Gram Parsons was like a musical Easter Bunny. He jumped onto the scene, and before we even realized what he left for us, he was gone. All we have now is a tiny amount of always-welcome eggs he left for anyone willing to look. From The International Submarine Band to the majority of records made by his main protégé, Emmylou Harris, we find albums and songs that spread a sense of free-wheelin’ beauty and life rarely found in any musician's legacy. We find artists who walk the same line as he did -- musicians who stroll down the halls of music history, respectful of the past but determined to have their own songs fill the same jukeboxes; music that fits into his dreams of a glorious stew of past, present rock ‘n’ roll, country, and R&B he termed “Cosmic American Music.”
Ms. Harris walked this very tightrope with her major label debut, Pieces of the Sky, an album as achingly beautiful as a sunrise and as mournful as a sunset. The album feels like you’re going to a log cabin home, sitting on rolling acres of land in rural California, drinking a few glasses of wine with Harris, and then sitting back to listen to her beautiful, fragile voice as she mines the playlist in her head. These are songs you can tell she loves, and you never forget it, you never doubt it. And once you feel sufficiently placed within the classics of country and western music, she attempts to pull you toward new ground by following Parsons’ lead and goading country music, the large lumbering beast that it is, to a new kind of sound, a sound unafraid of change and rhythm & blues and boys with mop-top haircuts.
The rollicking rendition of Rodney Crowell’s “Bluebird Wine” kicks off the album, and it's like a fountain of youth. Which is one of the most surprising and ultimately rewarding aspects of this album. No matter how many classic songs spin by, no matter how respectful everything is to the dusty LPs of yesteryear, this album always sounds fresh and alive. Like a child’s first step or a pimply faced kid's first power chord, you get the desire to always keep moving, to stay alive, to keep on truckin’ no matter what life throws at you.
Believe me, life got thrown at Emmylou, and this album revels in it. Since she was dealing with the recent death of her aforementioned mentor Gram Parsons, it's no surprise that these ten songs resemble therapy sessions, from the brand new start of “Bluebird Wine,” to the depression of “Too Far Gone,” to the drunken apathy of “Bottle Let Me Down” (which is, by the way, an awesome version of the Merle Haggard tune). By the time the fourth track of side one begins, you miss Gram yourself. Meanwhile, “Boulder to Birmingham” is such an overwhelmingly gorgeous song that it can’t do anything but break your cold hipster heart at least a little.
Harris learned well from Parsons, and it shows. She does what few artists can and swiftly runs through classic songs like Dolly Parton’s “Coat of Many Colors” or The Louvin Brother’s “If I Could Only Win Your Love” with a loving devotion as only a person who truly needed this music can. She never tries to outdo the originals, yet these renditions are unmistakably hers, and hers alone. Her cover of The Beatles’ “For No One” flows by with more sadness and longing and regret than Paul or John could ever muster. It’s a cover that adds a freshness to an album that already feels like a winner from track one.
Finally Pieces of the Sky concludes with “Queen of the Silver Dollar,” and Harris’ crown begins to rest peacefully on her head. Whether that silver dollar is one that picks a couple of her songs on a trusty Wurlitzer or the honky-tonk she sings, she deserves her crown, and this album was the start of her rule.
1970: The Stooges - Fun House
by James Ubaghs (age 17), brother of [Charles Ubaghs->http://www.tinymixtapes.com/_Charles-Ubaghs_]
How do you begin a review of something as monumental as The Stooges Fun House, arguably their crowning achievement? I don’t know how to start that review but I will say this: Fun House is a fucking badass rock and roll album.
In an era of spineless, hollow sentimentally, and nice serious musicians making nice serious music (that’s still boring no matter how weird it’s trying to be) Fun House makes my little 17 year old mind explode. It’s daring, it’s innovative while remaining entirely tangible. It makes a tired old genre seem rife with limitless possibilities, and simply put, it rocks.
