegantly powerful) music, and it’s in part due to the unforced, easily-invoked vulnerability in these voices, but mostly it involves the very notion of underdogs speaking out for the underdog—without pity and with the gentle perseverance of faith. These last two songs describe the plights of the have-nots and the pitiful apathy of the powerful on par with the best efforts of Bob Marley and Burning Spear. And yet, even when the subject matter is deadly serious, there is a ceaseless air of celebration and joy that makes all the sense in the world: the people making this music are, when all was said and done, happily aware of how lucky they were simply to be alive.
—Sean Murphy
The PopMatters Music Blog
Pop Past
22 August 2008
Five Reggae Albums You Cannot Live Without: Part Four
After more than five years of struggling, sharing and singing, Israel Vibration's vision -- and sound -- was fully formed when they entered the studio.
Walking the Streets of Glory: Israel Vibration’s The Same Song
The cardinal rule for any serious appraisal of art involves a necessity to separate all discussion of the artist from the artifact. Mostly this is essential because so many unsavory characters have managed to create amazing art despite—or because of—their self absorption and nastiness. Monomania is sometimes obligatory, as we have seen from masters ranging from Tolstoy to Miles Davis. In short, it seldom sheds meaningful insight on a famous (or infamous) work to stand either on a pedestal or in the trenches, attempting to offer up easy (or difficult) analysis.
The list of artists known as assholes—or worse—to their friends or enemies is not short, but it’s a mistaken assumption that only difficult people create works that last. On the other hand, the list of genuinely decent human beings who have managed to make meaningful art is short but sweet: John Coltrane, Curtis Mayfield and Eric Dolphy come immediately to mind. However, hagiography rarely augments an individual’s oeuvre; in fact, it usually besmirches it. The only thing excessive praise and inappropriate criticism share is that they almost always say more about the commentator than the art being commented upon. The proponents of either extreme usually betray religious leanings that render their insights instantly dated and ultimately irrelevant (postmodern literary criticism and political correctness have been the more popular—and culpable—cults of the critical arena in recent decades).
And yet. All of that being said, sometimes it is impossible to ignore the life and the way(s) it influenced an artist’s development. With one group in particular, it is not only impossible, but negligent to make no mention of their exceptional trajectory from obscure and impoverished kids to adored legends of reggae music. Make no mistake, Israel Vibration’s debut, The Same Song is an indispensable classic, and would be loved—and discussed—if no biographical information on the artists was available. Nevertheless, the blissful sense of wonderment these songs provide accrue additional layers of meaning, and import, when the lives and circumstances of the young men who created them are considered. Long story shortened: Jamaica endured a polio epidemic in the latter years of the 1950s. Three of the boys disabled by the disease, Lascelle Bulgin, Albert Craig and Cecil Spence, met at a rehabilitation facility in Kingston. They bonded over the love of music and a dedication to Rastafarianism (legend has it that once they grew out their dreadlocks they were summarily evicted from the Mona Heights Centre).
Eventually they formed a vocal trio and, calling themselves Israel Vibration, began singing for change on various street corners throughout the city of Kingston. They were rescued from performing (and living) on the streets by the Twelve Tribes of Israel, who helped fund the recording of their first album. After more than five years of struggling, sharing and singing, their vision, and sound, was fully formed when they entered the studio. The results, quite simply, are staggering. The title track is, like the Mighty Diamonds’ “Right Time”, an opening salvo that also serves as a powerful—and empowering—statement of purpose: young men who had faced little other than hardship and discrimination, wise beyond their years, crafting an open letter of acceptance, unity and inevitability.
They tackle similar issues as the other landmark albums already discussed (this being roots reggae, the themes and sounds are not dissimilar), but where the Mighty Diamonds and Culture confront injustice and preach peace with, respectively, heavy doses of soul-influence and celebratory abandon, Israel Vibration balance the two styles with their own unique groove. On the more upbeat songs, like “Why Worry” and especially the ebullient “Walk the Streets of Glory”, the voices are appropriately buoyant; on the more topical, defiant songs, like “Weep & Mourn” and “Ball of Fire”, the pace—and the voices—are languid, even solemn. This manages to be powerfully elegant (or elegantly powerful) music, and it’s in part due to the unforced, easily-invoked vulnerability in these voices, but mostly it involves the very notion of underdogs speaking out for the underdog—without pity and with the gentle perseverance of faith. These last two songs describe the plights of the have-nots and the pitiful apathy of the powerful on par with the best efforts of Bob Marley and Burning Spear. And yet, even when the subject matter is deadly serious, there is a ceaseless air of celebration and joy that makes all the sense in the world: the people making this music are, when all was said and done, happily aware of how lucky they were simply to be alive.
—Sean Murphy
Monday, August 18, 2008
Dog Days of Summer (Dealerscope Article)
Dog Days of Summer Breed Some Prize Pets
Sean Murphy | Senior Account Manager, Market Research | CEA
August 01, 2008
By the time the dog days of summer truly settle in, discussion inexorably turns back to the weather: “Hot enough for ya?” On the other hand, the word on the street regarding the CE industry might invoke an opposite season: “How cold can we get?” Actually, we have not reached that point, but there are few who would argue that concerns about the economy and the housing market have taken some of the sizzle out of CE. Of course, there is plenty to remain optimistic about, with overall sales steady and the holidays just around the corner. With consumers less eager to hit the roads and beaches, the collective retreat indoors suggests new opportunity for the industry.
On the other hand, things have never been better in select categories: flat-panel televisions are on a tear, with sales exceeding even the most cheerful expectations. Unit shipments of flat-panel displays are already at 9.2 million through May, a 43-percent increase from the same period a year ago, while revenue is just under $8 billion, a 29 percent improvement from last year. This news serves not only as a silver lining for the overall industry, but also as a warning for dealers: the accelerated dominance of flat-panel televisions is in direct contrast to the declining fortunes of direct view and rear projection displays.
