It sounds like a can’t-miss proposition: Paul Simon, with only an acoustic guitar as accompaniment, playing some of his best-known songs. This approach, as with some Unplugged entries and the recent Randy Newman Songbook, Vol. 1, often reacquaints the listener with a song, but it doesn’t completely work here.
This set is somewhat awkward, assumedly because Paul Simon was in an awkward place in 1965. His first record with Art Garfunkel, Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M., failed to sell, so he moved to England for a new audience. Simon played the London coffeehouse circuit and became a minor sensation, so his label CBS (now Columbia) Records sent him into the studio for a solo release as a quick profit.
Though “The Sound of Silence” was the only signature Simon & Garfunkel song to appear on their debut record, Simon had already written a handful of tracks that would become the duo’s greatest hits. Some of those appear here -- “The Sound of Silence,” “I Am a Rock,” “April Come She Will,” “Leaves That Are Green” -- and maybe it’s because they’re comfortingly familiar, but those are the songs on Songbook that work best. It’s alarming to hear these songs without Garfunkel, and it’s alternately rewarding and disheartening to hear Simon take center stage on songs built for two.
“I Am a Rock” benefits most from the solo treatment. The song features Simon banging away on his guitar, which makes the lyrics (“Don’t talk of love/ I’ve heard the word before”) sound angrier than on the version we all know. The Songbook rendition of “The Sound Of Silence” is also a revelation; although Wednesday Morning featured an acoustic version, hearing Simon sing it solo lends the song appropriate intimacy. “Kathy’s Song,” one of Simon’s best works, is the record’s centerpiece, and this arrangement – even more so than the better-known live solo version – makes the song harshly personal. Last line “there but for the grace of you go I” just doesn’t sound right followed by applause.
While some songs benefit from being stripped down, others suffer. “A Simple Desultory Philippic (Or How I Was Robert McNamara’d Into Submission)” is even more embarrassing here than on the following year’s Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme. Simon’s Dylan impression is uncanny, but the talking-blues parody, timely in 1965, now sounds tired. It’s hard to imagine Simon thinking much of this song today.
Though it doesn’t reflect Paul Simon’s deservedly sterling reputation, The Paul Simon Songbook offers a fascinating glimpse at the singer-songwriter in a moment of artistic uncertainty. For Simon, this was a rare place to be.
The following review includes an interview with Nick Drake producer Joe Boyd.
Since his premature death in 1974, English folk singer Nick Drake has slowly cultivated the kind of following that eluded him in life. Though too shy and introverted to gain commercial success, they are those very qualities that have earned him a devoted following that includes luminaries like Robert Smith (who named The Cure after Drake’s song “Time Has Told Me”), Paul Weller, and Peter Buck, not to mention legions of folk disciples.
Fruit Tree is a re-issue of the 1979 boxset that collected Drake’s discography, Five Leaves Left (1969), Bryter Layter (1970), and Pink Moon (1972). Sanctioned by the Drake Estate, the new edition curiously omits Time Of No Reply, a collection of rare tracks, home recordings, and the last four songs Drake wrote and recorded, originally released with the set, but offers in their place a new 108-page book featuring song-by-song analysis by producer Joe Boyd, engineer John Wood, arranger Robert Kirby, and songwriter/music journalist and friend Robin Frederick, and a bio film, A Skin Too Few, directed by Jeroen Berkvens and featuring interviews with Boyd, Wood, Kirby, Paul Weller, and Drake’s sister Gabrielle.
Fruit Tree, as a whole, suggests taking a fresh look at Nick Drake. Long associated with words like 'pastoral,' 'introverted,' and 'mysterious,' the curious career arc of Drake’s lone three albums prompts other descriptions to be applied: the orchestral mysticism of Five Leaves Left, giving way to the jazz-rock fusion of Bryter Layter, and bleeding into the minimally bleak beauty of Pink Moon suggest an artist searching not only for an appreciative and receptive audience, but also for the most effective methods to convey his songs.
Drake’s outsider art, separated from his folk peers by his distinct roots in American gospel, blues, and R&B, and set aside from more contemporary fans by his quaint Englishness, places him in the category of artists like Daniel Johnston, Roky Erikson, and Elliott Smith, not in musical similarity (not that the late Smith’s acoustic works don’t owe something to Drake’s work, especially Pink Moon), but in those artists' own difficulty in maneuvering the base world of rock ’n’ roll media. Enormously talented and proficient, but far too withdrawn to emotionally deal with the rock ’n’ roll spotlight, the din of the concert-going crowd, and his own worries of irrelevance, Drake was perceived by some of the rock lit crowd as a spoiled, depressed silver-spooner.