Opener “ Down on the Street” sets the tone for a consistent 37 minutes of raw rock roll. A deceptively simple but violently effective rhythm section stomps along, with Ron Asheton’s brilliantly simplistic guitar lines driving it all forward. Iggy Pop gives possibly his best performance ever recorded. His irreverent lyrics “Out of my mind on Saturday night…I feel all right” are delivered with awe inspiring passion and his singing/un-hinged screaming manage to give an untold depth to what could merely be idiotic at the hands of another singer.
No single song stands out like “I Wanna Be Your Dog” on their debut but instead each song complements the album as a whole, constantly building in momentum until it explodes into the savage cacophonous wall (and attached apartment block) of sound in the album closer, “ L.A bBues,” that escalates the rest of the album to it’s logical conclusion.
Sadly they don’t make ‘em as great as they used to. In fact they never did make them this good, because I have a strong suspicion that punk rock never managed to match the brilliance of this zygote.
Instead of lamenting on this predicament like a poor emo kid steadily carving nice little geometric shapes into the side of my arm I find myself filled with a new urge. Besides the urge to fuck and get wasted, I feel the urge to go out and make my own Fun House. It’ll probably amount to nothing but I’m going to do it anyway.
What the hell are you going to do?
[Editor’s Note: I’m so proud of my little brother]
By Jessica Roth (age 12) and Samuel Roth (age 11), cousins of [Plastique Song->http://www.www.tinymixtapes.com/_Plastique-Song_]
SELF kicks off with "Borateen," a great head banging rave type song, all my friends can dance to it too. Sounding a lot like a young synthesizing Incubus, it plays with many different riffs, which Mike Mahaffey makes it all interesting. Dancing to "Sophomore' is way too easy, it reminds my mom of an old Boston song called “Tribe” but I think it has a little Weezer in it. Lyrics are clear, kids really like that. Something you can sing to a good deal. The layering of Mike's own brand of music is cool, makes me (and my brother) wonder how he'd actually sound in a concert. So much mixing... what would he actually play? What would he choose to bring to the stage? Just push a button.
Track three, "Stewardess" is good. Some super high soft vocals we weren't crazy about and a little too Foo Fighters repetitiveness going on. "So Low" is one of the best tracks on the CD. Got up and danced, listening to it made me feel like I was at a party. Has right amount of high vocals mixed with a crashing rock beat... loved it. This song could be longer. Two songs that didn't do it for me were "Marathon Shirt" and "Lucid Anne." These tracks should be replaced with more of the good stuff, like in "Canon." This track (7) sticks! Listen to this! Teens love this stuff. If Mike wants to sell CDs he needs to keep mixing in this genre.
"Missed the friction" and "super" are just okay, nothing to write home about. "Mother nature's fault" has some great lyrics and pauses in the song that make the track memorable. Twinge of All American Rejects infused in this song, liked it quite a bit. The voice mix sounds cool.
Jazzy swing turn in "Big Important Nothing". This track is funky... not sure what Mike is trying to show us, way out of the pop rock style that the CD is mostly comprised of. More Buble' than Mahaffey. Good tune though. Than back to what the CD is about, "Lost my Senses" rocks out. Partially sounds like my cousin Ben's band Ace and Artemis, which rocks (by the way). More of this please.
Check this CD out by SELF, then check out my favs "So Low," “Canon," "Mother Nature's Fault" and "Lost my Senses".
Think that crack-afro sporting, B-movie actress murderer Phil Spector is crazy? Yeah, I suppose he is, but Joe Meek has him beat across the board. He was a maverick pioneer of independent music, invented way more shit in the studio, and quite probably killed more people than old Phil. After you hear his story though, you’ll know he earned it the whole way. Why a major motion picture has yet to be made about him is beyond me. [Editor's note: A play about Joe Meek entitled Telstar: The Joe Meek Story ran in London’s West End in 2005.]