With the respective proliferation and reduction unfolding faster than expected, the foreseeable future for flat panels is quite encouraging (for more sales numbers on TVs, please turn to our stats section on page 48). Correspondingly, dealers should be admonished that the future has already happened and hopes of unloading old inventory might yield less than fruitful holiday tidings. Closer examination portrays a bleak landscape for old-school TV solutions: year-to-date shipments of rear projection televisions are down 71 percent through May, while flat panels (including plasma and LCD) are up 43 percent. The verdict is in, and it is unequivocal: the production and merchandising of large screen flat panels (LCDs in particular) is not only where the opportunity exists but might present the only way to remain relevant in this space.
More food for thought: 20 percent of DTV sets in 2007 were 1080p; by 2011, nearly 80 percent of sets will be 1080p. In sum, flat panels are pushing rear projection and CRT displays off the shelves and out of the sales channel, so dealers are advised to plan now for their fall assortments.The good news is certainly not restricted to the display arena. As the U.S. household penetration rate of flat-panel displays expands, it stands to reason that consumers, having optimized their viewing experience, will eventually seek to augment their audio environment.
Understandably, concerns linger that as the housing market goes, so goes certain CE markets, particularly home audio. The flat-panel explosion tends to confirm that, regardless of any economic apprehension, the appetite for consumption remains voracious. Indeed, as high-end TVs become increasingly ubiquitous and more HD/5.1 content is made available, consumers will turn to surround-sound solutions. Sound bars could be a sleeper here and provide an excellent solution for both consumers and dealers who are concerned about floor space and competitive price points. More importantly, CEA data finds sound bars showing growth in an otherwise declining category. Channel sources indicate that even turntables—only recently consigned to irrelevancy—are making a discernible, if modest, comeback. Is this a predictable retro resurgence or a positive harbinger for the entire home audio market? Likely, it is a bit of both, but the message is becoming unmistakable: perceptive dealers will do well to keep home audio in mind and focus on the areas where greatest opportunities await.
http://www.dealerscope.com/story/story.bsp?sid=114920&var=story&publication=Dealerscope&publicationDate=8/1/08&slug=DS0808_col_cscope&category=Consumer%20Electronics§ion=Unknown&page=1
Sean Murphy | Senior Account Manager, Market Research | CEA
August 01, 2008
By the time the dog days of summer truly settle in, discussion inexorably turns back to the weather: “Hot enough for ya?” On the other hand, the word on the street regarding the CE industry might invoke an opposite season: “How cold can we get?” Actually, we have not reached that point, but there are few who would argue that concerns about the economy and the housing market have taken some of the sizzle out of CE. Of course, there is plenty to remain optimistic about, with overall sales steady and the holidays just around the corner. With consumers less eager to hit the roads and beaches, the collective retreat indoors suggests new opportunity for the industry.
On the other hand, things have never been better in select categories: flat-panel televisions are on a tear, with sales exceeding even the most cheerful expectations. Unit shipments of flat-panel displays are already at 9.2 million through May, a 43-percent increase from the same period a year ago, while revenue is just under $8 billion, a 29 percent improvement from last year. This news serves not only as a silver lining for the overall industry, but also as a warning for dealers: the accelerated dominance of flat-panel televisions is in direct contrast to the declining fortunes of direct view and rear projection displays.
With the respective proliferation and reduction unfolding faster than expected, the foreseeable future for flat panels is quite encouraging (for more sales numbers on TVs, please turn to our stats section on page 48). Correspondingly, dealers should be admonished that the future has already happened and hopes of unloading old inventory might yield less than fruitful holiday tidings. Closer examination portrays a bleak landscape for old-school TV solutions: year-to-date shipments of rear projection televisions are down 71 percent through May, while flat panels (including plasma and LCD) are up 43 percent. The verdict is in, and it is unequivocal: the production and merchandising of large screen flat panels (LCDs in particular) is not only where the opportunity exists but might present the only way to remain relevant in this space.
More food for thought: 20 percent of DTV sets in 2007 were 1080p; by 2011, nearly 80 percent of sets will be 1080p. In sum, flat panels are pushing rear projection and CRT displays off the shelves and out of the sales channel, so dealers are advised to plan now for their fall assortments.The good news is certainly not restricted to the display arena. As the U.S. household penetration rate of flat-panel displays expands, it stands to reason that consumers, having optimized their viewing experience, will eventually seek to augment their audio environment.
Understandably, concerns linger that as the housing market goes, so goes certain CE markets, particularly home audio. The flat-panel explosion tends to confirm that, regardless of any economic apprehension, the appetite for consumption remains voracious. Indeed, as high-end TVs become increasingly ubiquitous and more HD/5.1 content is made available, consumers will turn to surround-sound solutions. Sound bars could be a sleeper here and provide an excellent solution for both consumers and dealers who are concerned about floor space and competitive price points. More importantly, CEA data finds sound bars showing growth in an otherwise declining category. Channel sources indicate that even turntables—only recently consigned to irrelevancy—are making a discernible, if modest, comeback. Is this a predictable retro resurgence or a positive harbinger for the entire home audio market? Likely, it is a bit of both, but the message is becoming unmistakable: perceptive dealers will do well to keep home audio in mind and focus on the areas where greatest opportunities await.
http://www.dealerscope.com/story/story.bsp?sid=114920&var=story&publication=Dealerscope&publicationDate=8/1/08&slug=DS0808_col_cscope&category=Consumer%20Electronics§ion=Unknown&page=1
Melvins: Nude with Boots (Popmatters.com Review)
Good News! Melvins are back.
Melvins are not a band so much as a machine. For almost a quarter of a century they have rumbled and rolled over the earth, leaving a trail for anyone bothering to look, and inventing an entirely new language for anyone able to hear. Hear this: Melvins are at it again, not wasting too much time following up on their last release, 2006’s A Senile Animal. That album was remarkable, and ended up surprising even longtime fans with its variety, and the sheer quality of practically every song. It also managed the semi-impossible, incorporating as it did, more polished edges into the Melvins’ patented sound: a shadowy diffusion that manages to sound glacial and molten, sometimes at the same time.
