Paris 1919

It's Friday, and I'm excited. After four days of explaining the trajectory of John Cale's early career, I finally feel as though I can do justice to Paris 1919 (1973) in writing.

Between the release of Vintage Violence and Paris 1919, Cale took two detours into the world of the experimental: a 1971 collaboration with minimalist Terry Riley, and his 1972 release, The Academy in Peril. Returning to his roots, it would seem that Cale was grounding himself. Regardless of his intent, the time off from pop certainly seemed to recharge him for his 1973 powerhouse record.

Cale's complaint with Vintage Violence was that it lacked personality, and one gets the sense that he intended to remedy this on his second pop album. It doesn't take long for his true self to shine through on Paris 1919 - the record begins with "Child's Christmas in Wales," which itself kicks off with an odd-metered line (I believe it's in 11) that immediately gives way to and eminently listenable verse. Backed by a descending bassline and sustaining Hammond organ, Cale's richly poetic lyrics nostalgically interpret Welsh poet Dylan Thomas' short story of the same name. I say "nostalgically" because one gets the sense that Thomas' Christmas recollections could in fact be Cale's and vice versa. Certainly, the lyrics (and the Thomas allusion) suggest that the song is set in WWI or post-WWI Wales - the mentions of Sebestapol and Adrianapolis (both WWI battles) confirm this. Nonetheless, Cale seems to be drawing upon the similarities between himself and Thomas - both Welsh artists - despite their being from such drastically different milieus. The song is by no means a literal interpretation of the story - there is something far greater than a simple retelling at work here.

Cale adopts period guise for the cover of Paris 1919

The album as a whole expands upon themes put forth in the opening track. Cale seems to be wrestling with epochs and locales seemingly so unlike his own, yet he approaches them with a striking personal familiarity. "Macbeth" removes the Shakespearian play from its Globe Theater origins and turns it into a spirited rock stomp. Cale yet again flexes his arranging muscles and classical chops on "Paris 1919," wrapping the post-war "gay Paree" of the Modernists in ornate orchestration. "Graham Greene" adeptly utilizes second-person perspective to situate the listener in the English moralist's world. Most impressive about the record: the music itself is so inviting and engrossing that one is apt to miss the thematic complexity almost entirely upon first listen.

The greatest beauty of Paris 1919 is its ability to find common ground with everything it touches - particularly its diverse and often grandiose themes, which are transformed from history textbook instances into remarkably accessible pop songs. The album's audience is not exempt from Cale's uncanny ability to relate to anything and anyone he pleases, and perhaps no track on the record exemplifies this more so than "Child's Christmas in Wales." It contains moments for all listeners: conservatory trained classicists, literate art students, and casual pop listeners alike.

Child's Christmas in Wales

John Cale, Casual Collaborator

By 1970, with reputable producing, songwriting, and playing credits under his belt, John Cale was in a favorable position to work with whomever he pleased. Given his excellent taste, it was no surprise that he would choose to work with one of the most venerated names in music: Nick Drake. Of course, Drake was by no means a popular figure at the time - his records never sold well during his lifetime, and he had only released Five Leaves Left (1969) at the time of his collaboration with Cale.

The story goes that Cale heard Drake's work through producer Joe Boyd, with whom he was working on Nico's album Desertshore (1970). The subsequent events are detailed by Trevor Dann:

When John Cale heard Nick Drake's music he was enchanted. "He was a very quiet guy. It was very difficult to figure out what was going on in his mind. He made music with a real sensuality - very different from English folk music." So he persuaded Joe Boyd to let him play on the album. For a couple of days in the spring of 1970, Cale moved into Nick's Belsize Park flat and worked on two of his best songs, "Fly" and "Northern Sky." Joe Boyd remembers Nick being overawed by John Cale's fame and phenomenal musicality: "He was kinda trailing in his wake. I said, 'Are you happy with this, Nick', 'Yeh, yeh, I guess so yeh, yeh.'"

- Trevor Dann, Darker Than the Deepest Sea: The Search for Nick Drake (p. 144)

And so it was. Both "Fly" and "Northern Sky," classics from Bryter Layter (1970), would be arranged by the Drake/Cale tandem with Cale fleshing out the arrangements himself in the studio. As per usual, Cale's arrangements of both tracks were impeccable - he imbued the tracks with a suitable melancholy that perfectly complemented Drake's songwriting.

Today's post is "Fly." I found it difficult to choose between it and "Northern Sky," but ultimately chose the former due to its employment of Cale's trademark viola. Our hero is also playing harpsichord on the track.

Fly

John Cale, Solo Artist

Let's have a look at John Cale's CV from the point at which he started work on Vintage Violence (1970), his first solo record:

1963 Student, Berkshire Music Center - Tanglewood
Following extensive music education at the University of London, was invited to study under Aaron Copland and Iannis Xanakis. Disallowed from performing any compositions, as the bulk were considered too abrasive (one of which involved taking an axe to a table).

1965 - 1968 Founding member/multi-instrumentalist, The Velvet Underground
Along with collaborator Lou Reed, oversaw New York's avant garde staple during its salad days. Forged ties with Andy Warhol. Contributed bass, viola and organ both live and in the studio. Was the chief architect behind the noise assault of White Light/White Heat. Asked to leave the band following co-founder's desire to write prettier songs.

1968 Producer/arranger, The Marble Index (Nico)
Adorned Nico's minimal Teutonic poetry and harmonium with orchestration. Despite the harmonium being out of tune with the rest of the instruments, the record was critically acclaimed.

