1966: The Association - And Then Along Comes the Association
Those responsible for the cover art of the notable psychedelic pop records of the 1960s had it right. So accurately would they adorn their subjects that one could merely walk into a record store, see them on the shelf and know what to expect. For example, let’s review the following:
The Zombies’ Odyssey and Oracle – a psyche-collage of romantics through the ages The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s – a visceral cabaret of life, day-glo, death, and fashion Love’s Forever Changes -- a cerebral parade
The Association’s And Then Along Comes The Association is a similar member of that proud tradition. On its cover we find six men clad in respectable, matching suits writhing with their arms in the air like a Kesey experiment, all amid a murky, green composition. Based on this depiction, you might expect to find some fine, auditorium quality pop with an undercurrent of psychedelia; which, upon hearing, you’d fine you were correct on all counts.
Rising from the early-mid '60s LA folk scene, The Association sought to expand their sound by incorporating elements of rock, jazz, and blues into their music. “Along Comes Mary,” the record’s lead single, does just that, fusing a garage-quality backbeat with three-part vocal harmonies. The other hit off the record, “Cherish,” works in a similar vein. If you don't recognize “Cherish” by title it's because the track has merged with your subconscious through decades of appearances in film soundtracks and prom themes. These hits, while nice enough, aren’t the most interesting aspects of this album. The Addrisi brothers’ collaboration, “Don’t Blame it On Me,” would have little trouble finding a place on Pet Sounds with its mourning of a young romantic relationship. Its stunning backing vocals woo and shape the song into a beautiful ode, while “Message of Our Love” sweeps forth with similar gusto.
These moments aside, it’s clear, after even a single listen, that The Association give us nothing new in the way of theme or sound. The voices of either the lonely or fulfilled suitor are steadily and unsurprisingly used throughout, and the music follows the well-worn paths of sunshine and psychedelic pop music. Where the record succeeds, however, is in its ability to articulate emotions through simple harmonies. They're so precise that they convey hope (“Enter the Young”), celebration (“Message of Our Love”), futility (“Don’t Blame it One Me”), and regret (“Remember”), by simply altering Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba lines.
The Association would never create a record as stirring as The Beatles, as catchy as The Beach Boys, or as affecting as Love. With the benefit of time it seems their best contributions lay in the creation of a handful of rousing songs and for solidifying an established genre. Their billing at the inaugural 1967 Monterey Pop Festival (which became a template for music festivals to this day) is a testament to this latter notion. Perhaps too high a price is placed onto innovation while not enough is given to those musicians who merely carry the torch. For the sake of 1960s psychedelic pop rockers The Association, they carried the torch while creating some memorable anthems along the way.
1970: Wizz Jones - The Legendary Me
British folk followed a circuitous route. After centuries of simmering, it took American interest in their rural heritage, which itself was largely based on the traditional music of the British Isles, to reinvigorate a new generation of English guitar pickers. Transient throughout much of the '60s as the American folk revival ebbed and dispersed, this tight-knit group began to surface on record in the late '60s looking simultaneously forward and backward.
By this point a lot of folkies had moved from covering old ballads to composing their own songs, frequently heading in stranger directions than their predecessors had ever dared. Wizz Jones held out against the turn towards more personal subject matter, as well as any deviation from traditional folk structures. The result is a soothing, effortlessly warm collection that is more woolly blanket than freak flag, highlighting the gorgeous melodies that are the hallmark of memorable folk songs.
And yet to cast Jones as a nostalgia-ridden holdover wouldn't be truthful either. While "If I'd Only Known" is his only original composition on this set, only two of them are folkie standards, the traditional "Keep Your Lamp Trimmed and Burning," and "Willie Moore," gleaned from Harry Smith's Anthology of American Folk Music. The other eight were written by Jones's close friend Alan Tunbridge, a graphic designer by trade and songwriter by hobby who proves adept at both the overarching human sentiment reminiscent of older folk songs and the detail-ridden emotional probing that is a singer-songwriter's stock-in-trade. A proficient finger-picker, Jones is capable of providing a mellifluous instrumental backing on his own, although he subtly, almost imperceptibly, adds piano, bass, or second guitar parts to many of the songs.
Burt Jansch acknowledged him as "the most underrated guitarist ever," and the three bonus live tracks included here show Jones interpreting the luminary's "Needle of Death," as well as doing justice to Leonard Cohen's "Sisters of Mercy." Those two choices accurately reflect the sphere Wizz Jones worked within. At a time when folk wanted to be either obtusely esoteric or tediously maudlin, Jones strove for a timeless style that reflects the kind of music worn-in by generations, yet re-imagined in a meta-conscious era.
1997: Jim O’Rourke - Bad Timing
Cooking something delicious doesn’t always require a heaping load of ingredients. Some of the best things I’ve ever tasted have been intelligently prepared single-food items.