A considerable amount of credit was correctly given to the group’s newest members, bassist/vocalist Jared Warren and drummer Coady Willis—on loan from their other jobs as the demonic duo in the band Big Business. The two drummer/two singer strategy was risky and potentially misguided, but in hindsight, it seems like a no-brainer. The band sounded more invigorated, with the new blood clearly pushing the others—guitarist/singer/mastermind King Buzzo, and drummer extraordinaire Dale Crover—to reinvent ways of distributing similar sludge. It was, in short, a newer take on a tried and true formula, and it yielded spectacular results. The line-up is unchanged this time out, and expectations were high for a return to form, or—if such a thing is reasonably imaginable—an improvement. The bad news: Nude With Boots is not better than A Senile Animal. The good news: it is undeniably a success, albeit on a slightly smaller scale.
Early on in the opening song (“The Kicking Machine”), it’s clear enough that the M.O. from A Senile Animal is in effect: the twin drum assault and the synchronous vocals, and a discernibly enervated pace to the proceedings. More of same on track two (“Billy Fish”)—rolling drums introducing the action, then the always reliable Buzz Osborne unslinging (yawn) yet another nasty, tasty riff. But, like the previous album, it’s on the third track that the band truly locks in. That initial minute is pure Melvins bliss, that familiar, stuttering death crawl, unsettling yet irresistible. Not for the first time, and likely not the last, one cannot help marveling at Buzzo’s brilliance. How does he do it?
How does Buzzo do it? Perhaps it’s because he’s not human. That has to be it. Indeed, it is this fact that it’s a tad disconcerting, at times, to hear him sound like one. Or, to be more precise, hearing a regular human being singing alongside him. Probably because Jared Warren is mixed too high on the harmonies (it sounds, on most songs, like he and Buzzo are at equal volume, which means Warren is, in fact, mixed too high), the songs lose some of their otherwise insistent power when Buzzo’s voice is not front and center. A much better balance was subtly achieved on A Senile Animal, where Warren’s (and on some songs, the others’) voices embellished and accompanied. On Nude With Boots they come dangerously close to interfering. Ultimately, this might well be a matter of taste, and to some ears the novel, “fresher” sound might rate as a positive development.
Along with the occasionally claustrophobic harmonies, there is a little more light and air in several of the songs (the title track, for instance), which causes them to come near to being not only accessible, but even (gasp) catchy. Not to worry, no one is going to confuse the current incarnation of Melvins with, say, Vampire Weekend. Nevertheless, the band has evolved. The more fundamentalist-minded Melvins’ fans might protest—not without justification—that this is the one band that should remain in the muck, neither swimming nor walking, but sort of slithering in the boiling primordial ooze, making their prehistoric noises ... like the sounds made on the album’s best track, “Dies Iraea”. Every Melvins album has at least one song that separates itself from the others, and this is it. This is the music playing at that last dinosaur house party before they all toppled drunkenly into the tar pit.
In sum, Melvins fans, do what you need to do. Newcomers might want to check out A Senile Animal, but then again, perhaps this one will make the last one easier to understand, and then it may be more enjoyable working backward. The question persists: how do they do it? Melvins remain a contrary respite from the gumball machine sensibilities of so much modern music: put in a penny, suck on some sugar for a few seconds until it all turns sour. Melvins are already sour, but instead of turning sweet, they do something even more surprising. They remain unsullied. And so, if you hear one of your semi-jaded friends whining about how no good music gets made anymore, you can hold Nude With Boots up as merely the latest example of how good it can still be, even today. And how fortunate we are that this band continues to thrive, sucking on the carcass of banality and spitting out gold.
— 15 August 2008
Melvins are not a band so much as a machine. For almost a quarter of a century they have rumbled and rolled over the earth, leaving a trail for anyone bothering to look, and inventing an entirely new language for anyone able to hear. Hear this: Melvins are at it again, not wasting too much time following up on their last release, 2006’s A Senile Animal. That album was remarkable, and ended up surprising even longtime fans with its variety, and the sheer quality of practically every song. It also managed the semi-impossible, incorporating as it did, more polished edges into the Melvins’ patented sound: a shadowy diffusion that manages to sound glacial and molten, sometimes at the same time.
A considerable amount of credit was correctly given to the group’s newest members, bassist/vocalist Jared Warren and drummer Coady Willis—on loan from their other jobs as the demonic duo in the band Big Business. The two drummer/two singer strategy was risky and potentially misguided, but in hindsight, it seems like a no-brainer. The band sounded more invigorated, with the new blood clearly pushing the others—guitarist/singer/mastermind King Buzzo, and drummer extraordinaire Dale Crover—to reinvent ways of distributing similar sludge. It was, in short, a newer take on a tried and true formula, and it yielded spectacular results. The line-up is unchanged this time out, and expectations were high for a return to form, or—if such a thing is reasonably imaginable—an improvement. The bad news: Nude With Boots is not better than A Senile Animal. The good news: it is undeniably a success, albeit on a slightly smaller scale.
Early on in the opening song (“The Kicking Machine”), it’s clear enough that the M.O. from A Senile Animal is in effect: the twin drum assault and the synchronous vocals, and a discernibly enervated pace to the proceedings. More of same on track two (“Billy Fish”)—rolling drums introducing the action, then the always reliable Buzz Osborne unslinging (yawn) yet another nasty, tasty riff. But, like the previous album, it’s on the third track that the band truly locks in. That initial minute is pure Melvins bliss, that familiar, stuttering death crawl, unsettling yet irresistible. Not for the first time, and likely not the last, one cannot help marveling at Buzzo’s brilliance. How does he do it?