1969 Producer, The Stooges (The Stooges)
Coaxed several raucous performances out of angsty Detroit teens The Stooges.

See the trend here? It seemed everything Cale touched was edgy, noisy, or even nearly unlistenable. Certainly, those who heard he was working on a record called Vintage Violence must have been expecting more of the same. Choirs of chainsaws, perhaps? Rusty blenders switching on and off rhythmically over a droning viola? A guitar feedback orchestra performing a symphony in quarter tones? Nobody would have batted an eyelid. Instead, Cale managed to surprise everybody - he made a conventional pop record.

Much in the way Lou Reed shocked Velvet Underground fans by following White Light/White Heat with the delicate The Velvet Underground (1969), John Cale provided his audience with a record filled with melodic and pastoral rock. Far from his work with the Velvets, Vintage Violence was filled with acoustic guitars, lap steel, and conventional song structures. From the spirited opening "Hello There" to the Spectoresque "Big White Cloud" to the downright jaunty "Adelaide," this was not the John Cale anybody was expecting. Apparently, it also surprised Cale. He would later remark in his autobiography that the album cover, featuring the his visage covered by a nylon stocking, was fairly symbolic of the album as a whole: "You're not seeing the personality."

"You're not seeing the personality."

Despite the artist's comments, I have always seen Vintage Violence as being thoroughly reflective of Cale. At its root, the album is a grand experiment - perhaps not in the sense that we usually think of, but certainly a radical one given the history of its creator. Here was a man with an established pedigree as an avant-gardist and classicist making a simple pastoral record. If nothing else, he was continuing to push his boundaries. From a musical perspective, the arrangements are all impeccable. The droning violas and distorted organs have been replaced with lap steel and reverb-drenched backing vocals, but they are evocative nonetheless. File Vintage Violence under "successful experiments."

Today's upload is "Gideon's Bible," my personal favorite track from the record (and one of my favorite tracks in general). Note that Cale's viola makes an appearance - you can hear it in the right channel of your stereo. Also listen for the tasteful use of the lap steel in the choruses (also in the right channel) - the more I listen, the more I'm tempted to buy one for myself...

Gideon's Bible

John Cale, Producer

In the wake of his departure from the Velvet Underground, John Cale became something of a musical free agent. Armed with his pedigree as a classically trained musician and former member of the Velvets, he would not have to look very hard for new gigs. The first of such gigs was as producer and arranger of Nico's 1968 avant garde classic, The Marble Index. With Nico providing only Gothic lyrics and minimal harmonium accompaniment, it would be Cale's task to adorn the record with further instrumentation. The results were stunning, and The Marble Index would subsequently be considered an experimental classic. Below is a video collage for "Frozen Warnings," a track from the record. Note the thick (though evolving) drone that Cale created over Nico's poetry.

Avant folk? Experimental? Modern Classical? Nico's "Frozen Warnings"

Fresh from his sessions with Nico, John Cale was tapped to produce the debut album for the Stooges. Then relatively unknown outside of Detroit, Iggy Pop & Co had been signed to Elektra by an A&R scout who had seen the band opening for the MC5 (to whom he had also extended a recording contract). It seemed that if anyone would be able to capture the raw essence of the Stooges' live show, it would be Cale. Unfortunately, this did not turn out to be the case. The Stooges (1969) would become a classic album and spawn some of the band's most memorable songs ("1969," "I Wanna Be Your Dog"), but it sounds tame in comparison to the blown-out production of Fun House (1970) and Raw Power (1973). Though Cale most certainly coaxed some excellent performances out of the Stooges, none of his final mixes seemed to capture the raw angst of the group. As a result, these mixes were scrapped - the final master was mixed by Iggy Pop and Elektra president Jac Holzman. Four of Cale's original mixes would be released on a 2005 reissue of The Stooges, and I am providing one of them today: "I Wanna Be Your Dog." I have also included a video containing the album mix for comparison. Note that in comparison to the final album mix, the guitar is buried in Cale's mix. The percussion is much hotter, as is the bass. Not until the end of the track do we hear anything remotely approaching "in-your-face" guitar, and it comes in the form of a fuzz solo that is louder in the mix than Iggy's vocal.

The album version.

I Wanna Be Your Dog (Original John Cale Mix)

It's John Cale Appreciation Week!

John Cale, Band Member

As of the last few weeks, I've been listening to quite a bit of John Cale's work. Most specifically, I've found myself under the spell of Paris 1919 (1973), perhaps his most acclaimed solo effort. I had intended to write on this album, but found myself with something of a dilemma. Part of my appreciation for Paris 1919 comes from my understanding of Cale's diverse output as a whole. To reduce the man's work to one track from one record, I figured, would cheapen it. How could I possibly convey the depth and breadth of Cale's influence? My solution: John Cale Appreciation Week. Conveniently, Mr. Cale was born in March, so I can use his 66th birthday as an excuse for such an endeavor. For the next week, I'll be examining the range of John Cale's work from 1967 - 1973 - a narrow span of time, to be sure, but a very productive period nonetheless.

The beginning of John Cale as a popular figure begins with his formation of the Velvet Underground, though he had been respected as a musician for years before. Born in Wales, Cale would take up the viola at a young age and eventually major in music at the University of London. He came to the States in 1963 after receiving a scholarship to study at Tanglewood with famed American composer Aaron Copland. Eventually, Cale fell into the New York avant garde scene with John Cage and La Monte Young, among others. It was through his connections to the New York underground that he met Lou Reed, with whom he formed the Velvet Underground in 1965.

Cale's contributions to the Velvets were numerous. He was most obviously an instrumentalist, playing everything from bass to viola and organ. He would also bring with him a number of avant garde ideals from his classical days - most notably his love of drones and noise. Such influences would show on both the band's debut, The Velvet Underground and Nico (1967) and White Light/White Heat (1968). The former would showcase a balanced approach, vacillating between Lou Reed's pop influences and Cale's experimentalism. The latter record, on the other hand, would be a study of the avant garde, culminating in the 17 minute noise jam of "Sister Ray" (on which Cale played a distorted electric organ). Both records, though hopeless flops from a commercial standpoint, are now considered among the most influential records in history. Brian Eno would later famously comment that while The Velvet Underground and Nico sold horribly, everyone who did hear the record ended up starting a band.