For example, take an eggplant. Cut it in half and slather both open sides with olive oil until they are visibly yellowed by absorption. Add salt, pepper and a few red pepper flakes. Put it in the oven at 350˚ until a fork can ease softly into its cooked center. It’ll taste great, but keep in mind – you must use a prime eggplant.
Bad Timing is Jim O’Rourke’s eggplant dish, and he’s working with a
mighty fine vegetable.
O’Rourke’s produce is a drawn out and looped acoustic guitar, forming a seamless base structure for him to noodle and add/subtract over. It’s an eggplant grown on John Fahey’s musical farm, harkening back to Blind Joe Death/Dance of Death-era guitarage.
O’Rourke’s meticulous finger picking sets up an appetizing base. Keeping the ingredients to the bare minimum, he uses only what’s necessary to make the dish better as a whole. He drops in a dash of piano, a hint of synthesizer, and a sprinkling of electric and lap steel guitars. All of which take his creation to a new and gently celebratory place.
Subtlety dominates this record, but keep in mind there’s a very fine line between screaming by whispering and just quietly talking to yourself. What’s wonderful is how easy you lose yourself -- in a similar manner to listening to Neu! or even minimalists such as Burning Star Core or Keith Fullerton Whitman. Its droning simplicity makes you long for change, and when it comes, you’re gloriously uplifted.
“There’s Hell in Hello But More in Goodbye” meanders on Fahey’s farm for a significant amount of time and falls purposefully into a drone simmer that’s eventually built upon and explored. The less invasive “Bad Timing” also starts out with intriguing acoustic ramblings but systematically falls into a beautiful Alice in Wonderland wormhole, complete with ghostly feedback and snowy xylophone.
The larger tracks, “94 The Long Way” and the aptly named “Happy Trails,” start off with similar structures but launch off into a less drone-happy arena. “94 The Long Way” almost doesn’t make it out of the gate as O’Rourke fumbles with his eggplant -- it chugs on through, however, gaining firm footing. It’s reminiscent of that feeling you get at the beginning of a long journey: that early moment of anxiety that’s finally put at ease with the first rush of excitement when you hit the highway and smile triumphantly as you head off down the road.
“Happy Trails” offers the reverse, exploring that moment when you reach your destination and everyone is waiting for you in a big, over-the-top parade of waving friends. Its explosive opening is a realization that your trip has come to an end, evoking memories and finally focusing on the brave new world ahead. That world, moved ahead by the fun-loving drumming of Tortoise’s John McEntire, is a schlocky, Reno-esque commercial cowboy freak show, complete with horns and slide guitar. It’s fun as hell, but you have to wonder, "What the hell am I doing here?"
Getting back to the first analogy, this album’s base is the simple eggplant, but the constant building and taking away makes it dense with taste and information. O’Rourke is a master chef – not only with eggplant but with a lush variety of foodstuffs. In a time of fast food, tofu, and super expensive crap, this is an all together rare treat, so make sure you cherish this one, my fellow foodies.
2005: Jan Jelinek - Kosmischer Pitch
Like any number of other similar artists residing in the European glitch/microhouse arena, Berlin’s eminently prolific production maestro, Jan Jelinek, records under a variety of pseudonyms. On the Klang and Source labels, Jelinek has released several of his more dance-friendly records as both Farben and Gramm, respectively. But it’s his ~Scape recordings, on which he has chosen to record under his own name, that have been his most influentially successful works.
Though closer, rhythmically and sonically, to his earlier Gramm and Farben albums, Jelinek’s 2001 full length, Loop-Finding-Jazz-Records, was a breakthrough recording in the realm of minimalist techno. Utilizing a hip-hop aesthetic and transposing it upon the IDM template, Jelinek created a record constructed solely of samples from vintage jazz albums which were rendered virtually unrecognizable through digital manipulation. With each subsequent ~Scape release Jelinek has moved farther away from the realm of microhouse and into considerably more organic territory.
Kosmischer Pitch is without question Jan Jelinek’s most impressive release since his 2001 ~Scape debut. On several tracks, most notably “Universal Band Silhouette,” Jelinek returns to his dancier roots with this darkly upbeat techno piece. Though still using his sampler as a tool for the deconstruction of otherwise conventional recordings, Kosmischer Pitch features an abundance of samples identifiable as “live” instrumentation -- six-string and bass guitar in particular. Featuring an assortment of sound fragments lifted directly from the original LPs, Jelinek’s pieces vibrate with the warmth and static that accompanies vinyl needle noise. Ostensibly an homage to Krautrock, Kosmischer Pitch vaguely references Kraut and early progressive rock while still retaining a stylistically distinct, forward-leaning bent. To be fair, however, this record bears closer resemblance, however tenuous, to the “cosmic music” of Popol Vuh than his 2001 effort did to the jazz recordings that served as its original source material.