How does Buzzo do it? Perhaps it’s because he’s not human. That has to be it. Indeed, it is this fact that it’s a tad disconcerting, at times, to hear him sound like one. Or, to be more precise, hearing a regular human being singing alongside him. Probably because Jared Warren is mixed too high on the harmonies (it sounds, on most songs, like he and Buzzo are at equal volume, which means Warren is, in fact, mixed too high), the songs lose some of their otherwise insistent power when Buzzo’s voice is not front and center. A much better balance was subtly achieved on A Senile Animal, where Warren’s (and on some songs, the others’) voices embellished and accompanied. On Nude With Boots they come dangerously close to interfering. Ultimately, this might well be a matter of taste, and to some ears the novel, “fresher” sound might rate as a positive development.
Along with the occasionally claustrophobic harmonies, there is a little more light and air in several of the songs (the title track, for instance), which causes them to come near to being not only accessible, but even (gasp) catchy. Not to worry, no one is going to confuse the current incarnation of Melvins with, say, Vampire Weekend. Nevertheless, the band has evolved. The more fundamentalist-minded Melvins’ fans might protest—not without justification—that this is the one band that should remain in the muck, neither swimming nor walking, but sort of slithering in the boiling primordial ooze, making their prehistoric noises ... like the sounds made on the album’s best track, “Dies Iraea”. Every Melvins album has at least one song that separates itself from the others, and this is it. This is the music playing at that last dinosaur house party before they all toppled drunkenly into the tar pit.
In sum, Melvins fans, do what you need to do. Newcomers might want to check out A Senile Animal, but then again, perhaps this one will make the last one easier to understand, and then it may be more enjoyable working backward. The question persists: how do they do it? Melvins remain a contrary respite from the gumball machine sensibilities of so much modern music: put in a penny, suck on some sugar for a few seconds until it all turns sour. Melvins are already sour, but instead of turning sweet, they do something even more surprising. They remain unsullied. And so, if you hear one of your semi-jaded friends whining about how no good music gets made anymore, you can hold Nude With Boots up as merely the latest example of how good it can still be, even today. And how fortunate we are that this band continues to thrive, sucking on the carcass of banality and spitting out gold.
— 15 August 2008
Five Reggae Albums You Cannot Live Without: Part Three (Popmatters.com blog)
Pop Past
8 August 2008
Five Reggae Albums You Cannot Live Without: Part Three
This is the reggae album for people who do not know, or claim not to like, reggae music.
Go and Seek Your Rights: The Mighty Diamonds’ Right Time
Big misconception about reggae music: it’s all happy, at the beach, drinking music. Biggest misconception about reggae music: it all sounds the same. Even Bob Marley (and it is both respectful and required to at least mention the great man’s name in any consequential discussion or reggae) had markedly different styles he embraced throughout his career, as his sound evolved from straightforward ska and rocksteady in the ‘60s to the full-fledged rastaman vibration everyone has heard on the radio—or at Happy Hour. Indeed, Marley serves as the most obvious case study for the distinctive sounds reggae has produced: anyone unfamiliar with songs not included on Legend, but curious to explore what else is out there, are encouraged to start with the crucial transition albums from the early ‘70s. You cannot go wrong with African Herbsman, the culmination of his brief but bountiful collaboration with Lee “Scratch” Perry. Or to appreciate the incomparable harmonizing of the original Wailers (Marley along with Peter Tosh and Bunny Wailer), Catch A Fire and Burnin’ are indispensable cornerstones of any halfway serious reggae collection. And, above all, if it’s possible to single out one work that encapsulates Marley’s genius, Natty Dread is the alpha and the omega: not only is this his masterpiece, this one holds it own with any album, in any genre.
Okay. Even for those who are not sufficiently intrigued by the notion of a deeper dive into reggae’s abundant waters, there are more than a handful of sure things right on the surface. Enter the Mighty Diamonds and their first—and best—album, Right Time from 1976. Like the Wailers, the Mighty Diamonds are a harmonizing trio (with a killer backing band), and these three men, Donald “Tabby” Shaw, Fitzroy “Bunny” Simpson and Lloyd “Judge” Ferguson, created songs that stand tall alongside the very best reggae. Right Time manages to combine several styles and merge them in a seamless, practically flawless whole. This, to be certain, is roots reggae, yet at times it sounds like the most accessible soul music, closer to Motown than Trenchtown.
The group’s allegiance to Rastafarianism is skillfully articulated in the socially conscious lyrics, but the ten tracks on Right Time tackle romantic turmoil, violent crime, and redemption—sometimes all in one song. The title track, equally an ominous call to arms as well as a rallying cry against the system, sets an immediate tone that predicts chaos while promising resolve, pre-dating Culture’s epochal Two Sevens Clash by a year. The brilliance of the songs that follow must be heard to be believed, and it’s difficult to imagine how singing and song craft this tight, spiritual, and emotionally rich could fail to convince. The next two songs, “Why Me Black Brother Why?” and “Shame and Pride” constitute a one-two punch that manages to invoke Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson and Otis Redding: Gaye’s authentic words, Smokey’s silken voice, and Redding’s gut-rending fervor. If the world was right side up, all of these songs would be standards, familiar to anyone who listens to the soul legends mentioned above. The album’s highlight may be the resplendent anthem “I Need a Roof”—-a rather uncomplicated piece of poetry that invokes Marcus Garvey and Jesus Christ with its (obvious) insistence that without shelter there can be no peace, and without justice there can be no love. Listen: even writing about this record, albeit while offering the highest possible praise, inexorably mutes the message. That message is conveyed with voices that must be heard so that the music can make sense. Go seek it out.
—Sean Murphy
8 August 2008
Five Reggae Albums You Cannot Live Without: Part Three
This is the reggae album for people who do not know, or claim not to like, reggae music.