Following the experimental impulses (and horrid sales) of the band's first two records, Lou Reed began to gravitate towards a more pop oriented approach in his songwriting. The tension between he and Cale that had fueled the band's first two records was becoming less productive and more of a nuisance. Before embarking on sessions for the their third record, the Velvets gradually pushed John Cale out of the mix, replacing him with Doug Yule. This would mark the end of the band's most fervently experimental period. Cale's final recording sessions with the Velvet Underground occurred in February of 1968. During these sessions, the band cut "Hey Mr. Rain," a track that smacks of his influence. Prominently featuring the droning viola that was one of Cale's signatures with the Velvets, the song was not released until it was included on the outtakes retrospective VU in 1985. It is provided for you today.

In addition, I am including a video of the band writing "Sunday Morning," the opening track on The Velvet Underground and Nico. The film is accompanied by the final version of the song, which was co-written by Reed and Cale.

Is it just me, or does the mustached Cale look like Dave Navarro?

Hey Mr. Rain

Easter Everywhere

Due to the upcoming Easter weekend (and the sorely needed break I am taking for its duration), I will be posting a little more erratically over the next week or so. I'm hoping the break will afford me some extra time to sleep and evaluate some new records. I'll still probably be posting in the interim, I'm just not certain of how consistently.

In the meantime, I felt it was appropriate to write on Easter Everywhere (1967), the 13th Floor Elevators' second record. Fronted by 19-year-old Roky Erickson, the Elevators formed in Austin, TX in 1965. They recorded their first album, The Psychedelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators in 1966 - it would be the first time a band utilized the term "psychedelic" to describe their music. Not surprisingly, the album sleeve contained brazen endorsements of LSD. The music itself was fairly successful - "You're Gonna Miss Me," the album's single, made it as high as #55 on the charts. The follow-up to The Psychedelic Sounds of, 1967's Easter Everywhere, was a comparatively more mature effort. From the opening 8-minute opus, "Slip Inside this House," to the upbeat "She Lives," to a strung-out cover of Bob Dylan's "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue," the album rarely falters. It is considered one of the finest statements of the psychedelic era, despite never selling particularly well or producing any hit singles.

Unfortunately, the band's lifestyle eventually caught up with them. In 1968, Erickson was hospitalized after speaking gibberish. He was diagnosed as a schizophrenic (perhaps, as was the case with Syd Barrett, brought on by extensive use of LSD), subjected to ECT, and released. Later in 1969, Roky was caught in possession of a single joint. Due to the draconian Texas laws, he faced a ten year prison sentence - a punishment he avoided by pleading insanity. Sadly, this plea would lead to several more years of ECT and hospitalization, which he unsuccessfully attempted to escape several times. By the time he was released, the psychedelic era was long gone, the 13th Floor Elevators had broken up, and Roky was a shadow of his former self.

Today's upload is "Nobody to Love," one of my preferred tracks from Easter Everywhere. In addition, I've posted a video clip of the band miming "You're Gonna Miss Me" on television. Note that Tommy Hall, the band's lyricist, is playing an "electric jug" (it's actually a closely-miked "acoustic" jug) - this was a large part of the band's signature sound.

"Is this the 13th Floor?"

Nobody to Love

Revisiting Dungen

It's been about four years since Dungen released Ta Det Lugnt, and I still have no idea what those Swedes are saying. Not that it makes much of a difference - the record is still fantastic, and I can sing most of the songs phonetically by now, anyway. Nonetheless, I often find myself wondering what they're singing about.

A little over a year ago, a Swedish intern began working at my office. We became fast friends, and I decided to ask him about the band. I was a little disappointed that he had never heard of Dungen (the bulk of the music he listened to was either American or British club pop/rap), but he was nonetheless glad to help me roughly translate some of the lyrics. We got a few lines into "Festival" when I asked him to stop. The rough translation went along the lines of "Festival makes me happy every single day." I could stand to hear no more. Perhaps it was the quality of the translation, but I began to fear that knowing what the songs meant might ruin my appreciation of the record. Even with Dungen's words reduced to unintelligible sounds and syllables, I loved the music. Why mess with such a beautiful thing?

Well, curiosity got the better of me again today. I began looking online for lyrical translations, and managed to find a few scattered here and there. For example, according to a poster here, the chorus to "Panda" is roughly translated as "Not everyone has it as good as you/I think you understand because I like her, too/How she is/Sometimes she gets angry/She was mine, but I guess you don't give a shit." Now that wasn't so bad, was it?

The fact remains that Ta Det Lugnt was a masterpiece when it was released nearly four years ago. Given the fact that I'm still researching translations of the Swedish lyrics, I would say it's aged pretty well. Today's post is "Panda," the first track on the album, and one of the finest indie singles of the last five years. For those of you who have not yet heard it, you're in for a treat.

If you have not done so already, spend some time with this record.

Panda

Oh yes, and I found something that might be of interest to the musicians out there: a website with the chords to many of Dungen's songs. Enjoy.

Their New Release Impending, Man Man Gets Love

As regular readers of MP3some are aware, the bulk of the material about which I post is old - usually pre-1975. This has nothing to do with a lack of good modern music (there is quite a bit of it) and everything to do with my desire to know as much as possible about the golden era of pop. I do, in fact, listen to contemporary artists. For some reason, I'm just usually more excited about discovering old records than I am new ones. It's rare that news of a band's upcoming release gets me really excited - I think the last one I was really looking forward to was Tio Bitar, Dungen's 2007 follow-up to the stellar Ta Det Lugnt. It was a good record, but did not live up to my expectations. Perhaps I set the bar a little too high. Lately, however, I find myself eagerly awaiting a new album. Man Man is releasing Rabbit Habits, their follow-up to Six Demon Bag (2006), on April 8, and I am excited.