Born under the star Robert George Meek in 1929, Joe’s life long love (and hate) affair with music began when a brief stint in the Royal Air Force as a radio operator peaked his interest in outer space and the limitless possibilities of electronic sound. In his early twenties, he got a job with the Midlands Electric Board, which allowed him to gather up and begin creating gear, including a disc cutter. From there, he found work as a sound engineer for independent studios and started to make his name in the business, both as an innovative genius and as someone difficult to work with. Being forced out of a lucrative Landsdowne partnership by one Denis Preston would turn out to be something of a blessing in disguise.
In early 1960, Meek co-founded Triumph Records and disappointingly produced his first top 10 single, “Angela Jones” by Michael Cox. The disappointment here is based on the fact that it may have been a number one if the mom & pop pressing plants of the day – to which his self-supported label was completely dependant upon – could have kept ahead of demand. That year, Meek arguably created the first concept album as the guiding force behind the “Outer Space A Music Fantasy” theme for Rod Freeman & the Blue Men’s I Hear a New World, which was also remarkably ahead of its time in regards to its use of homemade electronic sound. Triumph did not last long as a label, but important lessons had been learned and new ground was constantly being broken.
It was around the time of Triumph’s fizzling when Joe figured out that, since he didn’t have the muscle to commercially back a hit, he could find far easier success by signing artists himself then merely leasing their material to major labels for a tidy profit. This shift was convenient since his next and by far most successful enterprise was to build a home studio above a leather-goods store and become more independent than ever while proving himself capable of scoring several UK number one hits. Hell, he basically kicked off the British Invasion by producing the Tornadoes’ “Telstar,” which was the first British record to hit the top of the US Hot 100, winning an Ivor Novello Award in the process. However, by the time The Beatles started experimenting with psychedelics, the hits started drying up. Meek’s unique flavor of Saturday morning Cowboys & Injuns cartoon rock was starting to be viewed as camp by a maturing generation that demanded a socio-political consciousness more relevant to their lives.
Times were changing and he fell into a cycle of drugs, paranoia (believing Decca had microphones in his studio’s wallpaper to steal ideas), rage, depression, and obsession with paranormal and occult activities. He believed his hero, Buddy Holly, and others who broke on through to the other side were trying to contact him from beyond the grave; he would record graveyards to try and hear the dead, but instead got a talking cat meowing for help. Having been brought up on charges of homosexuality earlier in the '60s – just being gay was illegal back then – which meant the pigs had free reign to pester and blackmail him, while his finances scattered to the wind under frail legal structures (he was unable to earn any royalties from “Telstar” in his lifetime due to an ultimately failed plagiarism suit). In January of ’67, the body of a former associate of Meek was discovered in a suitcase, leaving the police to declare they’d be brutally interrogating all known homosexuals in the UK. With no foreseeable good news on the horizon, Joe shot his landlady and himself with a single-barrel shotgun borrowed from Tornados bassist Heinz Burt on February 3rd, exactly eight years to the day after Buddy Holly went down with Richie Valens in his lap.
During the 245 singles (of which 45 cracked the top 50) and assorted albums he’d put his distinctive stamp on, he basically created the modern methods of compression, echo, reverb, sampling, multiple overdubbing on a two track, and the seemingly obvious process of recording individual pieces of a song separately, then arranging them together into a single composition. This was actually a big step forward from just putting a mic in the middle of a jam and hoping for the best, as was the fashion for the first half century of recording when they had to record directly onto vinyl in one live take.
Vampire, Cowboys, Spacemen, & Spooks is one of a few Meek compilations being released at once, though this one focuses specifically on his purely emotive instrumental work. Joe had very particular views concerning the use of the human voice as a musical instrument. After all, this is the man who walked into a Rod Stewart recording session screaming with his fingers knuckle deep in his ears until Rod stopped singing and left, while refusing to work with the Beatles (whom he considered “just a bunch of noise”), David Bowie, and the Rolling Stones. Aldous Huxley said, “after silence, that which comes closest to expressing the inexpressible is music” and I’m sure Meek would agree. His thematic subject matter certainly clung to the realms of the ineffable, and that sphere is given supreme definition here with some 60 tracks on two CDs.