Go and Seek Your Rights: The Mighty Diamonds’ Right Time
Big misconception about reggae music: it’s all happy, at the beach, drinking music. Biggest misconception about reggae music: it all sounds the same. Even Bob Marley (and it is both respectful and required to at least mention the great man’s name in any consequential discussion or reggae) had markedly different styles he embraced throughout his career, as his sound evolved from straightforward ska and rocksteady in the ‘60s to the full-fledged rastaman vibration everyone has heard on the radio—or at Happy Hour. Indeed, Marley serves as the most obvious case study for the distinctive sounds reggae has produced: anyone unfamiliar with songs not included on Legend, but curious to explore what else is out there, are encouraged to start with the crucial transition albums from the early ‘70s. You cannot go wrong with African Herbsman, the culmination of his brief but bountiful collaboration with Lee “Scratch” Perry. Or to appreciate the incomparable harmonizing of the original Wailers (Marley along with Peter Tosh and Bunny Wailer), Catch A Fire and Burnin’ are indispensable cornerstones of any halfway serious reggae collection. And, above all, if it’s possible to single out one work that encapsulates Marley’s genius, Natty Dread is the alpha and the omega: not only is this his masterpiece, this one holds it own with any album, in any genre.
Okay. Even for those who are not sufficiently intrigued by the notion of a deeper dive into reggae’s abundant waters, there are more than a handful of sure things right on the surface. Enter the Mighty Diamonds and their first—and best—album, Right Time from 1976. Like the Wailers, the Mighty Diamonds are a harmonizing trio (with a killer backing band), and these three men, Donald “Tabby” Shaw, Fitzroy “Bunny” Simpson and Lloyd “Judge” Ferguson, created songs that stand tall alongside the very best reggae. Right Time manages to combine several styles and merge them in a seamless, practically flawless whole. This, to be certain, is roots reggae, yet at times it sounds like the most accessible soul music, closer to Motown than Trenchtown.
The group’s allegiance to Rastafarianism is skillfully articulated in the socially conscious lyrics, but the ten tracks on Right Time tackle romantic turmoil, violent crime, and redemption—sometimes all in one song. The title track, equally an ominous call to arms as well as a rallying cry against the system, sets an immediate tone that predicts chaos while promising resolve, pre-dating Culture’s epochal Two Sevens Clash by a year. The brilliance of the songs that follow must be heard to be believed, and it’s difficult to imagine how singing and song craft this tight, spiritual, and emotionally rich could fail to convince. The next two songs, “Why Me Black Brother Why?” and “Shame and Pride” constitute a one-two punch that manages to invoke Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson and Otis Redding: Gaye’s authentic words, Smokey’s silken voice, and Redding’s gut-rending fervor. If the world was right side up, all of these songs would be standards, familiar to anyone who listens to the soul legends mentioned above. The album’s highlight may be the resplendent anthem “I Need a Roof”—-a rather uncomplicated piece of poetry that invokes Marcus Garvey and Jesus Christ with its (obvious) insistence that without shelter there can be no peace, and without justice there can be no love. Listen: even writing about this record, albeit while offering the highest possible praise, inexorably mutes the message. That message is conveyed with voices that must be heard so that the music can make sense. Go seek it out.
—Sean Murphy
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Love Story (Popmatters.com Review)
Love
Love Story [DVD]
(Start Productions) Rated: N/A
by Sean Murphy
A Story to Fall in Love With
One is tempted to suggest, if sardonically, that now is the time for a reappraisal of Love. But that is unlikely. It’s never been time for Love, then or now, and this one-two punch of bad timing and bad luck tends to encapsulate the band’s maddening legacy. Love could never quite get over, and this certainly contributes to the enigmatic air that hangs over their history.
Of course, the music they made (their first four albums in particular) insulates them from easy analysis, so fans and especially critics are unable to neatly pigeonhole them into a particular period. This is remarkable in itself, considering the year they made their masterwork, Forever Changes: it is, in so many agreeable ways, utterly of its time as a reflection—or, really, a refraction—of 1967, but it also remains fresh and unfettered, more than 40 years later.
Don’t think so? Consider how much of the music, circa 1967, sounds not only dated but instantly identifiable. Even records by the better bands (The Rolling Stones and, yes, even The Beatles, to name two of the top dogs on the scene) have not necessarily aged well. While Sgt. Pepper is not quite as lionized as it was, say, 20 years ago (it is venerated, appropriately, for its symbolic import as much, or more, than the songs on the album), it is still considered one of the all-time masterpieces of rock ‘n’ roll.
With that in mind, if you put Forever Changes alongside Sgt. Pepper and did a track-by-track comparison, Love would, at worst, be in a dead heat. That aside, it is difficult to deny that Forever Changes stands up to repeated listens, and it remains an exciting album simply because of the sheer quality of the individual songs.
What might get lost in the discussion of Forever Changes is the fact that Love existed before that album, and more surprisingly, they existed after it. More, they managed to actually make some worthwhile music. Not enough people know this, but it almost does not matter; plenty of people know that Forever Changes is indelible: not for nothing does it consistently pop up on “best albums” lists; it is a perennial favorite of musicians as well as critics.
Which brings us around to the question of whether there could possibly be an audience for a DVD detailing the band’s history. The answer, of course, is yes. Love Story is an overdue gift for the converted, and will serve as a valuable introduction for the uninitiated.
Love Story is, by any reasonable criterion, a considerable achievement. The first-time film makers, Chris Hall and Mike Kerry, have assembled tons of footage, including insightful interviews from Arthur Lee and his band mates, as well as Jac Holzman (head of Elektra Records), Bruce Botnick (producer) and John Densmore (drummer from The Doors)—among many others. The story unfolds chronologically, tracing Arthur’s (and childhood friend Johnny Echols’) upbringing in Los Angeles. Generous portions of interviews culled from 2005 and 2006 (again, featuring both Lee and Echols) make up the bulk of the narrative. In an early sequence, Lee is filmed driving through the LA streets, and it is sobering to consider all that has changed (in his life, in his city), and the things that will never change.
Lee was a star athlete in high school, but when he saw Echols playing guitar and—in classic rock cliché fashion—saw the girls seeing Echols, he understood immediately where his future lay. Lee was precocious, with ambition to match his gifts, and his confidence made the subsequent success seem all but inevitable. By the time they got serious about their musical careers, Lee and Echols hooked up with Brian Maclean, a guitarist so keen on joining up with The Byrds he’d become one of their roadies.
