1999: Einojuhani Rautavaara - Rautavaara: Cantus Arcticus/Piano Concerto No 1/Symphony No. 3

Let’s be frank. If you are going to buy a CD combining the best three works of Finnish composer Einojuhani Rautavaara, it’s because you are either (a) a doctoral student writing a thesis on Scandinavian classical music or (b) an open-minded music geek who heard that the work uses recorded bird calls as an instrument -- and you think that’s just some gnarly obscurity that you can use to impress your hipster friends*. However, unlike virtually all other “this-music-is-so-great, because-you-don’t-know-about-it” crap, Rautavaara’s music is truly enjoyable and rewarding. The composer's output is not obscure in the United States because it's bad; it just bears an unfortunate headline -- 20th Century neo-classical music from Finland.

You know, modern (or postmodern if you gotta be a dick about it) orchestral composers have it pretty rough. Their music is often unimaginably difficult to create but usually gets hidden somewhere behind a hundred Beethoven albums in the antiquated, all-encompassing “classical” section. Generations after classical music's golden age, these newer composers are unlikely to have an important page in the history books, and because the internet has effectively destroyed any chance for a lucrative career selling records, they must resort to lugging around cumbersome symphonies to half-filled community-sponsored theater halls to get any notice or paycheck (except for those who are more skillful at receiving governmental artistic grants). Einojuhani Rautavaara took a slightly different route, purposely changing up his musical styles (serialism, operatic, romanticism, avant-garde, neo-classicism, etc.), which kept his audiences on their toes and kept his music relevant. By the time he started experimenting with magnetic tape samples, electronics, and mysticism, no one saw him as an old kook resorting to record selling gimmicks; he was simply continuing his innovative path while earning the prestige associated with the most renowned Finnish composers.

Now, not to take anything away from this compilation's pianist (the lovely and talented Laura Mikkola – who is perhaps best known for performing Rautavaara’s works) nor the other works contained therein, but the highlight is Cantus Arcticus, Op. 61 (Concerto for Birds and Orchestra). What is noteworthy about the 1972 piece is that Rautavaara himself recorded Arctic bird calls in Northern Finland and composed an entire concerto based on -- and utilizing -- the recordings. Even more remarkable is that he slightly re-tuned the woodwinds in the orchestra to better match the featured avian guests. The end result comes together beautifully, delivering on the intent to transport the listener to an isolated Arctic island inhabited solely by mysterious birds, seen only in fleeting moments by ancient Nordic sailors. Rautavaara builds a delicate work that does not relegate the tapes to artsy ambiance, but relies upon them as the star of the show --the vital component that brings the entire concerto together. The (taped) birds bring life to the orchestra, and the orchestra makes the chirps and tweets lyrical.

An ample comparison to Rautavaara’s music are the building designs of Frank Lloyd Wright. Both bodies of work are unmistakably modern, seemingly natural extensions of their surroundings, and will frustrate purists for sidestepping the true-to-form status quo. However, most of Rautavaara’s work should not necessarily strike the listener as overly radical -- in fact, some of his best work (including Symphony Number 3 on this disc) is quite characteristic of late-19th Century romanticism. One must only imagine the effect if Lizst, Wagner, or Chopin had the technology available to blast recorded samples through speakers alongside their symphonies. Einojuhani Rautavaara is still alive and well today, still waxing mystical (as he has done for the later part of his career), and proudly stands as one of the most exceptional names in Finnish culture. Who knows, perhaps 50 years from now, when the Arctic birds have been killed off by global warming, the world will use Cantus Articus as the best means to visualize what a cold, Arctic environment was once like.

* Please note that the writer of this review does not intentionally intend to broadcast his ulterior motives for choosing this album.