Man Man's defining characteristic is their ability to embrace both absurdity and emotional poignancy at once - a trick that precious few artists have mastered. As a devoted fan of Zappa and Beefheart, I deeply enjoy ridiculousness in music - but I will also readily acknowledge that the efforts of musical absurdists are typically affairs of the head, not the heart. No man is walking his daughter down the aisle to the disjointed melodies of Captain Beefheart. No heartbroken individual is throwing on Weasels Ripped My Flesh when he defeatedly sinks into his chair at the end of the day and pours himself a glass of bourbon. Man Man is a notable exception to the rule, however, and Six Demon Bag is testament to this. One minute, the record confronts you with delicate melodies and gut-wrenching lyrics over a slow piano waltz. The next, it serves you chants of "Mustache! Mustache! Mustache!" between Rhodes piano arpeggios and bursts of squawking horns. It's a thing of beauty - a record I'm comfortable giving to freak-rock enthusiasts and middle-of-the-road pop fans alike. I am hoping that Rabbit Habits will continue to walk the same fine line.

Today's upload is "Van Helsing Boombox," a track from Six Demon Bag. In addition to the album cut, I have also posted a video of Man Man performing the song live on Dutch television.

Rhodes piano = the way to Kid Gloves' heart.

Van Helsing Boombox

Theme from an Imaginary Western

The first version of "Theme from and Imaginary Western" I heard was Mountain's live rendition from Woodstock. Leslie West introduced the song by mentioning it was written by Cream's Jack Bruce, then promptly launched into a spirited version. I was initially somewhat confused by the track - it did not sound like Cream at all. I chalked that up to the fact that it was Mountain (a poor man's Cream) playing the song.

Later, When my roommate and I semi-jokingly (well, I don't think it was a joke for him) got into Mountain's record, Climbing! (1970 - and love the title), I heard their album version of the song. "Theme from an Imaginary Western" was a highlight of the record for me - a well-written song with a nice Hammond organ in the background. It was not a favorite of my roommate, however, who preferred the band's riff-driven material. It still didn't sound like Cream, and I was still confused.

I eventually found a copy of Bruce's 1969 solo effort, Songs for a Tailor, and everything suddenly made sense. Far from the psychedelic blues of Cream, Songs for a Tailor is a nice amalgam of pop, folk, jazz, and even hints of country. It appears that Jack Bruce was something of a renaissance man. While fellow Cream member Eric Clapton was a guitar-slinging blues savant, Bruce's interests and abilities (he played bass, piano, organ, cello, and guitar on the record) were rather diverse. Songs for a Tailor reflects such diversity. In some ways, it reminds me of Blind Faith - sans the heavy blues guitar, of course. In other ways, it reminds me of No Other era Gene Clark - sans the spectacular production. The comparisons are by no means perfect, though. Jack Bruce is a unique artist with a sound all his own, and "Theme from an Imaginary Western" may well be his finest post-Cream piece of songwriting. It is the gem of his first solo record.

Mountain's version from the Cincinnati Pop Festival (1970).

Theme from an Imaginary Western

An Open Letter to John Mellencamp

Dear Mr. Mellencamp (Mr. Cougar?),

I wanted to commend you for your political activism these days. It's good to see artists throwing themselves behind a good cause every now and then - particularly when it's a cause I can personally agree with. I know you had supported John Edwards - a good man, to be sure - for the Democratic nomination before he dropped out of the race. I also know that you recently chastised the McCain camp for using your songs during campaign events. It's good to see that you have clearly given thought to your platform, and have decided to take action when necessary. At the same time, I'm somewhat puzzled by your opposition to the war in Iraq. Don't get me wrong, I don't disagree with your opposition - I'll leave that to Mr. McCain - I'm just disappointed that your actions don't match up to your good intentions in regards to the subject.

Are you aware that the 2008 Chevy Silverado 1500 gets 14 miles per gallon? You must be, given the rigorous research you've done into every other issue behind which you've thrown yourself. Nonetheless, I still hear your "Our Country" song adorning Silverado commercials. Look - I work in music/advertising. I know how much money there is in licensing songs for use in commercials, especially when they air nationally. You probably made more money on Super Bowl Sunday than I have in my life. I can't criticize your desire to make money - hell, I could use a similar windfall myself. I can, however, criticize your willingness to throw your implicit support behind one of the gas-guzzling vehicles that contributes to our foreign oil dependency. If you believe - as I do - that the war in Iraq was about securing petroleum to slake our country's seemingly unending thirst, surely you must have some scruples about contributing to this problem. "This is our country," all right - big trucks with poor fuel efficiency for all! Do you not cringe every time you see your song on these ads? I certainly do.

Huzzah for big trucks!

While I'm riled up (and since this is, after all, an mp3 blog), I'd like to discuss your music as well. What's with the laziness? I understand the need to churn out mindless pop songs to sustain your lifestyle - again, I don't fault you for chasing the dollars with this whole "Our Country" thing - but did you really need to rewrite "Pink Houses" ["Ain't That America"]? I'll confess, I've never been a fan of "Pink Houses," but I'd also be the first to admit that there's some amount of depth to it. I don't particularly relate to (or enjoy, for that matter) your imagery of blue collar America, but it's there, and it's competent. Through this imagery, you managed to express the wildly differing versions of the American dream in a fairly graceful manner. You also managed to get some digs in there about the unjust class dynamics that are inherent in our American capitalist freedom - a point that I certainly appreciate, particularly in such an iconic pop song.

