Buried Treasure: Guitar Concertos

[Today: In the wee hours...]

First a few facts: this album was recorded in 1961 in England by British classical guitarist Julian Bream. It consists of two album side-length guitar concertos, one composed by Mauro Giuliani (‘Concerto For Guitar And Strings’) and the other by Malcolm Arnold (‘Guitar Concerto, Op. 67′). In his liner notes, Bream describes Arnold as “…a large joyous man of wit and humor both in himself and in his music. Like all great jesters, he is also a man of pathos and deep intensity.” He also notes that Giuliani was “…one of several composers who succeeded in establishing the guitar concerto as an accepted musical convention.”

If that’s so then I tip my cap to Giuliani, because Guitar Concertos is one of the most relaxing albums in my collection, and one that I keep coming back to. In fact, I just spent two hours sorting 2010 receipts for the tax man, so I’m especially susceptible to its charms right about now. This album is so soothing that its best comparisons on my record shelf are chill electronica by the likes of Kruder Dorfmeister or Fila Brazilia. Like those artists, Bream’s music is suited for the quiet after the storm. Late Friday night, in the wee little hours, I pulled this album out and listened to it while I watched the stray twinkling lights in the Oakland hills. Well past 3am, when the world has truly calmed itself, is the time for an album like Guitar Concertos.

This record came into my possession shortly after I moved to San Francisco in 1994. I was sitting in my cubicle one day when my co-worker John came gliding by with a pile of about 35 LPs under one arm. “They’re giving away the vinyl in the production room,” he said, beaming. By the time I ran back there, all but one measly pile of rejected albums was left. I knew I’d missed the good stuff, but I flipped through that pile anyway, cursing my timing. The two albums I came away with: Jazz staple Getz/Gilberto (a favorite ever since) and Guitar Concertos…

Listen: Andante [from Guitar For Relaxation]

Listen: Granada [from Guitar For Relaxation]

Masterpiece: Screamadelica

[Today: Higher than the sun...]

Bobby Gillespie was a drummer with The Jesus & Mary Chain before he broke away in early 1986 and formed a new band. Primal Scream’s first two albums were pleasant, nondescript hippie rock that didn’t make an impression on anyone. But then DJ Andrew Weatherall took the song ‘I’m Losing More Than I’ll Ever Have’ from their self-titled sophomore album, pulled it completely apart, added in bits of Robert Johnson, Edie Brickell and Peter Fonda, and re-assembled the whole thing as ‘Loaded’, which became the hit that launched Primal Scream on their way.

Their subsequent 1991 album, Screamadelica is all about ecstasy – be it religious, orgasmic, or drug-induced. Album opener ‘Movin’ On Up’ sounds like the great-grandchild of ‘Amazing Grace’ and speaks to reaching a higher plane. On ‘Higher Than The Sun’ Gillespie sounds like he’s tripping balls, while on ‘Come Together’ (not the Beatles tune) he sounds post-coital and high as a kite. The album’s only cover is a tripped-out spin through 13th Floor Elevators’ ‘Slip Inside This House’ that fully celebrates the concept of leaving your senses behind.

“We want to be free to do what we want to do… and we want to get loaded… and we want to have a good time… and that’s what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna have a good time… we’re gonna have a party.” Peter Fonda’s wild-eyed quote from Easy Rider kicks off ‘Loaded’, but it might as well stand as a mission statement for this entire album. Screamadelica was inspired by (and helped fuel) the UK rave culture, but its gospel backup singers and uplifting tone help sweep its subject matter out of the gutter and into the stars.

In the long history of rock, few groups have sounded less like their name than Primal Scream. Far from being a punk band that echoed Arthur Janov‘s famous therapy technique, Primal Scream circa Screamadelica was an amalgamation of Stonesy guitar licks, dance music, gospel choir, and especially dub reggae. “Our attitude was Primal Scream can be anything,” said Gillespie, and with this album, they were even more than that…

Listen: Movin’ On Up

Listen: Come Together

Listen: Loaded

Magic Moment: Three Flocks Of Byrds

The Byrds – a band presented in three acts…

The Gene Clark/David Crosby era (1966):

The quasi-country era (1968):

The shaggy era (1970):

Buried Treasure: Magnetic South

[Today: A Monkee makes good...]

He was the Monkee in the wool cap, and Michael Nesmith was also the only genuinely talented musician in that group. Peter Tork bought out his contract and left The Monkees in early 1969, but they soldiered on and released two more albums as a trio, before Nesmith split in March of 1970. Nobody could have guessed that with his next musical project, Nesmith would become a country rock pioneer. Gram Parsons and The Byrds got there first, but Michael Nesmith & The First National Band weren’t far behind. Part of this group had played with The Monkees, including bassist John London and pedal steel guitarist O.J. “Red” Rhodes, but the rest came from Nashville, where this was recorded. Magnetic South is 95% country music and 5% rock, and sounds absolutely, positively nothing like The Monkees.