Of course, there’s far more to Drake’s music than the 'sad bastard' umbrella is able to cover. The delicate, virginal quality of his voice, never rising above a whisper and inherited from his folk-singing mother (aptly demonstrated by snippets of her work included in the Skin Too Few film), his jazz- and blues-inflected cluster chords, the workmanlike stability of his picking patterns -- they all reveal an artist not concerned with any particular scene, other than the one in his head.
And the lyrics! Always suggesting a man out of step with everything, pleading for “a second grace,” “a place to be,” or mourning a fruit tree that “can never flourish ’til its stock is in the ground.” Or one who couldn’t recognize those around him who tried to be those fruit tree roots: “Know that I love you, know I don’t care/ Know that I see you, know I’m not there.” We find him praying for “warmth and green paper” in the rainy streets under the chiming city clock. Throughout his three albums, Drake uses only the lowliest terms to label himself: a clown, a parasite, a poor boy.
Yet hope and beauty are constant: the sprightly humor of “Hazey Jane II,” the utterly romantic vision of “Northern Sky.” the hard-earned resolution of “The Day is Done.” With a song like “Pink Moon,” Drake manages to somehow encapsulate both the eschatological joy and fear of impending judgment. Feats like this are rare, and their soft accomplishment echoes on in the sounds and tones of Drake’s cult today.
Perhaps it’s best that Time of No Reply has been left out of this definitive version of Fruit Tree. Though fascinating, it’s best to view Nick Drake in light of his three albums. His scarce output only highlights the mystery inherent to Drake’s music. We are left with only them, coherent and complete, and a vision of an artist that remains an enigma to even those closest to them.
The following is a brief interview with Joe Boyd, the man who discovered Nick Drake, managed him under his Witchseason Productions, and produced his first two albums, Five Leaves Left and Bryter Layter.
Nick Drake’s music has a few particular adjectives that seem to follow it: 'magical,' 'mysterious,' 'fragile.' How to do you feel these descriptions fare against your experience with Nick? What words would you like applied to his art, lyrics, and overall working approach? What words would you use to describe his music to someone who has never heard him?
JB: Literate words, complicated and sophisticated musicianship, very English.
You’ve stated that you feel one of the reasons traditionally English-based folk music has had difficulty finding an audience in America is a certain lack of “swing or color” often associated with pop music in America, descended from R&B roots. Yet Nick’s music is awash with elements of jazz, gospel, and blues music, all heavily American in origin. What do you think made an audience so elusive for Nick in his lifetime? How much of the incorporation of these elements came from you and your direction of the rhythm section on Five Leaves Left and Bryter Layter?
JB: Nick’s music is rhythmically rooted in the Anglo-American pop music/jazz tradition and does not have the handicap of ‘English folkiness’ that for example Richard Thompson has. He failed in his lifetime because a) he didn’t perform live; b) there was no UK radio who would play his records on a regular basis and c) we never got a U.S. deal in his lifetime so he never benefited from the golden age of ‘free-form radio’ where his music might have gained exposure.
It seems in many ways that Nick was his own worst enemy when it came to promotion. His live shows are legendary in their raggedness. Were there any good Nick Drake shows? Did you feel unwillingness on Nick’s part to promote (via live shows, interviews, radio spots) his albums? Did the confrontational tone of many of his lyrics (lines that dealt with his lack of compensation or recognition) ever strike you as odd in relation to his perceived aversion to fame, and his refusal to position himself promotionally? Did you ever feel Nick was deliberately sabotaging himself?
JB: Nick was not averse to fame at all. But he had no ability to talk to an audience and was crushed by gigs where the audience talked through his music. The one great gig was opening for Fairport Convention at the Royal Festival hall in November 1969. Nick was just a very shy person who never found a way to reach an audience. I expected the records to create an attentive audience who would shut up and listen to him, but they didn’t.
In recent years, due in large part to the emerging popularity of free-folk artists like Devendra Banhart and Joanna Newsom, bands like the Incredible String Band, Pentangle, Fairport Convention, and Vashti Bunyan have all received some well-deserved attention. How do you feel Nick is connected to these artists (other than the formal connections of Richard Thompson, Linda Thompson, Danny Thompson, and Dave Mattacks)? Did Nick feel any sense of community with these artists, or vice-versa, or did Nick’s illness make it difficult for him to make the connections? Do you think Nick considered himself a 'folkie?'