Similarly to Loop-Finding-Jazz-Reords, Kosmischer Pitch is a remarkably cohesive recording. The record’s eight lengthy pieces are moody, soporific, and convey a ponderous sense of atmosphere. Drones ebb and flow lazily throughout the recordings; even the few pieces which feature a drum machine have, on the whole, a lulling, trance-like effect. Jelinek, unlike many of his musical forebears, never ceases to astonish with his ability to place seemingly endless layers of samples upon each other to infuse each piece with a powerful and tactile musical density. Upon listening, particularly on the more drone-heavy second half of the album, it remains difficult to not be impressed with the meticulous construction of the tracks via an apparently infinite number of individual, discrete samples. Though Jan Jelinek has only been putting out albums since 1998, on Kosmischer Pitch, it sounds as if he’s been recording for ages.
2007: Shuttah - The Image Maker Vols. 1 & 2
I've practically given up on dollar-bin record shopping. My ability to judge proverbial books by their covers and to judge covers by the square inches they devote to musicians' chest hair (given the choice between two anonymous quiet storm soul LPs, side with the one whose auteur leaves the third button undone) has led me to some pleasant surprises. But once I get over the revelation that the past-prime BT Express album does indeed feature some funky breaks or the Wishbone Ash record does in fact, in its more placid moments, recall Terry Reid's River, I'm left with twelve-inches of empty signifiers that might beef up a Cultural Studies essay or a record collecting guide but will never give me persuasive reasons to listen closer, to listen more.
The Image Maker's charms linger a bit longer than those of most low-returns thrift store hauls. Partly because this ultra-obscure double-album is one giant vinyl-hound cryptogram. Though Shuttah's only LP was recorded on none other than progressive rock flagship label Vertigo's coin, these tunes never saw a proper release, and, more interestingly, no one is quite sure who played on the album. British copyright records don't reveal the songwriter's identity, and all information on the recording sessions has been lost. We know only two things for sure: these jams were committed to tape in 1971, and the culprits were likely involved in more prominent projects.
I won't venture any guesses as to the members' true identities -- sorry, I just don't feel like trudging through my old Renaissance and Procol Harum albums in search of clues. The Image Maker's high production values and adept songwriting do lead you to wonder how, exactly, this one fell through the cracks. Sure, the band veer into tepid bar rock waters when they try their hand at writing accessible songs, but this is at least marketable tepid bar rock, and the instrumental sections are top-notch. "Bull Run" is my favorite: panzer-sized riffs, storm-cloud fuzz organ, hallucinogenic snippets of military sound effects, out-there sax that could've come from John Surman or the dude who squawks all over Gong's Angel's Egg.
These genuinely inventive experimental cuts remind us that prog was never in theory a nauseating proposition. The genre's limitations come not from its ostentatious displays of virtuosity but from its failures to make good on its pretensions. Which happens here: the lyrical conceit -- some conflation of the Bible and a century of Anglo-American warfare -- never fleshes out. The statement Shuttah try so hard to make never fleshes itself out, kinda like how Isis' Panopticon never really elucidates its Foucaultian underpinnings. I don't doubt that this album will excite beard-strokers that enjoy being subsumed by menacing fuzz organ and enjoy the kitsch value of the lyrics' conceptual bent. Just don't listen to those people when they claim to take music seriously -- if they did, they'd admit that this album (like their Manassas, Tower of Power, and Yes records) is only a partial success, nice enough on its own terms but hardly a fount of missionary zeal.
1972: Day 5: Isaac Hayes - “If Loving You Is Wrong (I Don’t Want To Be Right)”
If there's one thing I've learned from my off-and-on viewing of daytime television for the past 20 years, it's this: Affairs, while always exciting and torrid in the beginning, generally work out very, very poorly. However, say you don't actually have the time or inclination to watch The Young and The Restless. No problem! You can experience the same lessons learned from someone else's infidelity through the magic of song instead.
Isaac Hayes' "If Loving You Is Wrong (I Don't Want To Be Right)" is an exquisitely crafted morality play in which a fictional protagonist finds himself torn between his role as a responsible, upright family man, and the woman he truly loves. If this were real life, we, the listeners, would be shocked and appalled by such blatantly duplicitous and cad-like behavior. Yet somehow Hayes' charm makes him the most sympathetic philanderer I've ever heard. His wounded, longing vocals is the sound of taking a jacuzzi in a vat of honey, while elsewhere the song is buoyed by his signature array of baroque touches -- in this instance sashaying saxophones and spine-tingling strings, with the subtle flutter of wah-wah guitar hiding in between. As the song climaxes, the dramatic flourishes of impassioned female vocals and sparse handclaps lead to a tense, heaving and exciting finish.
It’s true that you can't always choose who you fall in love with, and while this song doesn't hand out any real sage advice on actually cleaning up the foul mess that adultery leaves behind, it paints one of the most compelling and heartfelt portraits of unrequited love and covetous ruin ever committed to wax.