But if Nesmith had gotten his way, The Monkees would have had some twang. He said that “Some of the first Monkees music, I guess, was ‘Papa Gene’s Blues’ and ‘Sweet Young Thing’ and so forth, and the guys back in New York said, ‘WAIT! This is wayyyyyyy too country! This is awful… don’t do this, don’t twang this up…’ So I sort of backed off. But when The Monkees finally went off the air and I was back doing my solo music, I went right back to that with the first three albums, the National Band albums, and it was almost in a vacuum. I was aware, of course, of… The Byrds, but, by and large, I was just pretty much out there, completely oblivious to what was happening. And none of us, nobody that I knew ever called up and said, ‘Hey, man, have you heard the fabulous new country-rock sound?’ That would’ve been bizarre in the extreme! We were all just making music.”

Amazingly, it was a hybrid that really hadn’t been heard before, but would go on to rule the 70s airwaves in the form of Linda Ronstadt and The Eagles. In his liner notes to Magnetic South, Nesmith cites the inspiration for its sound: “Hank Williams, Jerry Lee Lewis and Jimmie Rodgers are to me something of a musical triumvirate. I always get back to them.” It’s Rodgers who comes through most clearly in Nesmith’s plaintive, light yodel. This must have freaked out a bunch of Monkees fans, but it’s an album worthy of his heroes. ‘Joanne’ hit #21 on the pop charts, and ‘Little Red Rider’, ‘Calico Girlfriend’ and ‘Mama Nantucket’ are top shelf country tunes. Unfortunately the 21 seconds-long ‘First National Rag’, with a breezy rejoinder (“Well, we’re gonna take a short intermission my friends! We’ll be back… right after YOU turn the record over!”) has been excised from digital re-issues.

Nesmith used his television experience with The Monkees to help create the prototype for MTV, and he produced the cult-classic movies Repo Man and Tapeheads, but his greatest accomplishment by far was the music he made with The First National Band.

Listen: Calico Girlfriend

Listen: Little Red Rider

Listen: Joanne

Listen: Mama Nantucket

Masterpiece: The Southern Harmony & Musical Companion

[Today: Ragged swagger...]

Nirvana, Pearl Jam and the grunge crowd usually get credit for changing music in the early 90s, but between 1990 and 1992, there was a tsunami of new artists who crashed onto the music scene. A partial list of those debuting or coming into prominence includes the Pixies, Jane’s Addiction, Primus, Sublime, PJ Harvey, Rage Against The Machine, Massive Attack, Dr. Dre, Smashing Pumpkins, Cypress Hill, Nine Inch Nails, Tool, White Zombie, Liz Phair, Steve Earle, Flaming Lips, Ween, Kyuss, Primal Scream, Happy Mondays, Uncle Tupelo, Lenny Kravitz and even novelty acts like Dread Zeppelin and Vanilla Ice. The Seattle bands had a big hand in ushering in a new era, but they were far from the only agents of change. Interesting music seemed to be springing up everywhere.

Atlanta, GA contributed The Black Crowes, who surprised the world in 1990 with a hit cover of Otis Redding’s ‘Hard To Handle’. Their debut showed a ton of promise, but was uneven enough to leave hardened rock fans wondering if this group was for real. Their 1992 follow-up The Southern Harmony & Musical Companion alleviated any such concerns. An instant masterpiece, this album called to mind the spirit of bands like the Stones, the Allmans, and Skynyrd – if not in sound then certainly in ragged swagger. Brothers Chris (vocals) and Rich Robinson (guitar) fought like Ray and Dave Davies and smoked weed like Bob Weir and Jerry Garcia. And with Southern Harmony…, they put together an album as cohesive and grimy and perfect as Sticky Fingers or Second Helping.

The Crowes improved on the sound of their debut by adding back-up singers, but this is clearly an instance of a band coming into their own before your very ears. ‘Sting Me’ and ‘Remedy’ are as great an album-opening pair of songs as you’re likely to find. From ‘Hotel Illness’ to ‘No Speak No Slave’ to album closer ‘Time Will Tell’ (a cover of Bob Marley, no less), each of these 10 songs has its purpose and place. This band was of the south, but not bound by it, and if the backup singers give this album a quasi-gospel feel, the whole thing harkens back to a time when rock albums still mattered, and rockstars still wore bell-bottom jeans. The Black Crowes sounded like classic rock, but in the best way – they were instantly classic.