JB: Nick was definitely not a folkie. He liked some folk music but never spent much time with other musicians except for John Martyn, and that was more due to Beverly Martyn’s mothering instincts for Nick rather than genuine friendship between the two singers. He did bond with musicians like Danny Thompson and Dave Mattacks who played on his records, but the comradeship was limited mostly to the studio.
How would you describe John Cale’s contributions to Bryter Layter, and his influence on Nick personally and musically?
JB: John took over two tracks in whirlwind fashion and did a great job. I am not sure whether Nick liked them or not, but everyone else did. That was the beginning and end of it. John went back to New York and I am not aware that he saw Nick again.
John Wood, who produced Pink Moon with Nick, said that he couldn’t listen to the album for years. What do you think of Pink Moon? Being close to Nick, is its stark honesty and nakedness difficult for you to handle at all? Did its rejection of a certain level of production standards feel at all personal to you?
JB: It did take me a while to appreciate Pink Moon since at the time I thought it was commercial suicide. He may well have felt that everyone – me, Kirby, etc – took things a bit too far with Bryter Layter.
How did you feel about Nick’s final sessions? Where you present for any of the sessions? By all accounts the experience was harrowing, yet the trip to Sound Techniques seemed to temporarily cheer him up. What did you think would come of a fourth album, if anything? Did you have any ideas about or for it?
JB: I was there and it was harrowing to see someone who used to record live with an orchestra struggle to sing and play guitar at the same time. I think Nick was gratified to have finished the four songs but I didn’t see him acting cheerful about it.
Lastly, I’d like to ask how you feel about the new Fruit Tree reissue. How involved in the project have you been? Do you feel that the additions to the reissue add anything new to Nick’s legacy? Do you see the “Fruit Tree” presenting a complete idea of who Nick was, or do you feel that there will always be a portion of Nick shrouded in mystery? How important is the mystique of Nick to his music?
JB: I haven’t seen or heard Fruit Tree yet so I can’t comment. But getting the 3 albums together has always been a good idea.
1973: Guru Guru - Guru Guru
There’s something to be said for a band that sounds like they have fun playing together. If you are familiar with the most well-known names in Krautrock — Amon Duul II, Kraftwerk, Neu!, Can, and Faust—then you can appreciate that this particular period in German music isn’t exactly known for bands with a light-hearted sense of humor. So imagine my surprise after hearing Guru Guru whip through a 13-minute medley that ends with a tribute to Eddie Cochran. I guess Germans did have a good time. Who knew?
What you may expect from a band that jammed with Amon Duul II and Can is a moody, atonal mind-fuck of an album. What you actually get is a view of the German equivalent to rock pranksters Frank Zappa, The Residents, Ween, or even (gulp) Primus. Don’t let those comparisons scare you away, though. Guru Guru don’t sound like any of the aforementioned groups (save for maybe Zappa at times), but they do have two things in common with all of them: a damaged sense of humor, and the musical ability to melt your brain if they so desire.
Guru Guru’s first cut, “Samantha’s Rabbit,” starts off with awkwardly propulsive drumming before settling into a hybrid between the fractured melodies of early Pink Floyd and the more traditional blooz-rawk of Cream. However, it’s the song structures that truly throw the listener for a loop. When things become too pedestrian, the band stops on a dime and heads to the polar opposite of where you may have thought they were going. Perverse? Maybe. Interesting? Definitely.
As the album progresses, it becomes increasingly surreal, as if the band is living in a self-imposed psychedelic fantasy. “Woman Drum” sounds like the trio has imagined themselves sitting in the clouds, smoking hash out of a hookah with Little Richard and Chuck Berry. “Der Elektrolurch” is all tribal toms and deftly plucked electric guitar that conjures up a collaboration between Popol Vuh and the Grateful Dead, before devolving into a Faust-like mush of disjointed electronics and spoken word. The band then comes full-circle to kick out some echoed arena-rock histrionics that will make you wonder if they seriously wanted to rock you, or if they’re just taking the piss out of the musical trends of their era.