Back to this "Our Country" thing, though. Did you actually intend to record a dumbed-down version of "Pink Houses"? If so, you've certainly succeeded. You've taken everything that made your old hit unique and done away with it. That four-note guitar hook is gone. You got rid of that seething subtextual anger. You've replaced the earnest imagery with generic descriptions that seem lifted from a George Bush speech:

Well I can stand beside ideals I think are right
And I can stand beside the idea to stand and fight
I do believe there's a dream for everyone
This is our country

That sense of a common American dream is still there, only now it's explicitly stated. The independent-mindedness that made "Pink Houses" interesting (or in my case, tolerable) and quintessentially American is gone. You've traded it all in for an inoffensive "let's all be friends and rally around the flag" track.

There was a time when you held the title of "Springsteen of the Heartland" or "Poor Man's Bruce," but that has since faded. There was a time when you thumbed your nose at Ronald Reagan when he tried to use "Pink Houses" in a campaign ad. There was a time when you had something to say, even if I don't necessarily agree with how you said it. That was a long time ago - long before I learned to read, write, or listen to music with a critical ear.

You've had your fun, Mr. Mellencamp, but I think it may be time to hang up the old Fender Telecaster for good.

Sincerely,

Kid Gloves

The Sopwith Camel

I mentioned The Sopwith Camel in passing during a previous post as one of the first bands I sought out on Napster. I had read that the Camel was the second band from San Francisco to get a major record deal (and the first to score a top 40 hit), and was determined to see what all the fuss was about. Unable to find any of the band's material in record stores, I turned to the new frontier of file sharing and had success.

What I first heard from the band (their top 40 single, "Hello Hello") did not impress me in the least. In fact, I remember being slightly put off by it. It sounded like it could have been a #1 single in 1925 - I could have sworn I'd heard it before on the soundtrack of A River Runs Through It. The only thing "modern" I could find about the song was the gently strummed electric guitar in the background. In retrospect, my initial impression of the track may have been a little short-sighted - indeed, many bands at the time were experimenting with retro styles. The Beatles would soon record the "White Album," upon which Paul McCartney would experiment with vintage pop ("Honey Pie," for example). The Lovin' Spoonful was dabbling in jug band music. Perhaps I was a little harsh to hold the arrangement of "Hello Hello" against the Sopwith Camel - it wasn't a poorly written song, it just wasn't what I was expecting from one of San Francisco's first major bands.

"Hello Hello" wasn't the most palatable thing I ever heard.

For some reason, I decided to continue my search of Sopwith Camel material. I figured that no band could possibly sustain the "Hello Hello" aesthetic over an entire album, let alone an entire career. However, this search was made difficult by the fact that the band only had two proper albums - one in 1967, and the other (a reunion album) in 1973. Given my opinion of the earlier material and the track record of San Francisco bands in the 70s (Jefferson Starship, anyone?), things did not look good for Sopwith Camel. I finally got hold of their reunion effort, 1973's The Miraculous Hump Returns from the Moon, I was ready to be sorely disappointed. For the most part, I was. The album as a whole did not hold up.

Nothing I can say will make this any funnier than it already is.

One track, however, reached uncommon heights of brilliance: "Fazon." I remember being hooked on the song the moment it started playing - its distant-sounding wah guitar combined with the opening saxophone line instantly drew me in. When the verse kicked in and revealed a fantastic bass groove, I was sold. To this day, I have no idea what - or who - "Fazon" is. All I know is that when the song starts playing, I can't help but nod my head and sing "Faaa - Faaa - Faaa - Fa - Fa - Fazon." Simply put, this is one of my jams - it has remained one of my favorite songs since the day I heard it a number of years ago.

I cannot say I listen to any Sopwith Camel outside of this single track. But based on the strength "Fazon" alone, I am comfortable calling myself a fan of the band. Songs this good are not accidents.

Fazon

SRC

How musically influential was Detroit in the 60s? The city produced Motown, which would forever color pop aesthetics. It produced some of the groups from which punk rock and heavy metal would later claim lineage - most notably the Stooges and the MC5. Detroit would also produce its own brand of psychedelia that has since been largely forgotten. The most famous of these psychedelic acts was the Amboy Dukes, which featured a young Ted Nugent on guitar. Apparently, the arch-conservative Nuge was unaware that his band's first hit, "Journey to the Center of the Mind," was about drugs. Go figure.

However, of all Detroit's psychedelic acts, my personal favorite is SRC - Scott Richardson Case. Powered by the guitar/Hammond organ pyrotechnics of Gary and Glenn Quackenbush and the vocals of Scott Richardson, the band made a name for itself as one of the finest Detroit live acts of the era. Frequenting the Grande Ballroom (the venue where the MC5 recorded Kick Out the Jams) and opening for national touring acts such as Jimi Hendrix, SRC was rather well-liked by the local scene. Like most of the era's Detroit rock, the band's music was more "acid rock" than feel-good psychedelia - its darker themes, feedback-laden guitars, and rawer aesthetic provide a nice counterpoint to the contemporaneous hippy-dippy West Coast fare. Today's track is "Black Sheep," SRC's biggest hit from their self-titled record. Note the menacing sustained guitar during the breaks in the song - you won't be finding anything like that on a Scott McKenzie record.

SRC's first record. Apparently, it sounds great on vinyl. No surprises there.

Nowadays, things have changed in Detroit. We've traded Motown and the Stooges for the Insane Clown Posse and Kid Rock - pennies on the dollar, as far as I'm concerned. Regardless, we still have old records as proof of Detroit's moment in the sun - a time when the Motor City was a hub for forward-thinking music.