Many of his most renowned hits are here, including a rare studio mix of the previously mentioned “Telstar” and other Tornados rarities, but the focus of this collection is on creating a whole picture of the man. Half a dozen previously unreleased tracks have now fulfilled their destiny, such as the sweetly sorrowful “Moon Rocket” by Roger Lavern & The Microns – which samples a take off before smoothing out on a rollicking, adventurous beat with a disembodied piano keeping the timing out front – as well as a raucous Animals blues version of “Besame Mucho” by Dave Roland. The lone vocal track (not counting the odd “doo-doo-doo ooooh-aaaah” chorus and the forgettable Dauphine Street Six number “Shenandoah”) shows Meek’s vision of complimentary vocals with his self-titled orchestra’s “Cry My Heart,” where at least a three-part harmony hammers home a bleak tale of love lost, but that’s a real rarity here. The emphasis is on ideas and themes, not mere words. Tracks like The Thunderbolts’ “Lost Planet” and the Moontrekkers’ “Night of the Vampire” presuppose electronica, hip-hop and their future fusions with rock in and of themselves alone, and covers like the aforementioned “Besame Mucho” and The Saints’ version of “Wipeout” always add something vital and refreshing.
Granted, all 60 cuts can’t be winners, but the collection paints a clear picture of a tragically undervalued genius. Being mostly without words, there’s not much obstructing our emotional impression of the man and his many achievements in the early-to-mid '60s. He’s the reason why these recording have aged so well and, what’s more, provide an essential link in the chain for any music fan with an interest in history. Everything in the charts today owes this man a reach-around.
2007: The Dragons - BFI
Well, fuck me if this isn’t one of the most interesting releases of the year. See, I make it a point to download anything Ninja Tune puts out, so I gave this Dragons thing a shot as soon as it became available online. I was immediately impressed by their new signing as the sprawling psychedelic masterpiece before me sounded nothing like what I was used to from the label, heavy in live-played vintage keyboards and double-tracked, AM radio vocals. When I investigated further on my way to purchase said release, I discovered quite the story.
Much to my surprise, BFI was actually recorded by the Dragon brothers at the tail end 1969 and early the following year. Doug, Daryl, and Dennis were the sons of a symphony conductor and a soprano opera singer, and thus from good musical stock. Living in Malibu and gigging around L.A. exposed their minds to the surreal sounds of The Doors, The Byrds, and Jefferson Airplane, but their urge to add something to the West Coast cannon was only igniting. They called in a favor from a friend at Sunwest Recording Studios in Hollywood and laid down the album then known only as Blue Forces Intelligence, or BFI for short. However, none of the majors were particularly interested in balls trippin’ psychedelia at the time and were unable (or unwilling) to hear a hit in the project, so no one would touch it.
Thus, BFI’s master tapes got shoved in a drawer somewhere and forgotten for 37 years. The three boys would find work as session musicians, ending up in The Beach Boys’ backing band for a while, before splitting off in their own directions. Doug garnered a modest fan base as a touring artist in early '80s Australia before moving to Hawaii. Daryl would indeed score several major hits as The Captain with Toni Tennille. Dennis built a moderately successful career as a producer, working with Captain Daryl as well as Cheech & Chong and the Surf Punks (also performing as their drummer). It was only thanks to a crate digging expedition that Strictly Kev/DJ Food was made aware of The Dragons via an obscure surf movie soundtrack and, in turn, Ninja Tune. Otherwise, we’d still be at square on, and I wouldn’t be as happy as I am now.