The alchemy was immediate: Maclean’s folky influences embellished Echols and Lee’s blues and R&B leanings, creating a sound that was both bigger and better than it might have been. The name the band chose was not only a no-brainer for a west coast group in the mid-‘60s, it was more than a little appropriate for the first racially integrated rock outfit. Love started gigging on the sunset strip, catching the attention of Elektra Records founder Jac Holzman, who quickly signed them to his label (which, to this point, had primarily focused on folk music).
A classic—and prescient—Arthur Lee anecdote followed: the singer split with the $5,000 advance and returned later that day in a new Mercedes. He then proceeded to give the other members (Echols and Mclean, as well as bassist Michael Stuart and drummer Alban “Snoopy” Pfisterer) one hundred bucks each, because that was what was left. It’s hard to say what is more astounding: Lee’s audacity or the fact that a Mercedes convertible cost less than $5k!
Entering the studios, the band was tight and focused from months of steady gigging. Their self-titled debut was recorded quickly—the band essentially came into the studio and performed their regular set. From the first, there was never the slightest question about who was in charge: Love was Lee’s band. Holzman credits Mclean with lightening Lee’s intensity and broadening the scope of his compositions; Mclean was an accomplished—and determined—musician in his own right, and a natural, if inevitable, competition evolved. For a while, it was a fruitful partnership, and the two men brought out the best in each other.
The hit from the first album was the band’s annihilation of “My Little Red Book”, giving Burt Bacharach a menacing edge a few years before Isaac Hayes did his own extraordinary deconstructions of songs like “Walk On By” and “The Look of Love”. Another dark, unique tune is the appropriately entitled instrumental “Emotions”, with Echols creating something like surreal surf music; it sounds like The Ventures after a sketchy acid trip. And here was another harbinger of Love’s unique M.O.: taking the (mostly) sun and fun vibes of guitar-heavy surf rock and giving it a solemn edge, turning something simple inside out, exposing the shadow beneath the glow (this ability to see, and insinuate, the darker side of the free love ethos is arguably what made Love difficult to fully embrace, and what makes them still sound unique, now).
Love quickly became the Kings of Los Angeles, with celebrities like Janis Joplin and Jefferson Airplane dropping by “The Castle”, the large house up in the LA hills the band shared. They immediately commenced work on the next album, partly to capitalize on the collective energy and excitement, but also (crucially) because the band was not interested in hitting the road to promote the first record. Da Capo is an album that most fans (including this one) consider a 50 percent masterpiece: the six songs on side one are stunning, and represent incredible forward steps, full of sophistication and inventiveness (The Stones happily stole/honored Lee’s words in “She Comes in Colors” for their own hit “She’s a Rainbow” and there is little doubt Robbie Krieger studied “The Castle”—a song that introduced flamenco guitar to rock music—before composing the music for “Spanish Caravan”).
Side two, notable as the first side-long track (an innovation that was embraced by other acts, much to the rock critics’ collective disdain when this practice reached its prog-rock apotheosis the following decade), was, according to Lee and Echols, a scorcher in their live set. They failed to capture the energy—or whatever it was that captivated the crowds—in the studio, and the result is a kind of half-assed blues romp with plenty o’ noodling that mostly goes nowhere. Nevertheless, the sum of Da Capo is far greater than its parts; or, perhaps, the parts, assessed one a time, constitute six songs out of seven that are homeruns, and no athlete (or artist) could ask for much more than that.
Around this time another young group was starting to develop a reputation on the strip. Lee took them under his wing, going so far as to convince an initially unimpressed Jac Holzman to sign them. This band, led by a charismatic young man named Jim Morrison, famously stated that their original ambition was to be “as big as Love”. The rest, of course, is history.
Holzman fondly recalls The Doors being eager and, compared to Love, more obsessed: in a nutshell, they were willing to pay the obligatory dues, touring the entire country and steadily cultivating an audience. Echols and Lee both express bitterness that Elektra latched onto the Doors, ignoring the band that had delivered them on a platter. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to give a great deal of credence to these sour grapes: by all accounts the escalating internal tensions, Lee’s control freak tendencies (in and outside the band) and of course the increasing drug use—along with the aforementioned refusal to tour—arguably combined as an imperfect storm to prevent Love from striking while the Zeitgeist was glowing.
The subsequent Forever Changes sessions almost never happened. By the time they returned to the studio, Lee’s band was a mess: exhausted, apathetic and strung out. Eventually, Lee cajoled them into pulling themselves together and, against some serious odds; they hung in there long enough to make one of the greatest rock and roll records of all time. The album failed to break the Top 100, and Lee was crushed. According to Jac Holzman, people simply needed to see the band performing the songs, but it wasn’t to be. A fuller analysis of Forever Changes can be read in “Forever Never Changes” (PopMatters August 2006).
Lee admits, in addition to his band mates, “I was kind of spaced in those days.” To a certain extent Lee’s defiant nature is understandable, or at least explicable. When you are that naturally talented, it has to be more than a little challenging to jump through the necessary hoops in order to connect the dots of pop star accessibility. Many years later, Lee acknowledges, and regrets, his self-defeating intransigence. To Holzman’s credit, he flew Lee out to New York City, but the singer was the opposite of Woody Allen in Annie Hall: he was allergic to the big apple and only felt comfortable in L.A. Lee begins to sound like rock music’s Jake LaMotta: he understood the game, but because he saw through it, or felt above it, or was willfully sabotaging himself or—most of all—he simply couldn’t be bothered, he never seized the gold ring that was gleaming right in front of his face.
The proverbial writing was on the wall: even Lee had pushed himself to the edge (to the point where he became certain he was going to die; that the world was going to end), and the band was unable to return again to the well (although subsequent sessions produced some incredible songs, found on the Forever Changes reissues). Heroin was the drug of choice, and almost the entire band succumbed. As Echols summarizes, “You chased the dragon until the dragon catches you.” After the January ’68 sessions, Maclean left the band and an oft-repeated rock tale played out: neither Mclean nor Lee was ever as good apart as they were together. Nevertheless, Lee carried the banner, and while the results were decidedly mixed, Love (with a rotating cast of backing musicians) made some meaningful music in the ensuing decades. Four Sail, while never approaching the heights of its predecessor, is somewhat of a lost classic, and is overdue for reassessment.