Listen: Sting Me

Listen: Remedy

Listen: Hotel Illness

Listen: No Speak No Slave

Listen: Time Will Tell

Sleeve Notes: Urban Renewal

For about 8 years, my commute into San Francisco involved the TransBay bus terminal. It was a stinky, ancient building that was nobody’s idea of a pristine gateway into the city. So few tears were shed when the wrecking ball starting taking this structure down about three months ago. My new commute pattern ensures that I walk past it every day on my way into work, which has provided a cool, time-lapse view of a building turning into dust. It didn’t take long before the site (centered at 1st and Mission streets and extending several blocks east) looked just like the cover of Tower Of Power’s 1975 album Urban Renewal. Many a morning I’ve walked by that site, gawked at the twisted metal, chuckled to myself and said “Urban Renewal!”

Turns out that destruction zone should have had me thinking about another Bay Area funk band from the 70s. As the San Francisco Chronicle reported last Friday, Willie Sparks, onetime drummer for Graham Central Station, has been living and sleeping among the rubble, and refuses to leave. “They can’t make me leave. I’ve been here too long,” he told the Chronicle. “I always really liked terminals, and that one in particular. I’m fine right where I am.” The cover of Graham Central Station’s self-titled debut features a photo taken in front of the old train station on 3rd St, but progress has made a memory of that building as well. Here’s hoping Willie Sparks finds a newer, better place to rest his head…

Doubleshot Tuesday: Here, My Dear/Pretty Hate Machine

[Today: The day after...]

Valentine’s Day was yesterday, which means that the love birds and snuggle bunnies had their day, and now it’s done. And even though I’m currently happily married, I’ve been single often enough to know that St Valentine and his gang of merry cupids can be pretty annoying if you’re not in the mood. So today I’m featuring two albums of love not only gone sour, but left in the fridge to curdle for a few months, and then served up on a steaming platter of hatred.

Marvin Gaye’s 1978 album Here, My Dear has a strange history. During divorce proceedings with Anna Gordy (sister of Motown founder Berry Gordy), it was decided that part of their settlement would include splitting the royalties from Gaye’s next album. So he went into the studio to make an intentionally bad album that wouldn’t net either of them a dime. But emotions got the best of Gaye, and he ended up making a blistering album about marriage gone wrong. “I hope it makes you happy,” Gaye croons, “There’s a lot of truth in it, babe.” That, and a fair amount of bitterness.

It’s a little surreal to hear the voice of ‘Let’s Get It On’ reflect over primal anger and go off about bad love, so it’s no surprise that Here, My Dear initially tanked with critics. But admiration of this album has grown over time, particularly because Gordy was able to block its re-release for years, giving it the aura of a lost classic. Now it’s considered to be among Gaye’s finest musical achievements and in 2003, Rolling Stone ranked it as the 462nd greatest album of the rock era.

Trent Reznor has been singing out on behalf of the lovelorn and deeply disturbed for more than two decades. His debut album, Pretty Hate Machine, was released on October 20, 1989, and its marriage of dark, danceable, industrial grooves and vitriolic spleen are a combination that still sounds jarring. After PHM blew up, Reznor admitted that “I do actually believe in love. I can’t say that I’m 100 percent successful in that department, but I think it’s one of the few worthwhile human experiences. It’s cooler than anything I can think of right now.” Ugh, what a sap…

Listen: Anger [Marvin Gaye]

Listen: Ringfinger [Nine Inch Nails]

Listen: When Did You Stop Loving Me, When Did I Stop Loving You [Marvin Gaye]

Listen: Down In It [Nine Inch Nails]

Stuck In My Head: Ordinary People

In 2007, Neil Young released his 477th album, Chrome Dreams II, which was slyly named after an album he didn’t release in the mid-70s. The centerpiece of Chrome Dreams II is an 18+ minutes, album side-length song called ‘Ordinary People’. This song was an outtake from his late-80s Neil & The Blue Notes period, and its history is well told here. But in a nutshell, it was played live about a dozen times between spring and fall of ’88, and then shelved, until Neil dusted it off for release in 2007.

‘Ordinary People’ is a tale of crooked politicians, disinterested factory workers, and washed up heavyweight champs, that winds out over nine verses. With its short story length and slow grinding guitar, its most obvious twin in Neil’s catalog is ‘Cortez The Killer’. But where the guitar in Cortez signified the slow, undeniable march of the conquistador, here it stands for the daily friction that wears us all out. “Some are saints, and some are jerks/Hard workin’ people,” he sings, giving dignity to both factions. Hard work means getting dirt under your nails, and life is full of hard work, so Neil sings an ode to the dirt.