This is a truly remarkable album for too many reasons to count. BFI is as fresh and vivid today as it was the day Jabba froze it in carbonite. “Food For My Soul” is a jive piece of West Coast psych-pop soul, crucial not only for its inclusion on the last DJ Food instalment in the Solid Steel mix series, but for its obvious hit potential. A potential that reveals an utter lack of foresight shown by labels before I was born. “Are You There” borrows some heavy Doors and Santana (minus Carlos’ guitar) style for a mid-tempo expression of relationship dissatisfaction, with Edwin Starr like vocals, that could have been an easy follow-up single. Their use of keyboards, synths, and organs, as well as phasing and samples filtered through jazz, rock, and pop structures of the day perhaps came a couple years too late for the psyche prom, but the skill and vision present deserves its proper place in history. I mean, they printed Metal Machine Music as soon as it was recorded just a handful of years later and it was just a pile of noise with a name attached. At least Ninja Tune has finally made the effort to set things right. The karma wheel has been realigned... for now.
Amalgam Digital is one of the most exciting projects to come along in hip-hop since the MPC2000. I mean, there’s just so much music coming out every week, and there has been for decades, so it’s tragically easy to fall through the cracks unless it all goes perfectly. Following their well-noted success in resurrecting the obviously still-viable careers of The Jugganots and Smiley Da Ghetto Child, they’ve now turned their Lazarus glare unto New York’s Jorge Alvarez. Looks like another sure winner, as far as I’m concerned.
This plucky Puerto Rican/Cuban Latino burst onto the scene way back in 1994 with his Sony debut. Despite featuring the same vein of quirky samples and, with the exception of some mild but standard homophobia, socially uplifting words that simultaneously worked wonders for Fu-Schnickens, A Constipated Monkey was released a couple years too late, and a pop world gathering interest in mean-spirited, joyless gangsta rap allowed sales to quickly stagnate. Consequently, Kurious Jorge got the boot from Sony, walking entirely away from the bidnezz shortly thereafter.
Snap to 2007, and Amalgam has an action plan on the go. With a two-album deal in his pocket and the blazing hot MF DOOM in the studio (Jorge was featured on DOOM's Operation: Doomsday), Kurious Jorge is set to make his sophomore record over a decade after his premiere. Just to remind you about the quality of character in store for that release, we are now treated to a well-deserved reissue of A Constipated Monkey, his under-appreciated debut.
For those who can remember 1994, all the beats on this album are of the exact flavor you loved to roll with. Over time, styles may have changed to a more synthetic sound, but they never really improved upon the old boom-bap, especially when you’ve got some crazy, canned soul horn samples on that shit. Hieroglyphics’ Casual and the notorious MF Grimm’s appearance on “Baby Bust It” is an aural anomaly and clear highlight, with some Asian strings, a moaning funk bassline, and a gettin’-jiggy-with-it chorus, oozing a blunted haze through any stuffy atmosphere. Pete Nice, DJ Lord Sear, and The Beatnuts also stamp their incredible sounds and personalities onto the product. Is that a Go! Team sample I hear on “Nicole”? 5th Dimension? Oh, no, they di’n’t! Break yo’ self, fools: this is a necessary reminder of rap’s Golden Age.
Like the early-'90s grunge scene in Seattle and late-'60s acid wave in San Francisco, there was a moment in early-'80s Scotland that burned bright and hot for a brief period of time, but left an enduring impression on the music landscape. Along side Orange Juice and Josef K, Fire Engines manufactured a fair-sized chunk of the first post-punk movement. Named after a 13th Floor Elevators track, these Edinburgh slackers managed to produce three singles and a mini LP over their roughly 18-month history, much of which has sadly been out of print since the '90s. Acute Records to the rescue, then.