Unfortunately, Lee received more attention for his behavior than his music in the years that followed, culminating in his controversial jail sentence for a firearms charge (courtesy of California’s three-strikes law). Fortunately, he was released half-way through his ludicrously harsh 12-year term, and soon after began touring with a revamped Love line-up. The tour, where the entirety of Forever Changes was played, won critical praise and drew large crowds.
Finally, it seemed, Lee was beginning to get his due. Tragically, in the midst of his latest return from oblivion, Lee was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, and he passed away in August 2006, before filming of Love Story was completed. The post ‘60s years are somewhat glossed over, and while there is (obviously) a great deal of material to cover there, Lee is probably the only one who could speak about those darker days. Of course, the only people who will be disappointed by the lack of dirt are the ones for whom the melodrama is more important than the music.
Lee left his mark, and he knew it; and before he died, he had a decent opportunity to witness the collective appreciation. That he was able to tour the world in his last years is just, that he was taken before he could add to his legacy is regrettable. That old fans and, hopefully, legions of new listeners will continue to discover his work is exactly as it should be.
Love Story [DVD]
(Start Productions) Rated: N/A
by Sean Murphy
A Story to Fall in Love With
One is tempted to suggest, if sardonically, that now is the time for a reappraisal of Love. But that is unlikely. It’s never been time for Love, then or now, and this one-two punch of bad timing and bad luck tends to encapsulate the band’s maddening legacy. Love could never quite get over, and this certainly contributes to the enigmatic air that hangs over their history.
Of course, the music they made (their first four albums in particular) insulates them from easy analysis, so fans and especially critics are unable to neatly pigeonhole them into a particular period. This is remarkable in itself, considering the year they made their masterwork, Forever Changes: it is, in so many agreeable ways, utterly of its time as a reflection—or, really, a refraction—of 1967, but it also remains fresh and unfettered, more than 40 years later.
Don’t think so? Consider how much of the music, circa 1967, sounds not only dated but instantly identifiable. Even records by the better bands (The Rolling Stones and, yes, even The Beatles, to name two of the top dogs on the scene) have not necessarily aged well. While Sgt. Pepper is not quite as lionized as it was, say, 20 years ago (it is venerated, appropriately, for its symbolic import as much, or more, than the songs on the album), it is still considered one of the all-time masterpieces of rock ‘n’ roll.
With that in mind, if you put Forever Changes alongside Sgt. Pepper and did a track-by-track comparison, Love would, at worst, be in a dead heat. That aside, it is difficult to deny that Forever Changes stands up to repeated listens, and it remains an exciting album simply because of the sheer quality of the individual songs.
What might get lost in the discussion of Forever Changes is the fact that Love existed before that album, and more surprisingly, they existed after it. More, they managed to actually make some worthwhile music. Not enough people know this, but it almost does not matter; plenty of people know that Forever Changes is indelible: not for nothing does it consistently pop up on “best albums” lists; it is a perennial favorite of musicians as well as critics.
Which brings us around to the question of whether there could possibly be an audience for a DVD detailing the band’s history. The answer, of course, is yes. Love Story is an overdue gift for the converted, and will serve as a valuable introduction for the uninitiated.
Love Story is, by any reasonable criterion, a considerable achievement. The first-time film makers, Chris Hall and Mike Kerry, have assembled tons of footage, including insightful interviews from Arthur Lee and his band mates, as well as Jac Holzman (head of Elektra Records), Bruce Botnick (producer) and John Densmore (drummer from The Doors)—among many others. The story unfolds chronologically, tracing Arthur’s (and childhood friend Johnny Echols’) upbringing in Los Angeles. Generous portions of interviews culled from 2005 and 2006 (again, featuring both Lee and Echols) make up the bulk of the narrative. In an early sequence, Lee is filmed driving through the LA streets, and it is sobering to consider all that has changed (in his life, in his city), and the things that will never change.
Lee was a star athlete in high school, but when he saw Echols playing guitar and—in classic rock cliché fashion—saw the girls seeing Echols, he understood immediately where his future lay. Lee was precocious, with ambition to match his gifts, and his confidence made the subsequent success seem all but inevitable. By the time they got serious about their musical careers, Lee and Echols hooked up with Brian Maclean, a guitarist so keen on joining up with The Byrds he’d become one of their roadies.
The alchemy was immediate: Maclean’s folky influences embellished Echols and Lee’s blues and R&B leanings, creating a sound that was both bigger and better than it might have been. The name the band chose was not only a no-brainer for a west coast group in the mid-‘60s, it was more than a little appropriate for the first racially integrated rock outfit. Love started gigging on the sunset strip, catching the attention of Elektra Records founder Jac Holzman, who quickly signed them to his label (which, to this point, had primarily focused on folk music).
A classic—and prescient—Arthur Lee anecdote followed: the singer split with the $5,000 advance and returned later that day in a new Mercedes. He then proceeded to give the other members (Echols and Mclean, as well as bassist Michael Stuart and drummer Alban “Snoopy” Pfisterer) one hundred bucks each, because that was what was left. It’s hard to say what is more astounding: Lee’s audacity or the fact that a Mercedes convertible cost less than $5k!
Entering the studios, the band was tight and focused from months of steady gigging. Their self-titled debut was recorded quickly—the band essentially came into the studio and performed their regular set. From the first, there was never the slightest question about who was in charge: Love was Lee’s band. Holzman credits Mclean with lightening Lee’s intensity and broadening the scope of his compositions; Mclean was an accomplished—and determined—musician in his own right, and a natural, if inevitable, competition evolved. For a while, it was a fruitful partnership, and the two men brought out the best in each other.