Black Sheep

Ronnie Von Gets His Due

Today in musical circles outside of Brazil, Ronnie Von is best remembered as the man who introduced Os Mutantes to the masses. Certainly, he is deserving of such credit - his late-sixties television show, O Pequeno Mundo de Ronnie Von featured Mutantes as weekly performers during the band's infancy. However, the depth of Von's influence is far more significant than that of a mere television host.

Ronnie Von was a musician himself, and a rather successful one at that. While Brazilian musical sophisticates in the 60s typically opted either for Tropicália (Caetano Veloso, Gal Costa, Gilberto Gil, Os Mutantes, etc) or Bossa nova (Jobim, João Gilberto, Vinicius de Moraes) as their preferred genres, the mainstream masses were listening to "iê iê" - essentially the equivalent of teen pop. The genre's lyrics were uncomplicated, romantic, and inoffensive. Its music drew heavily from early American and British rock. It was within this genre that Von was a leading musical figure - so much so that he is still regarded by many as one of Brazil's finest popular singers ever. However, like much teen pop, "iê iê" was never regarded as being artistically substantive. While the Tropicalistas pushed the envelope, "iê iê" artists were candy makers, providing the masses with light pop.

From this milieu, Ronnie Von delivered his 1968 self-titled record. It was not his first record (nor his first self-titled record, for that matter), but it marked an interesting step for both him and the "iê iê" movement - it was an attempt to add more modern (well, modern for 1968) aesthetics to a genre that seemed to be stuck in the recent past. The album still sounds mainstream - it does still carry with it the schmaltz and cleanliness of big-budget pop. This said, it is nonetheless rather experimental for a straight pop album. Musically speaking, the arrangements and production are spotless. The record seems well informed by the symphonic pop of the era (The Walker Brothers being a point of comparison that comes to mind), and perhaps also the early work of the Tropicalistas. Regardless of the interesting leap forward, the record did not sell well - perhaps it was too "out there" for mainstream listeners, but too "inside" for the art scene. Indeed, the record seems to straddle such a line - it is unquestionably a pop record, though it carries some hallmarks of a more progressive effort.

When teen pop met Tropicalismo.

Today's post is "Esperança De Cantar," a track from the record. Note that the typical (though very competent) arrangement is punctuated by a fuzz guitar - a feature at home on a Gilberto Gil or Mutantes record, but surprising in a teen pop context.

Esperança De Cantar

Sly Stone

Perhaps nobody better embodied the rise and fall of the 60s dream than Sly Stone. From idealistic and brilliant beginnings to a gradual burnout, Sly is best remembered for either his heyday or his downfall. Personally, I am most fascinated with his transitional period.

Following his success with Stand! (1969) and a memorable Woodstock performance, the demands began to pile up. Record executives demanded Sly's next big hit. Activists in the Black Panther Party demanded that he make his music "blacker" - starting with the de-integration of his band (similar pressure was also being placed on Jimi Hendrix at the time). Combined with the normal inter-band tension that constant touring and recording brings, these demands would start to wear on Sly.

By the time There's a Riot Goin' On came out in 1971, Sly Stone was a changed man. His optimistic dreams of the late 60s had deflated, and the drug problems that would characterize his later career had started to surface. Indeed, There's a Riot Goin' On is regarded by many as one of the ultimate "death of the 60s" records. I have characterized it in the past as sounding like a drug den, complete with poor lighting, scattered debris, and interjections of alternating pain and joy. Today's offering, "Love n' Haight" is the first track on the record. The album is completely worth tracking down, and is my favorite by Mr. Stone.

In addition, I am posting two videos from Sly's later period. The first is an interview with Mike Douglas in which he appears quite lucid (which is rather surprising for 1974). The second is a performance from the same television show - note that despite the years having taken their toll on him, Sly's immense talent still shines through.

Love the guy on the right.

Great song, brilliant man.

Love n' Haight

Thank You, Lou Pearlman

Today in the "no surprises" department, Lou Pearlman will plead guilty to fraud. For those of you who aren't familiar with Mr. Pearlman's work, he is the "mastermind" behind such boy bands as the Backstreet Boys, N'Sync, LFO, O-Town, and a litany of other less successful "legitimate artists."

Looking like a plumper and more jovial version of Karl Rove,

Lou Pearlman is to blame for the late-90s boy band craze.

I can't say I'm shocked by this development. After all, Lou made his living (outside of creating businesses on paper and defrauding investors over a 20 year period, that is) by manufacturing musical acts, most of which had no actual talent, and none of which were organically formed. Much of the artificial shit-pop I was subjected to as a high school student had its genesis in Pearlman's bald head.

While I must say I'm tickled that he's being convicted of actual fraud, I'm somewhat upset that he cannot be tried for cultural swindling as well. This is an individual who convinced millions of screaming teenagers that five dancing boys with nominal vocal ability constituted music. This is an individual who stripped music of its spontaneity and dynamism, replacing it with carefully scripted contrivance and market-tested sheen. Teen pop has been a cultural phenomenon since the birth of the record industry, but never did it stoop as low as it did during the Pearlman era. The man had a key role in severely cheapening the art form most dear to me, and for that I can never forgive him.

Lou Pearlman's plea bargain will incriminate several other individuals involved in his web of lies. It will expose him to the public as the corrupt and immoral businessman that he is. On the same token, it will likely spare him extensive jail time. It may allow him to get back on his feet, sell his story, and live out the rest of his life comfortably before he finally succumbs to hypertension and/or congestive heart failure.

Most unfortunately, it will never repair the damage done to an entire generation of music consumers.

A Celebration of Kevin Ayers

I first discovered Kevin Ayers in a fairly roundabout manner. When I was a freshman in college, I was desperate for information about a relatively new band at the time: the Walkmen (it was early 2002). I was searching the internet for examples of the band's music when I came upon a streaming radio show on which they had been guest DJs. I hoped that the band would have played a song or two of their own. As I recall, they did nothing of the sort - they were just playing a bunch of their favorite records. The Walkmen closed the show by spinning a song that I instantly fell for: "Song for Insane Times" by Kevin Ayers.