Acute has gathered up all their old material for this special and definitive Hungry Beat compilation, along with a 16-page booklet featuring notes from their original label boss, Bob Last (who also discovered Human League and Gang Of Four), with the aim of proving just how deep their influence goes. All those Hot Hot Heat and Rapture types owe these guys a pack of smokes, as their lo-fi barrage of angular but funky punky orchestrations walked the dirty-cool walk that The Strokes would have attempted, if trying didn’t compromise their precious hipster status. Bobby Gillespie of Primal Scream even says on the cover promo sticker that neither his band nor Jesus & The Mary Chain would exist if it weren’t for these guys. Franz Ferdinand also accepts this, having brought them out of retirement a couple years ago for an X-mas gig and a split seven-inch, while always listing them as an influence whenever asked.
Even without the vivid historical context, Hungry Beat is still quite viable on its own. Sure, it sounds like it was recorded with a shotgun mic in an airplane hanger, but the inimitable swagger this haggard quartet conveyed struts all over this record. Their personal Velvet Underground and Fall influence would see them being less immediately accessible than their Scot peers, yet their demeanor and interplay tells me they could give less than a toss what anyone thinks. Though technically thin in the translation, these guys rocked as hard as anyone ever has or will. The seven-minute-long, mostly instrumental rambler “Discord” was more than enough proof of that, and “Big Gold Dream” took care of the impending dance-punk movement. Fire Engines' legacy is evident of itself. Don’t forget where you came from, and give credit where it’s due. The buck started here.
The history of The Fall is not that of a group of artists, but of a show business act. Mark E. Smith hasn't fired over 60 musicians because of "artistic differences" -- he's given folks the boot because they couldn't hack it, couldn't play or tour like professionals. Misanthrope, iconoclast, asshole -- whatever you want to call Smith, he's first and foremost a consummate performer, a top-flight ham. He's been able to record over 25 albums during the last three decades because he can sell the simplest of rock songs with his attitude, his vitality, his ability to entertain. A recap of The Fall's many, many lineup changes, tours, radio appearances, and releases isn't an account of Timeless Music forged through struggle, conflict, and perseverance. For all its details and events, The Fall's story is simple: Mark E. Smith continually tries and fails to find other musicians who believe equally, as he does, in sonic deconstruction and unabashed showmanship.
How else could you explain Live at the Witch Trials, The Fall's fully-formed, instant-classic debut album? Before releasing the record in early 1979, Smith had already cycled through more bandmates than most frontmen ever will, but judging from the remarkable tautness of his first LP, he hadn't been struggling to find his voice. When he began making music in his late teens, Smith already knew what he liked: The Velvet Underground's mantra-like repetition, Van Der Graaf Generator's art-rock dynamism, Camus's dim view of human nature. He needed little time to channel these influences into a unique sound; he needed a bit more time to find a group of folks who could get with his program. To this day, he still hasn't been able to do this, but for the single day The Fall spent recording Witch Trails, Smith had a band -- and a damn good one at that.
Though not as relentlessly good as Hex Enduction Hour, The Fall's first record is as good a place as any for neophytes to begin exploring the band, and it's an essential album -- especially in this expanded edition, which is replete with crucial singles -- for the already converted. Unlike most bands who arose in Britain's post-punk era, The Fall were more interested in riffs and hooks than in identity politics and the avant-garde. So their best records are the ones with the greatest number of cogent, energetic rock anthems, albums like Witch Trials.
Good tunes -- rollicking licks, spastic drum rolls, and breathless refrains colliding into one another -- is all we've got here. The Fall strip away rock's illusions of grandeur -- texturally, their early music's anemic, every instrument scraping and scrawling -- so that we can focus entirely on its combustibility, its cultural and compositional potency. No shame in show business when the show's this captivating.
Jonny Trunk is a weird guy, or at least his tastes suggest a collector for the truly exotic. One look at his label’s web site, Trunk Records, and your snooping boss at work might fire you for looking at pornography on company time. He has an affinity to reissue soundtracks, particularly oddball jazz and porno flicks. Just in the last year, Trunk also put out the last record by the late free-jazz composer (and mostly unknown) Basil Kirchen, a compilation of British ad jingles, and a collection of folk oddities.