On the other hand, with Guru Guru, trying to figure out whether or not the band is joking is hardly the point. It takes a certain type of album to remind you that having a good time is all that should really matter. The music here doesn’t blow (sober) minds, and you definitely won’t develop an emotional attachment to it, but in its own way Guru Guru is a mind-fuck album in a genre packed with mind-fuck albums, just not in the way that you were expecting it to be.
Pioneering in modern music usually follows some chronological track that’s easy to follow. Blues, for example, can be traced down the Mississippi River to its southernmost deltas, where men in shacks laced together solemn guitar signatures and the lyrical laments of field workers. Most music, in fact, can similarly trace its origin to a specific source. Psychedelic rock, however, the music that soundtracked the ‘flower power’ movement, doesn’t have such a clear lineage. The daunting volume of bands that, between the years 1966 and 1969, were willing to share their standard rock setup (guitar-bass-drums-piano) with a more expansive collection of sitars, strings, brass, organs, and woodwinds would contrarily suggest a nebulous, spontaneous musical origin if any existed at all. Recording efforts put particular pressure on producers, who each tried to capture the sonic spirit of an expanding sociopolitical consciousness (particularly of Asian culture) that defied any existing convention. The swell of music produced under the Flower Power banner all seemed to adopt some form of wayward, blurred, day-glo, meter-hopping motif. And like all movements and fads, a certain deconvolution was necessary in order to discern genuine conviction from empty fashion.
The Blossom Toes’ 1967 LP We Are Ever So Clean will forever have a place in flower power while at the same time, existing somewhere on this continuum between creativity (“Mrs. Murphy’s Budgerigar” sounds like a template for The Zombies’ 1968 Odyssey and Oracle) and fashion (the LSD-placebo laden, “The Remarkable Saga of the Frozen Dog”). “Look at Me, I’m You” introduces the record with a driving two-chord guitar line. The song then shifts into bubbling vocal harmonies and abstract lyrical lines that swirl in and out of the speakers: “The air is filled with coal dust/ The rain is making me rust.” Then an orchestral coda ensues for a few measures before the song shifts back into the driving rock that frames the song. While such schizophrenia does well to characterize psychedelic rock music, it’s poorly executed here with its layers of awkward texture. Simply put, The Blossom Toes’ adherence to blues-rock rhythms create rigid song structures that don’t lend well to these time-signature bends and instrumental arrangements that turn on a dime. This contrasts, for example, with Love’s “You Set the Scene” that, with its loose jazz rhythm, can readily be crafted into varying textures and arrangements. In spite of its auspicious introduction, We Are Ever So Clean has plenty of rousing moments, the best of which happen when a more homogeneous approach is employed. “Love Is” is an elegant song that could very well be a root of chamber pop as we know it today. It’s a short, ruminative piece with the perfect amount of tempered ambition. “Mister Watchmaker” compels in the same sense. In a perfect world, “Late for Tea” would rival “Time of the Season” and “With a Little Help From My Friends” as psychedelic rock’s crowning anthem.
As a DeLorean writer, I’m often leery of reissue bonus tracks, but the strength of those included on this collection bare mentioning. The live versions of “Mister Watchmaker” and “Love Is” invite the listener into an even greater intimacy than their beautiful recorded counterparts. A confident and loyal cover of Bob Dylan’s “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight” serves to tie this collection into the context of the late 1960s pop. Included also is an instrumental version of “Look at Me, I’m You” that drives forth with genuine rock abandon. Clearly, its finished counterpart that found its way onto the record fell victim to an overzealous editing session. Its inclusion is telling: allowing us to glimpse the sketchpad of ideas stirring among the band and the unfortunate role that production had in diluting it. And it’s this notion that prevents We Are Ever So Clean from being a landmark psychedelic record. Ambition and zeal. Surely a sign of the times.
Have you ever seen Twin Peaks, David Lynch’s TV show with Mark Frost? It was a cult hit on ABC about 20 ago, and the whole series was just released on DVD in October 2007. If you’ve only seen Lynch’s movies, then let me assure you, Peaks is just as crazy and wonderful as anything else he’s ever done -- if not more so, mainly because it’s a product of network television. His weirdness isn’t watered down; it’s buried and blurred -- lots of freaky sex and mysticism scuttling underneath sincere melodrama.
16 Lovers Lane is a pop record with a similar vision. On the surface, it’s bright and shiny and deceptively sweet, while swirling down below are insistent themes of pain, destruction, obsession, and abuse. And there’s a strange tension to the music itself -- the crisp guitar lines skitter this way and that, colliding at odd angles. But it’s catchy as hell and so romantic.