While it reminds me musically of ‘Cortez The Killer, ‘Ordinary People’ mostly seems like a strange update on Walt Whitman’s 1855 poem ‘I Sing The Body Electric’. On its face, Whitman’s poem is a celebration of the human body, and its pleasing, useful musculature. He surveys many hard-working men and women, taking in their forms with a poetic eye:

“The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting…”

and

“The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,”

But I think what Whitman was really getting at is that the body of our nation is composed of many day-to-day heroes, who, like muscles on the human body, give America its form and function. He never comes right out and says that, but he hints at it, with an observation that could also sum up the characters in ‘Ordinary People’:

“In this head the all-baffling brain;
In it and below it, the makings of heroes.”

Listen: Ordinary People

Buried Treasure: An American Prayer

[Today: Ghost songs...]

Jim Morrison was a bad poet with some interesting ideas, a big league death wish, and a dump truck full of symbolism. But he was a first-rate rock star, a bluesman at heart, and possessed a genuinely compelling speaking voice. An American Prayer was released in November of 1978, seven full years after his death. Morrison recorded himself reading his poetry in 1969 and 1970, but thankfully this isn’t just a spoken word album, and instead is rounded out with musical punctuation by the surviving members of The Doors. Those musical bits, along with sound effects like car doors slamming and children playing, are laid behind Morrison’s words and give dimension to his imagery.

The most obvious themes of this album are sex and death, with generous helpings of Indians, religion (with its prayers and invocations), murder, ghosts, the desert, freaks and loners, and mongrel dogs. It’s also filled with enough ethnic slurs and “cocks” and “cunts” to keep an auditorium of 6th grade boys entertained for a month. But even if strands of this album make absolutely no sense lyrically, Morrison still describes a number of interesting scenes of conflict and sensuality. He almost achieves something poetic when he speaks of angels and sailors, and what they’re out to get. And he often touches the deep decay behind the bright shiny facade of America.

Morrison explained that “If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it’s to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.” To that end, I believe that An American Prayer is set on the hottest day of the summer, in the southwest corner of the United States. An eagle flies high up in the sky, taking in scenes of rape and lust and death, floating above the penny arcades and lustful fuck salesmen and war merchants. His eagle eye scans the deserts and cities, trying to make sense of all the humans and their odd human behaviors. Sometimes his words don’t make sense, because, well, sometimes humans don’t make sense, and some of the scenes he sees defy mere words. And as he floats around up there, he mockingly tells us of ourselves, and he sounds a lot like the bluesman, the joker, the drunken rock star gone astray…

Listen: Ghost Song

Listen: Newborn Awakening

Listen: Stoned Immaculate

Listen: Lament

Masterpiece: Horses

[Today: The punk poet...]

Patti Smith was a writer first and a musician second, but she was as influenced by rockers like Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison as she was by poets such as Arthur Rimbaud and William Blake. “What I wanted to do in rock n’ roll was merge poetry with sonic scapes, and the two people who had contributed so much to that were Hendrix and Morrison,” she said in 2005. Her 1975 debut Horses did just that, blending stark poetry with low-fi, high-tension rock that came courtesy of guitarist Lenny Kaye, keyboardist Richard Sohl, bassist Ivan Kral and drummer Jay Dee Daugherty.

Album opener ‘Gloria’ is a total re-work of Van Morrison & Them’s classic garage rock anthem. Like she was doing with rock in general, Smith turned gender roles on their ear with her version of ‘Gloria’, making her heroine a willing accomplice to hot sex and good times, rather than an easy mark for the boys. From there she travels far and wide, visiting poetic vistas that include the nostalgic yearning of ‘Birdland’, the death and decay of ‘Redondo Beach’ and the violent elegy of ‘Land’. Unlike Jim Morrison, who sometimes jumped the line between conceptual rock and poetic gibberish, Smith lets the drama of her words drive the music, rather than override it.

Because of the ragged nature of its music and the forceful impression of its lyrics, Horses has been branded proto-punk and cited as a forerunner to the safety-pinned stuff that followed it. Maybe so, but Smith was as much of an outlier among the punks as she was among rockers, and geography probably mattered as much as style when it came to branding her a punk. Either way, “Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine” might just rank as the greatest opening line of any debut album in rock history. With that vivid declaration, Patti Smith expanded the scope of what constituted rock and who could be a rock star, and signaled that the prevailing notions of gender in music would never again be accepted at face value.

Listen: Gloria

Listen: Birdland

Listen: Land/Horses/Land of a Thousand Dances/ La Mer (de) [live, from Horses 2005]