A crate digger in the most literal sense of the term, it’s easy to imagine him as the greasy dude that brought his own kneepads to the record fair to flick through vinyl with maximum comfort.
As the story goes, an LP by jazz pianist Michael Garrick caught Jonny Trunk’s eye one day in a London record shop and he found himself obsessed. The one record he could not find, however, was the Moonscape 10”, maddeningly pressed to a scant 99 copies in 1964. When he finally found a copy in 2003 (humorously given away by a friend of the man who originally pressed the record because he didn’t like jazz), it was shockingly unplayed and immediately digitally archived.
43 years later, we finally get to hear this stunning album in all its 22 minutes of obscure glory. Ah, yes, Moonscape is short, but oh my, is it beautiful. This is a time when “The New Thing” was actually still very new, still tickling the ears of inspiration and turning boppers into free-blowers and ushering in some of the most polarizing music the world had ever seen. From what I gather, instead of sticking to his bop roots, British pianist Michael Garrick was challenged and fascinated by the new approach to jazz. The reissue reproduces the original jacket of the LP with this introduction: “FREE FORM or THE NEW THING, as it is sometimes known, can be something of a leap into an abyss… We aim for a clean, integrated sound which, upon later examination, might be found to have meaningful shape and make musical sense” It sums up the recording perfectly: “free” enough to turn a few heads, but still accessible to the casual jazz listener.
As for the music itself, Garrick definitely takes some of his cues from Vince Guaraldi –steady, dramatic phrasing, a “blue” left hand, cascades that will break your heart. One thing to keep in mind with Garrick, though, is that he had spent most of his time writing jazz for poets. So beyond Guaraldi’s evocative imagery is Garrick’s evocative attention to poetic speech. His left hand may keep a calm rhythm, but his chords are tightly wound, nearly clustered to add an extra pang of sadness and definition to the backbone of a song like the slow-building “Sketches of Israel,” whose brief climax stops you cold.
On harder hitting cuts like the awesomely titled “Music for Shattering Supermarkets” and “Take-Off,” Garrick and his adept backing band, bassist Dave Green and drummer Colin Barnes (the former would go onto to play with Sonny Rollins and Coleman Hawkins, the latter became a tax inspector), really explore the far reaches of The New Thing. “Shattering” sticks to a hard swing a la Art Tatum, but it barrels forward with a wild intensity, Green’s bass fierce in the face of a drummer that can’t help but speed up. It’s not exactly “free” (unless you count Garrick’s severe disregard for his keyboard at the end), but it threatens like none other.
“Take-Off” begins meekly, much like the odd chords and chord progressions of the opening cut, but like its title suggests, the song mounds from ground zero, launches discordantly, and stumbles out of orbit. The bass rumbles and drums signal the sparks of the engine and the piano is the smoke ecstatically billowing in every direction. It’s a fascinating two minutes and 42 seconds, one that makes me wonder why Garrick’s never been mentioned stateside in the annals of great early free-jazz musicians.
Garrick still plays to this day and releases material on his own label, Jazz Academy. He’s best known in England for his jazz-choral works and teaches jazz at various institutions, including the prestigious Royal Academy of Music. I can only hope that the Moonscape reissue launches a whole campaign to really look at Garrick’s vast and virtually undocumented discography.
Gilberto Gil’s story is an interesting one, but not atypical of many Brazilian musicians living in the 1960s era of violence, imprisonment, intimidation, and the attempted, but unsuccessful, suppression of its country’s outspoken singers. Starting his musical career after hearing João Gilberto on the radio, Gil gained a reputation as a troubadour of some worth after penning television ads and the hit single “Louvacao” for Elis Regina. As part of the Tropicalia movement, he, along with Caetano Veloso, Maria Bethania, Tom Zé, Os Mutantes, Gal Costa, and others, turned tradition on its head and laid the foundations of modern Brazilian music (Musica Popular Brasiliera or MPB) while at the same time ruffled the feathers of the ruling government by attacking its policies and practices through song.
