Reading the Tea Leaves

Bill Frisell - East/West

Keith Jarrett - Somewhere Before

Why would anyone want to cover a Dylan song without the lyrics? I suppose there's the pop notoriety - it's what led Wes Montgomery and George Benson to cover the Beatles. What led Miles Davis to record version after version of Cyndi Lauper's "Time after Time." The audience "knows what to expect" when presented with pop material. But it can also be alienated if the presentation varies too greatly from these expectations.
So even without the lyrics, any artist covering Dylan has to shoulder the cultural baggage of the material. Or else let it carry them away.
Other than that they are both renditions of Dylan songs performed live by trios, today's selections could not be any more different. Bill Frisell, guitarist, tends to exert a lead role in his expansive take on "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall," while Keith Jarrett, pianist, alternates with the bass player Charlie Haden between leading and comping in his take on "My Back Pages."

My Back Pages

A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall

Mingus at Antibes

Phenomenal players, phenomenal compositions, and a phenomenal leader -
the three pillars of an unforgettable jazz record.

Yesterday, I wrote on a record that derived its brilliance almost solely from the exceptional improvisational abilities of its musicians. In doing so, I also alluded to jazz that derives its brilliance from structure rather than instrumental virtuosity. This is not to suggest that it's a perpetual either/or situation with jazz, though. Today's offering, Charles Mingus' Mingus at Antibes (released 1976, recorded 1960), in fact features both varieties of brilliance.

From the perspective of talent, it's difficult to compete with Mingus' early-60s band. First of all, there was Mingus himself hopping between bass (his natural instrument) and piano. As a bass player, Mingus may not have been as subtle or versatile as Paul Chambers or Ron Carter, but he could swing like no other - perfect for propelling his groups into states of harmonically-induced ecstasy. Completing Mingus' rhythm section was Dannie Richmond, his "personal drummer." The two worked together almost exclusively, developing a close musical relationship that would last over two decades. Ted Curson (trumpet) and Booker Ervin (tenor saxophone) - both excellent soloists in their own right - rounded off the horn section. Finally, Eric Dolphy (woodwinds) provided the melodic and improvisational backbone, using his masterful abilities to bring Mingus' compositions to new heights. This was a solid group to say the least, bolstered not only by exceptional talent, but constant touring and recording as well.

From the perspective of structure and leadership, Mingus had no peer. Jazz is a quintessentially American form, and Mingus treated it as such, lacing his compositions with hints of blues, gospel, and folk. Additionally, he had an uncanny ability to get the most from his musicians. Such an ability came at the expense of his reputation, however. Mingus was known in some circles as an uncompromising taskmaster. Nonetheless, it's hard to argue with results - many of the musicians who worked with him over the years had their finest moments under his tutelage.

Today's upload is "Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting." The studio version of the song comes from Mingus' legendary Blues & Roots (1960), but this live version is superior to my ears. Note the structural prowess on this one - the song is firmly rooted in jazz, though it is based around a blues progression and utilizes elements of gospel spirituals. Listen to the break around 6:20 when the band drops out, adds handclaps, and Mingus starts playing the role of preacher, shouting "Rain down fire!" Also listen to Dolphy's solo at the 3:06 mark, which is significant for two reasons: 1) it's Eric freaking Dolphy doing his thing, which always shines brightly. 2) You can hear Mingus prodding Dolphy as he plays. This is most apparent around the 3:30 mark as Dolphy completes a phrase, Mingus calls "Think about it, Eric," and Dolphy responds with an even more ridiculous phrase. One can only imagine how electrifying this was in person...

Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting

Organ Grinder Swing

I've listened to this album so much over the years
that I can practically sing every one of the solos.

One of the beautiful aspects of jazz is the varying source (or, in many cases, sources) of its brilliance. Sometimes, the source of the brilliance comes from the compositions themselves - for example, a complex Duke Ellington piece. Other times, the source of the brilliance is the combined instrumental prowess of those playing - if you put several virtuosos in a room together and ask them to play, the result will naturally scintillate. Jimmy Smith's Organ Grinder Swing (1965) is a fine example of the latter variety of brilliance.

I first discovered the album on one of my father's old cassette tapes when I was around 13 years old. Immediately struck by the obscenely talented players on the record, I listened to the tape incessantly. It was no surprise to me that Jimmy Smith was regarded by some as the 8th wonder of the world. His playing, a fusion of blues, gospel, and jazz, was unlike anything I had ever heard. The story goes that before he started playing professionally, Smith spent nearly a year locked in a warehouse honing his sound:

“I got my organ from a loan shark had it shipped to the warehouse. I stayed in that warehouse, I would say, six months to a year. I would do just like the guys do—take my lunch, then I'd go and set down at this beast. Nobody showed me anything, man, so I had to fiddle around with my stops." (Jazz Organ Stories: Jimmy Smith, Pete Fallico)

All of that time alone in the warehouse must have worked wonders - he emerged from his time in seclusion playing the Hammond like nobody before him.