1969: The Beatles - Abbey Road

By 1969, the once promising, fresh-faced Fab Four had, in essence, transformed into the weary, resentful Truculent Two. Guitarist George Harrison, drummer Ringo Star, and millions of melancholy fans watched on as the most successful songwriting duo in music history -- guitarist John Lennon and bassist Paul McCartney -- became bitter adversaries. Lennon and McCartney's lives were diverging along with their music. The once subtle differences in their influences -- compositional and stylistic predilections which led to the conception of peerlessly popular, exhilarating music -- had become an irreconcilable divide. Lennon’s influences were quickly shifting from the world of popular song to more broad, avant-garde art, similar to the works created by his girlfriend Yoko Ono. Contrastingly, McCartney, still heavily influenced by the ’50s rock of his childhood, remained fascinated with creating timeless pop anthems (though his broader artistic ambitions had become exceptionally inventive, such as his suggestion for the group to personify the fictitious Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band). Never was this artistic split more obvious musically than on the dialectic Abbey Road -- the final album recorded by The Beatles.

The initial eight tracks that comprise the album's first half are a traditional arrangement of full-length songs, as Lennon preferred. Fittingly, his memorable “Come Together” opens the album. Beginning with a superb McCartney bassline, an iconoclastic Lennon farcically strings together illicit drug and sexual imagery, while his eerie calls to be “shot” are accentuated by a clever Ringo hi-hat. Although the opener is a strikingly traditional composition in Lennon’s later-Beatles catalogue, his other full-length contributions are more telling of how he had matured and where he was heading creatively. The menacing “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” progressively combines an incessant blues riff, a hissing Moog synthesizer, and a sparse vocal track bound by a wall of guitars into a magnificently portentous testament of his love for Yoko, while the poignant “Because,” stripped of all rock ‘n’ roll archetypes, eloquently employs sophisticated harmonies to enliven and beautify some of Lennon’s most innocent lyrics: “Because the sky is blue it makes me cry/ Because the sky is blue – Ah – love is old, love is new/ Love is all, love is you.” The opening section is also memorable for Harrison’s contributions (“Something,” “Here Comes The Sun”), which portend his brilliant post-Beatles solo album, All Things Must Pass.

The final portion of the album encompasses the famous medley, spearheaded and dominated in content by McCartney. His eclectic “You Never Give Me Your Money,” a light-hearted, ultimately hopeful rumination on the band’s label troubles (“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven/ All good children go to heaven”), opens this section, but it is on McCartney’s climactic four-track finale where he truly shines. Whether it be his captivating melodies (“She Came In Through The Bathroom Window,” “Carry That Weight”), his knack for pithy, teary balladry (“Golden Slumbers”), or, as Lennon described to Playboy, his ability to be “philosophical” with a poignant Shakespearean couplet (“And, in the end/ The love you take/ Is equal to the love you make”), all of McCartney’s musical trademarks are at work. Combined with Lennon’s playful vocals on “Polythene Pam,” the group’s lush harmonies on “Sun King,” Harrison’s diverse guitar play -- including a memorable use of arpeggio (“Carry That Weight”) -- and Ringo’s notable drum solo on “The End,” the medley proves to be one of the most inspired and enjoyable pieces of music in The Beatles' extraordinary catalogue.

For a band that exceedingly composed their music around motifs of love, the breakup of The Beatles was dissonantly vitriolic. However, by putting their differences aside and recording Abbey Road with a passion for music they had nearly extinguished with petty disputes and grudges, The Beatles gave music fans another blissful musical experience that is still producing joy decades after its creation.

1980: Robert Fripp - God Save the Queen/Under Heavy Manners

In the whole tiresome CDs vs vinyl debate, there is one big advantage CDs have that hasn't been brought up: keeping all of the music on one side of a disc discourages the creation of ridiculous ‘split concept’ albums. Case in point, this 1980 release from King Crimson guitarist Robert Fripp is a split LP comprised of God Save the Queen on one side and Under Heavy Manners on the other, an unnatural pairing that never coheres into a satisfying listening experience.