The Go-Betweens were a breathy indie-pop group from Brisbane, Australia, based around the songwriting partnership of singers/guitarists Robert Forster and Grant McLennan (to be perfectly reductive, concerning their respective styles, Forster was Lennon and McLennan was McCarthy). Their 12-year career produced five albums of stunning beauty and accessibility, and their inexplicable lack of mainstream recognition eventually became something of a joke among critics. “The quintessential cult band of the ‘80s,” says Allmusic.com.
The band had been living in London for five years when, in 1987, they relocated to Sidney and recorded what would be their final, and greatest, effort. They had a new producer, Mark Wallis -- “very much a producer producer,” according to Forster. “There were large amounts of time when we weren’t in the studio and he would be there... diddling and doodling and polishing and polishing.” The record ended up being mostly acoustic, with an emphasis on fuzzy pop atmosphere and lush string arrangements.
The songs on 16 Lovers Lane are all perfect. McLennan’s “Streets of Your Town” was the closest the group ever came to a radio hit. “Quiet Heart” rips off U2 and then puts them to shame. But if the album has a centerpiece, it’s Forster’s “Clouds”: “Blue air I crave/ Blue air I breathe/ They once chopped my heart the way you chop a tree,” he drones over sheets of twinkling guitar effects, accompanied ever so slightly by violinist/vocalist Amanda Brown. “Visions of blue/ I’m angry I’m wise/ And you/ You’re under cloudy skies” Anyone who is capable of love should hear “Clouds” at least once before they or their lover die.
The band split up in 1989, but in 2000 Forster and McLennan found their way back into each other's arms and released a slew of decent new material, even winning an Australian Recording Industry Association Music Award for Best Adult Contemporary Album (???). On May 6, 2006, Grant McLennan died of a heart attack. He was 48.
I imagine that if I ever write and direct a quirky, autobiographical indie flick, The Go-Betweens will find their way onto the soundtrack, right alongside Nick Drake and Yo La Tengo.
What are you listening to?
The Go-Betweens. Ever hear of ‘em?
You have to hear this one song. It’ll change your life.
“(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay” was supposed to inaugurate a venture into new musical horizons for Otis Redding. Known principally for his Stax-style deep southern soul – with its raucous gospel-influenced vocals, blasts of brass, and bluesy grooves – Redding’s new record disparately mixed the bucolic sounds of country and folk with his already sundry soul repertoire to create a truly distinct, pioneering sound. Equal parts Bob Dylan, Ray Charles, and The Animals, it was an oddly effective melding of dissonant musical touchstones. Redding’s melancholic tenor and wistful, indolent lyrics (“Cause I’ve had nothing to live for/ And look like nothin’s gonna’ come my way/ So I’m just gonna’ sit on the dock of the bay/ Watching the tide roll away/ Ooo, I'm sittin’ on the dock of the bay/Wastin’ time,”) resonated even more pronouncedly in the aftermath of what occurred just three short days after the recording of this record.
Redding's new horizons were never fully reached, as providence had other plans. He and four members of The Bar-Keys, his backup band, were killed when the plane they were traveling on crashed into Lake Monona on December 10, 1967. The posthumously released album that followed, The Dock of the Bay, proved an effective elegy, as its mixture of singles, B-sides, and unreleased tracks dating back to 1965 showcase what made Redding such a beloved, and iconic figure: his ability to play Casanova.
Redding was virtually peerless when heart-wrenchingly pouring his heart out. The skilfully composed ballad “I Love You More Than Words Can Say,” with its hushed, persistent string section, slowly builds, as Redding pleads with his would-be lover: “Living without you is so painful/ I was tempted to call it a day/ You’ve got me in your hand, why can’t you understand.” Redding’s remake of the Five Keys’ seminal doo-wop classic “The Glory of Love” is a brilliant transformation, as he turns it into grand, rousing gospel. Beginning as a dirge of lost love (“let your little heart just cry a little”), Redding soon begins shouting about “the glory of love” – backed by coronation-esque trumpet bursts – like a prophet spreading the gospel of affection and devotion.