I remember being fascinated by the track. It was the first time I had heard an electric organ through a wah pedal. The drummer was playing what I considered to be the perfect hybrid between "jazz drums" and "rock drums" (he turned out to be Robert Wyatt). The musician in me was impressed by the chord changes. Finally, I was captivated by Ayers' voice - a rich baritone that seemed nonchalant to the point of sloth.

Indeed, Kevin Ayers' career (and his life as well) has been marked by meted doses of insouciance. Ayers was the son of a BBC producer. His parents divorced when he was young, and his mother remarried a British civil servant. He spent much of his childhood in Malaysia, where he developed a taste for the easygoing tropical lifestyle very early on. Eventually, he would move back to Canterbury, UK, where he fell into the burgeoning music scene. He was a founding member of the Soft Machine, leaving the group after recording one album and touring the US in support of Jimi Hendrix. Burned out by the hectic schedule, he would move to Majorca to decompress (the Softs would write a song about this, "As Long as He Lies Perfectly Still"). Only after an extended absence did he return to the music world to record his debut record, Joy of a Toy (1969).

Here's a song for 'clean machine Kevin Majorca'
He's found his own way to live in Majorca
Don't walk, don't drink
Don't talk, just think
Heaven on earth, he'll get there soon.

Kevin's highly unlikely to get ill
At least as long as he lies perfectly still
He eats brown rice
And fish, how nice -
Heaven on earth, he'll get there soon.

- from "As Long as He Lies Perfectly Still," The Soft Machine Volume Two (1969)

Joy of a Toy is a lovely record. Some of it is pleasantly pastoral ("Town Feeling," "The Clarietta Rag"), some of it ridiculously absurd ("Joy of a Toy Continued," "Oleh Oleh Bandu Bandong"). However wonderful the record is, the greatest highlight for me remains "Song for Insane Times" - backed by his former Soft Machine bandmates, Ayers lets rip with a beautiful piece of psychedelic-jazz-pop perfection.

In addition to "Song for Insane Times," I have also posted a video of "May I," a track on Ayers' second album, Shooting at the Moon (1970). Among the members of his band are Lol Coxhill (saxophone) and Mike Oldfield (bass).

Interesting group of guys...

Song for Insane Times

Epilogue: Subsequently, I did track down the Walkmen's debut record and loved it. They remain one of my favorite contemporary bands. In addition, "Song for Insane Times" inspired me to seek out the Soft Machine's first two records - both of which have since eclipsed Joy of a Toy for me. But that's a story for another day...

A Chronology of Music Piracy

Since the beginning of the mp3 era, people have sought to use the internet as their own personal music library. Yet, it seems that every time the masses have "figured it out," the recording industry has showed up and put an end to the fun. What happens in the wake of such an event is always the same: after a month or two of lamenting that things will never be the same, music consumers discover a new means of file-sharing and the cycle starts anew. It's a game of cat and mouse that leaves the music industry fuming and consumers' hard drives clogged with mp3 files and obsolete file-sharing programs.

Today, I thought it would be nice to have a requiem for these obsolete applications/networks that brought us so much joy.

USENET (1979 - Present)

In the days before Napster, one of the few places to find pirated music and applications was on Usenet newsgroups. Newsgroups were essentially gigantic bulletin boards on which one could leave messages as well as large files. Unfortunately, Usenet peaked in popularity during a time before the widespread use of cable modems and DSL. This was fine if you were downloading a 10 mb rip of King's Quest V, but it was the kiss of death if you wanted to download entire albums. Nobody wanted to deal with 3+ hours of dropped connections and inconsistent download speeds.

Usenet is still very much alive, though not in wide use.

Things we learned: If this whole "internet" thing was going to catch on, the connections were going to need to be quite a bit faster.

Key tracks discovered: None. I was working with a 56K modem, and didn't have a profusion of hard drive space to begin with.

NAPSTER (1999 - 2001)

Introduced around the same time that high-speed internet started becoming commonplace.Napster was the first program that introduced the masses to the idea of free (albeit illegal) music. It was also the first program that brought the file sharing problem to the attention of major labels. The program worked very well before it became clogged with users, at which point, the main Napster servers became slow and unreliable. Third-party Napster servers sprung up to remedy this problem. Eventually, the recording industry shut down the program. It would later return as a legal version (a subscription service), though never experienced the success or popularity of its original incarnation.

Things we learned: Not only was file-sharing a viable means of obtaining records, but it was easier (and cheaper) than going to a record store. Furthermore, the selection was far better than your average Sam Goody. We also learned in the wake of the recording industry's anti-Napster campaign that Metallica just wasn't cool (though for the record, I had already known that for a very long while). Further proof of Metallica's lameness came with the release of 2003's St. Anger.

Key tracks discovered: Through the program, my initial interest in post-rock was sparked. The Swords Project's debut EP (which would have been impossible to obtain on the east coast at the time) and tracks from Mogwai's Ten Rapid (suggested to me by some Brits in a Napster chatroom) stick out in my mind. I also found "Fazon" by Sopwith Camel - a track that has since become a favorite - and got into surf rock for the first time. Most notably, I obtained an advance copy of Radiohead's Kid A about three months before its slated release - and bought it on the day it finally came out.

GNUTELLA (2000 - Present)

Following Napster's demise, Gnutella was promoted as the new frontier for file-sharing. Decentralized, massive, and supposedly easy to use, the program was supposed to be the savior. Unfortunately, it had its problems. For one, the searches never quite turned up as many results as Napster did. Furthermore, many (if not most) of the transfers were either slow or impossible to start in the first place. The network's inefficiency made it undesirable for serious music collectors.

