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.
1956: Moondog - Moondog
There are so many interesting subplots and contextual tangents embedded in the life story of the experimental street musician Moondog; his actual music could conceivably be overlooked. As a Kansas-born blind musician who, after his move to New York City, invented his own instruments and chose purposely (righteously?) to live on the streets and dress like a Viking, he seems akin to a fictitious character dreamt up by a NYU film student: "Who cares that he actually plays music, he is faaantastic!" Musically, he was seen as both an eccentric and a visionary who was admired by Philip Glass while influencing musicians ranging from Janis Joplin to Mr. Scruff. But years before he was conducting orchestras, his 1956 self-titled album portrayed him as burgeoning innovator – contextualizing the sounds of New York with his Great Plains background, and in the process, innocently challenging the limits of outsider music.
Without the benefit of sight or insulated walls, one could contend that a homeless, blind musician is the best-equipped person to truly “hear” a city. His album Moondog is his musical interpretation of the disorganized patchwork quilt that was 1950s Manhattan. The album’s melodies are often Asian-inspired and drift in and out of context, like a hurried immigrant trying to find his way through the crowded streets. The smells of the East Village, Chinatown, and Central Park are somehow conveyed through percussive shuffles and snaps. Through most of the album, Moondog symbolically keeps time with a steady thump-thump-thump on his tom-tom: homage to his playing with Native American chiefs as a youth. This consistent heartbeat not only backbones the album and represents the forward-moving machine of New York City, but it also whispers to the Western world that the Indians once owned the land, and we are lucky to be sharing their fertile earth. Right?
Moondog allegedly once said that Philip Glass anointed him the “father of minimalism,” even though he never wanted the title/burden of leading a musical movement. The songs on Moondog may be sparse, but they are also short, normally clocking in under two minutes. As quick and dirty encapsulations of larger musical visions, the songs are not necessarily minimalist in the same vein of an extended Terry Riley composition. Moondog’s work is delicate, direct, and overly observant, like a kindergartener describing his day at school. Additionally, unlike most other envelope-pushing modern composers of the time, Moondog did not have a debilitating obsession with tone. Instead, this album maintains a lo-fi charisma that invites the listener in, comforting him or her with warm, familiar melodies and a positive world outlook. Even though many people later saw Moondog as a kook or a hippie, very few doubted his early potential for creative, accessible musical expression. His self-titled album is the best example of how enjoyable American minimalism could have been and remains the ultimate tribute to the homeless, street musician.
2005: Human Television - Look At Who You’re Talking To
I bought Look At Who You’re Talking To at my local Newbury Comics after reading a review that likened Human Television to The Rain Parade. The shop only had one copy; though a week later, when I saw another stocked, I talked my girlfriend into buying it for herself.
We spent the whole summer listening to the record, but then didn’t play it for awhile. When I dusted it off a couple weeks ago, I got that sensation that folks my age -- folks who are sorta lying when they say they remember Nirvana -- get when they reminisce. It's a feeling that can't be nostalgia, because nostalgia is what our parents feel when they hear Al Green at weddings. I felt what only the sweetest, simplest, dumbest, most disposable pop music can make you feel. There’s no word for it, and there shouldn’t be. It's music that you once fell in love to, that you still think is all yours.
Human Television are from Gainesville, Florida, and while it’s clear they’re well-schooled in regional jangle-pop, they also dig Ride, Black Tambourine, and New Zealand stuff like The Clean, The Bats, The Chills, and The 3Ds. Their guitar sound is cheap and shambling and under-produced, often washing out the vocals completely, while the patchwork, conversational lyrics recall The Wedding Present.
Ten of the album's twelve songs are infectious, sun-kissed soft-rockers, while “I’m Moving On” slinks behind vaporous walls of MBV fuzz and “Untitled” flaunts punchy synth beats. Throughout, Human Television remain surprisingly affecting and unpretentious. And better than The Rain Parade.