God Save the Queen features Fripp playing his guitar through his standard Frippertronics setup. For those unfamiliar with Frippertronics, it consists of two tape recorders linked together to create delay effects, as the tape from one recorder is passed to the next. Utilizing this system, God Save The Queen is a meandering, spacey work, wherein various tones slide through the music and overlap each other. It's not bad.

Under Heavy Manners, on the other hand, is all about rhythm. Utilizing what Fripp calls Discotronics (I'm not kidding), a minimalist guitar part is repeated ad infinitum and overdubbed with funky bass and unfaltering drumming. To top it off, David Byrne (credited as Absalm el Habib) recites a list of words featuring the -ism suffix and some other seemingly nonsensical phrases. This is also not bad.

So what's the problem? Well, while each side is enjoyable, they are so dissimilar that one individual is unlikely to enjoy them both. Moreover, even if a person liked the two sides, they probably wouldn't be in the mood to listen to them back-to-back, because they cancel each other out: the amorphous tones of God Save the Queen spoil the excitement of Under Heavy Manners, and Under Heavy Manners is probably too intense for those in the mood for the meditative sounds of God Save the Queen.

Fripp has explored all of the musical concepts on display on this LP more fully elsewhere, so it is hardly essential listening. That being said, the collaboration with David Byrne is interesting, and God Save the Queen does create some nice ambiance that make this record worth picking up for the curious listener. Just don't count on playing more than half of it regularly.

1973: Paul Adolphus - The Dawn Wind

The Dawn Wind was a one-off collaboration between Australian Paul Adolphus and engineer-slash-multi-instrumentalist Mitsu Harada. Made in a rustic Japanese schoolroom studio just before Paul and his family moved back to his native land, the album commemorated time spent living in a little bohemian arts community outside Kyoto. Originally pressed to a mere 200 copies, it scattered to the trendy parts of Japan and quickly became a crown jewel of obscure folk with a psychedelic World Music bend, well before World Music was trendy.

Even with, or perhaps aided by, the quaint ravages of time, The Dawn Wind delivers a chill so relaxing it could make NyQuil retire. The come-all crash pad style in which these guys roll easily comes through, with Paul's pals sitting at his feet and lending a helping hand when the guitar and bongos aren't quite cutting the mustard. It's an authentic hippie pot party captured for all eternity.

Vibe aside, it's not too hard to see why this album isn't as highly sought after as, say, the average Incredible String Band vinyl. Paul's prowess on the acoustic guitar is passable at best -- not up to the Cat Stevens standards of the day -- while his Canned Heat/Nick Drake vocals struggle to keep it together. The whole shtick is endearing, and The Dawn Wind achieves all its goals, but there aren't any Waking Life "wow" moments to really make one hanker for a revisit, nothing forcing you to ponder how they did it. However, if you ever run out of patchouli or Nag Champa incense, a couple spins of this'll fix you right up.

1998: Cavity - Laid Insignificant

Cavity were one of those bands whose records had one small pressing; so, if you didn’t get in on it right away, you were out of luck. Despite being critically elevated to the top tier of ’90s sludge metal (with the likes of Eyehategod, Grief, and Crowbar), Cavity consciously decided to release highly sought-after albums in confoundingly small runs, which only furthered their cult status and led to existing copies being snatched up even quicker. Hydra Head has remastered and reissued Laid Insignificant, making it only the second readily available Cavity album after their similarly issued last hurrah, On the Lam. Hydra Head, this was a pretty great decision.

Laid Insignificant is the atypical Cavity album. It stands directly on that weird line between EP and LP, falling short of the “10 songs or half an hour” rule by two songs or a minute-and-a-half. If 28 minutes ever felt like an album, it does right here. Faster, significantly shorter, and more intense than any other Cavity album, Laid Insignificant would also get straight-up tiring if it went on for much longer. But it’s just right, with a stronger album dynamic than most records twice its length. I usually don’t consider myself much of a metal guy, but shit, this album rules.