Redding’s playful side is on display as well. On “Let Me Come Home,” he plays the part of a homesick lover expounding the positive aspects of breaking up (“the makeup sex”), backed by a stellar blues groove. Meanwhile, the second most recognizable track on the album, the Top 40 hit “Tramp,” finds Redding involved in a flirty repartee with his favorite duet partner, songstress Carla Thomas: “I tell you one thing/ Well tell me/ I'm the only son-of-a-gun this side of the Sun/ You're a tramp, Otis/ No I'm not/ I don't care what you say, you're still a tramp/ What's wrong with that?”
The blues number “Ole Man Trouble” proves to be an apropos conclusion to an album that was supposed to dream so highly, but tragically never had the opportunity to do so. Pleading with “ole man trouble” to “find... someone else to pick on,” Redding proved himself to be prophetic in getting “a little worried.” Although it will never be known what heights Redding would have achieved after “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay,” The Dock of the Bay proves the canon of soul classics he left stand up perfectly well on their own to any standard of taste.
Tell me if this story sounds familiar: "Could have been, promising, young artist" blows his wad with overly ambitious magnum opus that goes largely ignored by the mainstream, destroying his confidence and prematurely ending the musician's budding career. Re-released 27 years later, the album enjoys a massive PR blitz and gets grouped alongside world superstars ranging from David Byrne to Fela Kuti, while the rock critics provide an unceasing parade of linguistic fellatio in order to finally give the album the credibility it has always deserved.
Well, its a story that does not seem particularly unusual given the immediacy of the internet age, the essentialness of music marketing, and the (sneeze) perpetual lack of musical talent in the "mainstream" channels. If anything, the story should seem god-damned old by now, given all the impressive and effusive praise that has been heaped upon the 2001 Luaka Bop reissue of Inspiration Information. However, even though similar tales have recently been all the rage (Nick Drake, Daniel Johnston, Bobb Trimble, etc.), very few can match the scope of the Shuggie Otis saga. This cat really should have been famous and it is truly amazing that Inspiration Information was virtually ignored for a generation.
As the son of the legendary R&B bandleader Johnny Otis, Shuggie proved to be a prodigal musician at an early age, cultivating urban legends about his guitar skill, afro, and wispy mustache while he was still a preteen. As a full-teen he had the opportunity (and talent) to gig with his dad and hobnob with some of the most revered rock and blues stars of the day, playing guitar (and getting title credit) on all the tracks of Al Kooper's 1969 In Session album when he was only 15. In 1974, at the tender age of 21, Shuggie released his third solo album Inspiration Information, a musical masterwork that would have finally broken him free from his father's traditional boogie ‘n’ blues image, and it should have propelled him into the limelight on his own terms. Sadly, the album tanked.
In perfect hindsight, what makes Inspiration Information a phenomenal effort is probably what prevented it from becoming successful when it was released -- Shuggie had too many creative ideas and wanted to be all things to all people. But when you’re expecting to sell records as a commercial recording artist, you can’t please everyone! You can’t tickle the Sly and the Family Stone sound and expect to win over the partying fan base, especially when the next track is a slow, introspective blues number. So, similar to listening to Brian Wilson's SMiLE, we (as savvy, contemporary music listeners) now get pleasure both from wallowing in the overabundance of Shuggie’s musical cleverness as well as from the guilty joy of witnessing a young genius put his heart on the line, not yet seasoned with the courage to say "no" to an idea. Playing nearly every instrument on the album (except orchestral), Shuggie essentially makes a supreme pizza – sprinkling flavors of pop, psychadelic rock, blues, Detroit soul, jazz fusion, stoner jam, funk, sensitive introspection, and electronica – baked in Southern California sunshine. It’s the soundtrack to a DJ Shadow, Cee-Lo, Gilles Peterson, and Beck circle jerk.
Although touching on many of the same influences, Shuggie was careful to distance Inspiration Information from the over self-indulgence that plagued many of the other "funky" artists of the 1970s. In addition to complex chord changes, lush instrumentation, and fractional rhythms that give those who listen to a lot of music a chance to pop off, the album works best because it is simply pretty. Including the last four songs on the 2001 reissue, which were previously recorded on his Freedom Flight album, the album maintains cohesion and has a progressive, if not overly Morning Becomes Eclectic flow, shifting seamlessly between trippy meadows and lonesome dance halls. The title track (sampled by Digable Planets), "Strawberry Letter 23" (successfully covered by The Brothers Johnson and later jacked by OutKast), ""Aht Uh Mi Hed"" (the most accessible), and ""XL-30"" (early electronica) are the songs that get the most attention, but as just mentioned, this album is really best listened to as a whole album that transports you to a more mellow, more self-aware place.