Things we learned: Some degree of centralization is necessary for most P2P applications. Without it, we are faced with slow transfer speeds, fewer search results, and general inefficiency.

Key tracks discovered: None. Gnutella never really worked all that well for me, despite my best efforts. The only music I was able to find was mainstream pop. If I wanted that, I could have put on the radio.

AUDIOGALAXY (2001 - 2002)

To this day, I still miss Audiogalaxy. It may have been my favorite file-sharing program of all-time. The site's concept was excellent: the program itself was a little satellite application that ran in the background. All of the searching was done on the Audiogalaxy site. Users would select files for download in a queue, and Audiogalaxy would automatically connect them to the fastest possible download option. It was an extremely efficient and extensive database. Unfortunately, it was also perhaps the most blatantly illegal of all the P2P networks to date.

Things we learned: The greater the centralization, the more efficient and successful the network. Unfortunately, centralization was also the fastest way to being sued by the RIAA.

Key tracks discovered: Lots of odds and ends. Tons of post-rock and math rock, particularly from Chicago. I first heard tracks by Don Caballero, June of 44, the Shipping News, and the Mercury Program on Audiogalaxy.

SOULSEEK (2001 - Present)

The source for obscure music. Soulseek started as a community sharing avant garde and undergound music - particularly electronic music - and it has retained its independent edge. It was developed by Nir Arbel, a former member of the Napster team. The application isn't exactly the best place to find the new Linkin' Park record - though you're able to find mainstream material, there are far more efficient ways to do so from a file-sharing perspective. Perhaps Soulseek doesn't belong on this list, as it's not yet obsolete - nonetheless, I felt the need to address it.

Things we learned: The community aspect can make or break a file-sharing network. There are few people looking for mainstream pop on Soulseek's servers, and thus the server isn't clogged with junk.

Key tracks discovered: Lots of old music (psychedelic, soul, soundtrack) that hasn't been released on CD. Many vinyl rips. If you can't find a record in stores or on any other networks, chances are you'll eventually find it on Soulseek. You just need to know where (and when) to look.

BITTORRENT (2001 - Present)

On its own, the Bittorrent client does nothing. But coupled with a good tracker (OiNK and Demonoid were my favorites before they were shut down), it can be a force to be reckoned with. As such, Bittorrent itself does not seem to be in an legal danger - only the trackers that supply its users with content. The beauty of Bittorrent is that while there is no one centralized network, the client provides the opportunity for many different trackers to cater to their own specific user bases.

Things we learned: This one is still up in the air. OiNK and Demonoid have been shut down, but both look as if they may be back sooner rather than later (providing they find server space in a country sympathetic to their respective plights).

Key tracks discovered: I found an advance copy of TV on the Radio's Return to Cookie Mountain several months before its release on OiNK. This is probably my most significant Bittorrent coup.

LIMEWIRE (2001 - Present)

A traditional centralized P2P network, Limewire is most famous for its allowing users to download a file from multiple users at once. This technology makes for blazing fast download speeds. Unfortunately, the Limewire network is populated almost exclusively with mainstream pop, and its users have been targeted by RIAA lawsuits. Furthermore, due to the network's popularity, there are often viruses and irrelevant download links on its servers.

Things we learned: If you don't want to get sued, don't share your copies of Britney Spears albums on Limewire. Also, don't download any executable files.

Key tracks discovered: None. You don't look on Limewire for new music, you look for songs that everybody already knows.

Zappa vs. Mainstream Radio

Given Frank Zappa's penchant for making unconventional music, it is no surprise that he never scored any smash hit singles on mainstream radio. This didn't stop him from attempting, however. He described the situation during a 1968 concert in Boston (I've added boldface type for emphasis):

Now we got desperate a few months ago and uh, because we thought nobody liked us. And uh, we're also pissed off at the fact that people won't play our records on the radio, and we didn't know whether or not it was 'cause our music was crappy or because somebody really knew what the words to the songs meant... However boys and girls, the people who run the radio stations are on the watch, you know, for our records, when they come in as soon as somebody sends a single to the radio station with our name on it they either melt it, break it, stomp on it or send it in an envelope directly back to the record company from which it came with a threatening note. But we said, "What the heck? Why can't we be just like other teen-age rock & roll bands -- outside of the fact that we're all over thirty -- and go and cut a single record and try and get the sucker on the radio?" So what we did was we went into a professional recording studio in New York City in the middle of the night for two nights in a row and also a Saturday afternoon for mixing and cranked out two miserable teen-age type records with words that couldn't possibly offend anybody and uh they're reasonably singable -- by any group other than the Mothers Of Invention -- and uh, they're teen-age boy-girl type songs. And so they're being released this week. I would expect to be able to add these to our list of smash flops very shortly.

- Frank Zappa, The Ark, 1968

The single Zappa was referring to was "My Guitar"/"Valarie," and it did in fact tank as he had anticipated - though not in the form he had anticipated. "Valarie" would never be released as a B-side - "My Guitar" would be accompanied by "Dog Breath" on 45. Later, a reworked version of "My Guitar" would appear on Zappa's classic 1970 album, Weasels Ripped My Flesh, as "My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama." "Valarie," in the meantime, would appear unaltered as a bookend to the heavily instrumental Burnt Weeny Sandwich (1970).

Anyone wishing to get on my good side can do so by purchasing me a pristine copy of this 45.

Today's post is the original single version of "My Guitar," which is radically different from the album version of the song. First of all, the tempo is slower. The horns that characterize the Weasels version are absent. Zappa's guitar is also featured in more of a prominent role on the 45 version. Overall, the single version sounds a lot more like standard 60s pop than the album version. No surprise, given that this is what Zappa was going for.

My Guitar