The hit from the first album was the band’s annihilation of “My Little Red Book”, giving Burt Bacharach a menacing edge a few years before Isaac Hayes did his own extraordinary deconstructions of songs like “Walk On By” and “The Look of Love”. Another dark, unique tune is the appropriately entitled instrumental “Emotions”, with Echols creating something like surreal surf music; it sounds like The Ventures after a sketchy acid trip. And here was another harbinger of Love’s unique M.O.: taking the (mostly) sun and fun vibes of guitar-heavy surf rock and giving it a solemn edge, turning something simple inside out, exposing the shadow beneath the glow (this ability to see, and insinuate, the darker side of the free love ethos is arguably what made Love difficult to fully embrace, and what makes them still sound unique, now).
Love quickly became the Kings of Los Angeles, with celebrities like Janis Joplin and Jefferson Airplane dropping by “The Castle”, the large house up in the LA hills the band shared. They immediately commenced work on the next album, partly to capitalize on the collective energy and excitement, but also (crucially) because the band was not interested in hitting the road to promote the first record. Da Capo is an album that most fans (including this one) consider a 50 percent masterpiece: the six songs on side one are stunning, and represent incredible forward steps, full of sophistication and inventiveness (The Stones happily stole/honored Lee’s words in “She Comes in Colors” for their own hit “She’s a Rainbow” and there is little doubt Robbie Krieger studied “The Castle”—a song that introduced flamenco guitar to rock music—before composing the music for “Spanish Caravan”).
Side two, notable as the first side-long track (an innovation that was embraced by other acts, much to the rock critics’ collective disdain when this practice reached its prog-rock apotheosis the following decade), was, according to Lee and Echols, a scorcher in their live set. They failed to capture the energy—or whatever it was that captivated the crowds—in the studio, and the result is a kind of half-assed blues romp with plenty o’ noodling that mostly goes nowhere. Nevertheless, the sum of Da Capo is far greater than its parts; or, perhaps, the parts, assessed one a time, constitute six songs out of seven that are homeruns, and no athlete (or artist) could ask for much more than that.
Around this time another young group was starting to develop a reputation on the strip. Lee took them under his wing, going so far as to convince an initially unimpressed Jac Holzman to sign them. This band, led by a charismatic young man named Jim Morrison, famously stated that their original ambition was to be “as big as Love”. The rest, of course, is history.
Holzman fondly recalls The Doors being eager and, compared to Love, more obsessed: in a nutshell, they were willing to pay the obligatory dues, touring the entire country and steadily cultivating an audience. Echols and Lee both express bitterness that Elektra latched onto the Doors, ignoring the band that had delivered them on a platter. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to give a great deal of credence to these sour grapes: by all accounts the escalating internal tensions, Lee’s control freak tendencies (in and outside the band) and of course the increasing drug use—along with the aforementioned refusal to tour—arguably combined as an imperfect storm to prevent Love from striking while the Zeitgeist was glowing.
The subsequent Forever Changes sessions almost never happened. By the time they returned to the studio, Lee’s band was a mess: exhausted, apathetic and strung out. Eventually, Lee cajoled them into pulling themselves together and, against some serious odds; they hung in there long enough to make one of the greatest rock and roll records of all time. The album failed to break the Top 100, and Lee was crushed. According to Jac Holzman, people simply needed to see the band performing the songs, but it wasn’t to be. A fuller analysis of Forever Changes can be read in “Forever Never Changes” (PopMatters August 2006).
Lee admits, in addition to his band mates, “I was kind of spaced in those days.” To a certain extent Lee’s defiant nature is understandable, or at least explicable. When you are that naturally talented, it has to be more than a little challenging to jump through the necessary hoops in order to connect the dots of pop star accessibility. Many years later, Lee acknowledges, and regrets, his self-defeating intransigence. To Holzman’s credit, he flew Lee out to New York City, but the singer was the opposite of Woody Allen in Annie Hall: he was allergic to the big apple and only felt comfortable in L.A. Lee begins to sound like rock music’s Jake LaMotta: he understood the game, but because he saw through it, or felt above it, or was willfully sabotaging himself or—most of all—he simply couldn’t be bothered, he never seized the gold ring that was gleaming right in front of his face.
The proverbial writing was on the wall: even Lee had pushed himself to the edge (to the point where he became certain he was going to die; that the world was going to end), and the band was unable to return again to the well (although subsequent sessions produced some incredible songs, found on the Forever Changes reissues). Heroin was the drug of choice, and almost the entire band succumbed. As Echols summarizes, “You chased the dragon until the dragon catches you.” After the January ’68 sessions, Maclean left the band and an oft-repeated rock tale played out: neither Mclean nor Lee was ever as good apart as they were together. Nevertheless, Lee carried the banner, and while the results were decidedly mixed, Love (with a rotating cast of backing musicians) made some meaningful music in the ensuing decades. Four Sail, while never approaching the heights of its predecessor, is somewhat of a lost classic, and is overdue for reassessment.
Unfortunately, Lee received more attention for his behavior than his music in the years that followed, culminating in his controversial jail sentence for a firearms charge (courtesy of California’s three-strikes law). Fortunately, he was released half-way through his ludicrously harsh 12-year term, and soon after began touring with a revamped Love line-up. The tour, where the entirety of Forever Changes was played, won critical praise and drew large crowds.
Finally, it seemed, Lee was beginning to get his due. Tragically, in the midst of his latest return from oblivion, Lee was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia, and he passed away in August 2006, before filming of Love Story was completed. The post ‘60s years are somewhat glossed over, and while there is (obviously) a great deal of material to cover there, Lee is probably the only one who could speak about those darker days. Of course, the only people who will be disappointed by the lack of dirt are the ones for whom the melodrama is more important than the music.
Lee left his mark, and he knew it; and before he died, he had a decent opportunity to witness the collective appreciation. That he was able to tour the world in his last years is just, that he was taken before he could add to his legacy is regrettable. That old fans and, hopefully, legions of new listeners will continue to discover his work is exactly as it should be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)