Inspiration Information’s sympathy-inducing back story and the corresponding plethora of written critiques fighting for the album’s historical relevance both help the listener keep the music in perspective, but it's all superfluous fodder unneeded for the enjoyment of the album. Inspiration Information is a cheeky, pleasing album that is a perfect backdrop to driving along the Pacific Coast Highway or for stoned-unkempt-‘70s-pubic hair sex.
1969: Alexander Spence - Oar
"There is a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased that line." -Oscar Levant
It is rather unfortunate the train-wreck magnetism mental illness creates on the works of musicians, from the took-so-much-acid-he-lost-his-shit stories of Syd Barrett, to the uncomfortable-to-watch mental breakdown documentary footage of The Devil and Daniel Johnston, along with every other stop on the crazy train you could come up with. It seems glorifying the tales of madness surrounding those unlucky enough to suffer from their psychological conditions goes hand in hand with any of the music they recorded, even giving them an enhanced mystique. Whether all these extracurricular tidbits of musician's lives serve to put their art into context, or perhaps even to overshadow it, it is almost inevitable you'll get one with the other. It may be completely cliché of me to once again exploit the saga that unfolded leading up to the recording of Alexander ‘Skip’ Spence’s Oar, but it's almost impossible not to. If you're already familiar with his sensationalistic history, bear with me while I get the rest of you up to speed on the cult of Oar.
Skip Spence found himself in San Francisco during the mid-‘60s and quickly made his way into the upper echelon of the psychedelic music scene in that city as the drummer for Jefferson Airplane on their first album and as a founding guitarist in Moby Grape. Skip took part in the cultural spirit of all that was going on at that groovy time and place, including the copious drug-ingesting hippie ethos. While Moby Grape were recording their second album in New York in ‘68, the events that allegedly unfolded went something along the lines of the following:
Skip was hanging out with a groupie who was deep into black magic. The groupie fed Spence a heavy dose of LSD, convinced him his bandmates were possessed with demons that were out to get him, and next thing you know ol' Skip is chasing the other guys with a fireman's axe, attempting to chop them into little pieces. Fast-forward to a six-month stint of staring at the white walls in the criminal ward of Bellevue Hospital where the diagnosed schizophrenic Spence must have been sautéing in his creative juices, because after being released, he bought a motorcycle and, while wearing his hospital jammies, drove to Nashville to record his one and only solo album in a two-week exploration of his fractured soul. Is this not the fantastic shit that a movie is just waiting to be made about?
Apparently, the peace-and-love generation weren't ready for such a rough-around-the-edges record rippling with dark undercurrents. The Manson Family had yet to make headlines, and the Stones had yet to play at the summer of love hangover known as Altamont. The album tanked upon release.
Listening to Oar leaves me feeling unhinged. I'd assume only the bravest explorers of mental terrain could handle the heavy unease of these songs on their psyches. It’s like a lullaby to a nightmare, a schizophrenia soundtrack, a channeling of personal fire and brimstone with analogies to angels and demons. As patronizing as putting an outsider artists on a pedestal comes across, there is an allure to being the voyeur looking into another person’s inner turmoils.
But all pomp and circumstance aside, Oar was also one of the very first albums where every vocal, instrument, and overdub were recorded by one person only. Skip did it all. It was a rare event back in the day. In the eyes of many, such a feat is nothing short of genius. Some of the lyrics contain the corny hippy dippy sentiments of the time such as "Little Hands." Others, like "Dixie Peach Promenade," feature double entendre vulgarities of lust aimed at the fairer sex that are far grittier than anything seen on an episode of Three's Company. It ranks up there with Captain Beefheart's Lick My Decals Off, Baby as one the most misogynistic odes to sex to come out of the free-love era. "Books of Moses" overdubs the sound of a thunderstorm to the tale Charlton Heston brought to the masses, cryptically delivering it in a voice that sounds like it ate gravel and lemons for lunch.
Oar definitely isn't one you’ll play to set the mood with that special someone, nor is it going to get that party started on a Friday night. It is, however, one that brilliantly gives you a glimpse into the dark corners of humanity.
1975: Roxy Music - Siren
It's difficult to tell if Roxy Music became so confident and full of musical bravado because they released so many fantastic records in the ‘70s or if their records were so fantastic because Roxy Music were simply confident and full of bravado to begin with. In either case, 1975's Siren is the last in the series of five near-perfect albums that Roxy Music released in just four years.