The dictatorship at the time had cracked down on escalating protesting and free speech and felt necessary to stop the already-dying Tropicalismo scene by arresting and imprisoning Gil and life-long friend and fellow Bahian Veloso in December 1968 in São Paulo. Feeling strong pressure to leave the country after getting released from jail, Gil decided on England as his exile destination and took to London like a fish to water, soaking up the freedom, drugs, music, and the general hyper-creative atmosphere of late 1960s post-Swinging London. Gil went on to carve himself a varied and successful musical career which continues to this day. In an exquisite turn of events, Gil represents the very same government that jailed him those many years ago, acting as Brazil’s Minster of Culture since January 2003.
Gilberto Gil was his third eponymous album (often referred to as Nêga after its opening salvo) recorded and released in 1971 during his exile in London. Despite previously toggling between a number of styles, the sound on this album is a straightforward acoustic rumination on what must have been a tumultuous time characterized by his uprooting half a world away and the sad betrayal by his own county. If this all sounds like a dour protest album is in the cards, you could not be more wrong. In “Nêga,” a more impish start to an album is not imaginable. Random “woo!”s and shout outs, silly acoustic and electric guitar fills, and rattlesnake noises in the background punctuate a song that reminisces about a relationship by looking back at the lovers’ pictures taken at the time. It is a fun song that sets the tone for the whole album and clearly states Gil’s intentions. There is so much going on that you would half-expect him to start scatting any second during the song.
The scatting does start on Gil’s take on Blind Faith’s seminal “Can’t Find My Way Home,” which goes a long way to completely erasing the memory of the behemoth classic rock monster and replaces it with a simple arrangement of a man and his guitar. Upon hearing Gil’s “Can’t Find My Way Home,” it is difficult not to think of Seu Jorge’s David Bowie covers in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, but without an English-to-Portuguese translation of the lyrics.
The lack of English proficiency actually lends itself to an even greater appreciation of the writing and brings an unintended childlike innocence to the lyrics throughout. It contains a simplicity sadly missing from native English speakers who vainly attempt to be purposely oblique or poetic and oft-times just end up sounding ridiculous. This unplanned device is particularly charming on tracks like “Volkswagen Blues” (“My lunar Volkswagen cabin/ With no men, no dog, no bag in/ Such an idea
thrills my soul/ Breaks down my self control”), “Babylon” (“’Cause I have a silver knife/ And my lover is Satan’s wife”), and the Hendrix-like “Crazy Pop Rock” (“From the city runs electricity in my brains/ From the city runs gasoline up in my veins”). “The Three Mushrooms” is exemplary of this as well. Gil strums psychedelically and expounds on opening his mind and body to the unknown. The song descends into a series of yelps of "atomic mushroom!" before Gil makes his way
headlong into frenetic fingerpicking at the end.
The three bonus tracks tacked onto the reissued Gilberto Gil are live em concerto in London: a rendition of the aforementioned “Can’t Find My Way Home,” a great version of “Up From the Skies,” (one of Jimi Hendrix’s more bouncy songs which Gil regularly performed around the UK during his exile), and “Sgt. Peppers,” complete with a surprisingly accurate voice-trumpet break. Unfortunately my Portuguese is not up to snuff enough to understand Gil’s between-song banter, but one would guess it is as entertaining as listening to the man perform his timeless numbers.
On record or live, Gil is all about emotion. Many of the songs on Gilberto Gil are simple renditions with voice and guitar (and a little scattered accompaniment for good measure), but what sets them apart from the low-eyed clown down at your local pub playing “Maggie’s Farm” for half-pints is the way Gil sings and plays. Carefree and 100% honest and pure, you cannot listen to Gilberto Gil without picturing the afro-ed master on the front cover smiling his way through another set of peaceful tunes calling for peaceful times, and it is hard to find anything wrong with that.
* bonus live tracks on CD