This is not to say that the beauty of Organ Grinder Swing originates solely from Smith, however. While his masterful organ playing is at the center of the record (he is, of course, the leader), equal credit must also be given to the session sidemen for their contributions. For one, Grady Tate (drums) lays the perfect foundation for the album - his playing is at once innovative and steady, keeping things interesting while setting an unwavering pace. Furthermore, Kenny Burrell (guitar) puts forth a stunning effort as well, comping admirably and putting forth a few solos that give Wes Montgomery (himself one of Smith's major collaborators) a run for his money.

Today's selection is "Greensleeves," the fourth track on the record. In my mind, it's the most impressive cut on Organ Grinder Swing - a jazz waltz with phenomenal solos from both Smith and Burrell, as well as some propulsive drumming from Tate. Listen to the way that Kenny Burrell comes into his first solo (1:13) with a brilliant ascending line. Also listen to his impeccable phrasing later in the solo (1:40), particularly his lovely incorporation of some very tasteful arpeggios around the 1:46 mark. This is textbook jazz guitar playing, boys and girls. Also listen for Smith's ridiculous organ pyrotechnics, which are impossible to miss. Love his ability to go absolutely batshit crazy, then rein it in on a dime - you'll find a good example of this around 4:54 when he switches from some very quick and chaotic phrasing to a more melodic style and then back again. Lovers of the Hammond organ: this album is for you.

Greensleeves

"Pablo"

A few words of (self) introduction. Much like Kid Gloves, I live for music, though I must confess with me it's (only slightly) more a hobby. For the past few years, that music has, by-and-large, been jazz.

"I like to think of myself as a muse-ician, somebody who makes magic with the muses." - Joe McPhee, 2003 interview with Fred Jung

Joe McPhee, saxophonist, trumpeter, and composer of my first musical offering for this blog, operates out of Poughkeepsie, New York. He records for a Swiss record label, Hathut Records, which was seemingly founded to ensure the distribution of his earliest live recordings. It is safe to say he is, and will remain, an outsider to "popular music."

This is not to say that McPhee refrains from recording music grounded in popular forms. One of his earliest releases, Nation Time, recorded at Vassar College in the late sixties, in honor of future New Jersey poet laureate Amiri Baraka, sounds quite like the missing link between the methods of Nuggets and (though I for one am sick of this album being trotted out for comparisons) the practice of Bitches Brew. Recently, he could be found adding his squeaks and squalls to that erstwhile bathroom classic "Louie Louie," on last year's modestly titled Two Bands and a Legend, which found him sandwiched between two Norwegian groups, one "jazz" (The Thing) the other "garage rock" (Cato Salsa Experience).

In 1982, McPhee, with a trio of French collaborators (bassist François Méchali, reedist André Jaume, and electric guitarist Raymond Boni) recorded the album Oleo, for Hat Hut. The title track, their take on Sonny Rollins' composition, stands the original version's hard bop on its face - without a drummer, each member of the quartet is invited to participate equally, to keep time or avoid it altogether. Equal participation is also the name of the game on the track offered, McPhee's composition "Pablo." Jaume's clarinet and Mechali's bass dance about each other, as Boni's guitar jangles reappear at key junctures, and and McPhee's sax states and then improvises upon the theme, finding the bridge between chamber music and the blues.

Pablo

Blues' Blues

Recommended for jazz fans and pimps everywhere.

I thought it appropriate to begin Jazz Week with the record that started me on jazz in the first place. Back in the day, my father used to keep his vinyl collection stashed away in the darkest recesses of the basement. Finding new records for me was like mining - I'd crouch through confined spaces with a flashlight, retrieve whichever albums would strike my fancy at the moment, and eventually emerge dusty and victorious with a handful of wax. Unfortunately, the mining ventures were something of a hit or miss affair - I had never heard of most of the artists in the collection, so my selections were essentially at random. Now and then, my old man would submit to my nagging and peruse the collection himself for a few gems. Blue Mitchell's Blues' Blues (1972) was one of these records.