At least in Bryan Ferry's case, it appears the confidence was inborn. Ferry had always been a charismatic and appealing frontman, but on Siren, even more attention is given to him. Placed even further into the spotlight, Ferry responds to the pressure with an increased level of flair and theatricality. Though he's been given some room to try out different vocal styles, from the earnest (for Ferry at least) "Could It Happen To Me?" to the urgent "Both Ends Burning," in each track Ferry ends up sounding like no one but himself.
In consolidating its focus on Ferry, Roxy Music had to alter their approach to songwriting. With Brian Eno gone, the lengthy instrumental interludes found on their debut are almost entirely absent on Siren. While the band's newly found concision might dull the edges of their sound a little, the album's songs are still far from middle-of-the-road. In particular, the multi-segmented "She Sells" is a composition as complex as anything the band has ever written.
Arguably, Siren was the last truly great Roxy Music album (Avalon was good in its own, different way). It is a consistent, rewarding album, and all the more remarkable for satisfactorily following up such classics as Roxy Music, For Your Pleasure, Stranded, and Country Life. It may be that Ferry has even more great music left in him, and if he'd stop releasing live albums and recording other people's songs, maybe we'd find out.
In the early ‘60s, Phil Spector was on top of the world. His orchestral production style had become something of an industry standard for pop music, having already helmed classic songs, including The Crystals’ “He’s A Rebel” and “Da Doo Ron Ron;” Darlene Love’s “Today I Met The Boy I’m Gonna Marry;” and the unparalleled “Be My Baby” by The Ronettes. By 1963, Phil Spector had a healthy roster of artists, an arsenal of musicians, and commercial credibility to burn.
So, it was perhaps inevitable that Spector would assemble these assets for a compilation record, and his usual “wall of sound” -- with sleigh bells and strings -- made a Christmas tracklist a no-brainer. A Christmas Gift For You from Phil Spector came out on November 22, 1963, a day on which people were more preoccupied with a president’s fatal gunshot wound than decking the halls. For this reason, the record was slow to catch on, and only in subsequent years did it become known as pop music’s best ever Christmas album.
The record assembles some of Spector’s all-stars, including The Ronettes, The Crystals, and Darlene Love. The songs are largely old chestnuts, such as “White Christmas” and “Sleigh Ride,” but the Spector treatment on these familiar tracks is revelatory. It’s not until you hear these versions when you realize Spector was born to do this project, and it’s also hard to imagine what the pop world was like before this record came out. Much of what we associate with rock ‘n’ roll holiday music -- from the low baritone sax to high glockenspiel -- owes a debt of gratitude to these 13 songs. Without this record, there would be no Springsteen covering “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town,” no Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You.” In other words, this record has a lot to answer for.
As with all Phil Spector music, the production and arrangements on A Christmas Gift For You are as much the stars as his singers. Spector’s attention to detail here is nothing short of stunning, from the descending chords on The Crystals’ “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town” to the “ring-a-ling-a-ling, ding-dong-ding” background vocals of The Ronettes’ “Sleigh Ride.” Just as Spector regularly imbued teenage pop music with old-fashioned melodrama, here he gives Christmas music, the epitome of schmaltz, genuine passion.
The record’s centerpiece is Darlene Love’s “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home),” one of pop’s most-covered songs. Though it lasts less than three minutes, it’s a breathtaking slice of heartbreak, featuring melancholy sleigh bells and Love’s forlorn voice as main attractions. Love was brought in for vocals after The Ronettes’ Ronnie Spector, a singer more accustomed to cooing than pleading, didn’t work out. Love’s delivery borders on mania, and she seems to lose all control by the time she wails “please, please, please” over Leon Russell’s piano octave runs near the song’s end. It’s one of the great moments in rock history.
The record’s lowlights are few but obvious. Spector himself shows up for a spoken message over a cloying version of “Silent Night,” which closes the album. The unnecessary sound-effect introduction of The Ronettes’ “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” is equally cringe-inducing. These are rare moments when Spector doesn’t trust his audience, providing exposition instead of bells and whistles
Otherwise, A Christmas Gift For You from Phil Spector more than earns its reputation as a holiday and rock ‘n’ roll classic. Like Linus’ monologue and folks dressed up like Eskimos, this is what Christmas is all about. Accept no imitations.