Things kick off with three structurally befuddling five minute tracks that eat up over half the album’s running time. Main songwriter Dan Gorostiaga stuffed these songs full. Each one goes from thrashing and flogging to slow, threatening bass grooves to straight feedback with no forewarning. Multiple listens reveal just how perfect the timing is; ideas show up, explain themselves, then exit right when they need to. No one overstays their welcome. The next four are short, stinging, harsh tracks that work the same way but with no remission; they’ve got the Wire-esque “Okay, that idea’s done -- next song” ethic.

Fantastic as it all is, closer “A Bitter Cold Spell” is what really pushes Laid Insignificant toward necessity. Vocalist Rene Barge should get a lot of credit for what makes Cavity so successful. Metal bands usually present extremes when it comes to vocals: you’ve got your screamers, your melodious guys, and the guys who split their time between the two. Barge somehow manages to scream melodiously. I don’t even know. Way to go. Most the time the lyrics are indecipherable (no surprise), but “A Bitter Cold Spell” opens with a couplet you can decipher only as it smacks you upside the head: "Medic, where have you been for nine months?/ You’re having a baby." It’s sung over a vaguely Slint-y bass groove, augmented by the sort of spindly guitars U.S. Maple play when they get more traditionally melodic. The track just builds volume and layers from there, while Barge becomes increasingly frantic and guttural until he drops out, incapable of keeping up with the instrumentation. But when they meet up again, let me tell you...

1977: Caroline Peyton - Intuition

Lurching out from the press sheet for the reissue of Caroline Peyton’s 1977 release, Intuition, is the remark that the album has never before been available on CD. Immediately two questions arise: Am I holding a musical gem that has somehow eluded due attention, or has it been lost in the stacks for three decades with good reason? After listening to the record I found, sadly, that the answer is the latter.

Intuition falters in spite of itself. Ms. Peyton, former vocalist of the Screaming Gypsy Bandits, has a beautiful voice and her session musicians play compelling blues-rock on many of the songs, but problems arise in the melding of the two. Peyton’s well-trained choral voice, coated with innocence and clarity, betrays the rusty, bar-band guitar licks that accompany her --and it doesn’t matter how earnestly she roughs up the lyrical vowels-- there simply isn’t enough wear in her voice to sell lines like, ”Black spots on my eyes/ Can’t see my feet” (“Donkey Blues”). “Party Line,” the album’s sole disco number, finds Peyton in a better element, revealing the perfectly lazy, celebratory diction for dance-floor stardom. Holding the song from such heights, though, is its paper-thin synth accompaniment and a similarly malnourished backing vocal track. Unfortunately, Intuition allows the listener to play these hypothetical games with virtually every song: “this would be lovely if the piano were heftier” (“Just As We”) or “if that chorus was fleshed out a bit more, that could have been so soulful” (“Brister”). The exception comes with “Call of the Wild,” where Peyton, behind her acoustic guitar, crafts a perfect song. Here, a solemn vocal arc is meticulously revealed over a tastefully ambitious folk background that mirrors, but doesn’t mimic, much of Joni Mitchell’s early-’70s output.

Ultimately, Intuition plays like an audition tape, leaping between genres with little emotional investment or purpose. It’s successful in revealing Peyton's serviceable vocal range for jazz, blues, or funk, but it prevents anything (save “Call of the Wild” and perhaps “All this Waiting”) from becoming truly compelling -- and yet, a voice like hers should be heard. Through the 1980s and 1990s, she enjoyed a career on the stage; performing musical theater, often with the genre’s largest company, Disney. So, as I remove the CD from my player and lay aside the hypothetical arguments that define Intuition, it’s a comfort to know that Caroline Peyton did find her place and eventually put her voice to good use.

  

There's a lot of good music out there, and it's not all being released this year. With DeLorean, we aim to rediscover overlooked artists and genres, to listen to music historically and contextually, to underscore the fluidity of music. While we will cover reissues here, our focus will be on music that's not being pushed by a PR firm.