In retrospect. the album is nothing all that special - just a standard above-average soul/jazz session - but is nonetheless very listenable. Hard bop veteran Mitchell (trumpet, flugelhorn) leads the session featuring such tried and true session veterans as John Mayall (harmonica) and Joe Sample (keys), producing some very solid grooves. Extensive use of the wah pedal makes this a rather funky session, with the tone falling somewhere in the realm of what I refer to as "porn jazz." This is the kind of music that makes you want to don a pair of multi-colored short shorts, tease your hair into an afro, and play some three on three with an ABA ball. Or perhaps strut around with a cane, fur coat, and feathered fedora.

Today's post is the fourth track on the record, "Granite and Concrete." Its straightforward structure and soulful tone are fairly representative of the album as a whole. Note the ever-present wah guitar propelling the track, as well as some nice solos by both Mitchell and Joe Sample on Rhodes (around 6:33). Apologies for the somewhat spotty quality - the mp3 is a vinyl transfer.

Granite and Concrete

Changes

My friends,

The time has come to expand MP3some.

I have taken quite a shine to this blog thing. Still, I have found myself frustrated with the site's current format. There's only so much ground I can cover by writing five small essays a week, both in terms of breadth and depth.

I am fortunate to have some very talented friends whose tastes, writing abilities, and musical knowledge I respect immensely. It is from these friends of mine, in fact, that I have discovered many of my favorite records. Fairly recently, I began thinking about inviting some of them to contribute to the site. After a few weeks of contemplation, I decided to go through with it. My hope is to transform MP3some from the chronicle of one man's relationship with music into a broader center of good taste and incisive criticism. Of course, I will still be writing my own pieces much in the same way I always have. However, my writing will now be joined by the work of others as well.

On that note, I'd like to introduce Sam Baden, MP3some's jazz columnist and first major addition. I've known Sam for a while now, and every time we get together turns into a listening party (or an extended conversation about records). His knowledge of the genre is wide (spanning from the conventional to the avant garde), and his writing is fantastic. Monday will mark the beginning of the expanded edition of MP3some, and it will kick off with the beginning of Jazz Week. Both Sam and I will be writing on a different album every day and providing tracks for your appreciation.

Be on the lookout for new writers and features, and thanks for reading.

Until Monday.

- Kid Gloves

Ogden's Nut Gone Flake

I first discovered the Small Faces on a British Invasion compilation when I was around eight years old. Even then, my tastes were skewed towards the psychedelic end of things - my favorite tracks on the record were "Pictures of Matchstick Men" by the Status Quo and "Itchycoo Park" by the Small Faces. I found the latter of the two songs to be particularly well crafted. Not only was it a well-written song, but it was impeccably produced (fantastic tones all around, particularly on the organ and bass) and arranged. Embellished with the tasteful use of such studio trickery as phased drums, "Itchycoo Park" epitomized to me the essence of "psychedelic." Despite my appreciation for the track, I didn't hear a full Small Faces record until I got my hands on Ogden's Nut Gone Flake (1968) over a decade later.

The Small Faces mime "Itchycoo Park." Is it just me, or does
the drummer look like he's playing in his underwear?

Fronted by vocalist Steve Marriott and bassist Ronnie Lane, The Small Faces were quite popular in the UK, charting such hits as "Itchycoo Park" and "Sha La La La Lee." For some reason or another (I blame poor promotion), the band never caught on in the States, charting only as high #16 with "Itchycoo Park." A quintessential mod act, the Small Faces were primarily an R&B outfit until recording Ogden's Nut Gone Flake, which is considered a masterpiece of the psychedelic era.

From the beginning of the album, one gets the sense that the band was trying to do something entirely different from its single-based work. Indeed, Ogden's Nut Gone Flake is something of a concept album. The title (and opening) track is an overture of sorts - it is a 2.5 minute instrumental featuring a piano (with a wah on it) and string section. "Long Agos and Worlds Apart" is a lovely slice of psychedelia, complete with ethereal organ and stereo-panned backing vocals. "Lazy Sunday" is an infectious (if a little bizarre) pop song featuring a Wurlitzer piano and Steve Marriott in the guise of an English youth. The entire second side of the record is devoted to a musical narrative of "Happiness Stan," complete with utterly nonsensical spoken-word portions - one would assume that some potent hallucinogens were involved in its making. The most curious aspect of the record, however, is its cover, a circular replica of an old chewing tobacco tin. Of course, having found a digital copy before a vinyl copy, I had no idea how unique the artwork was when I initially heard the album. Just one of the downsides of the digital era, I suppose...

You just can't package an mp3 in a replica tobacco tin...

Today's upload is "Afterglow of Your Love," the second track on Ogden's Nut Gone Flake. On top of it being my favorite song on the record, it is also the track best suited to stand on its own outside of the album. It is most notable for its soaring chorus, which features both a fantastic Hammond organ line and some tasteful two-part harmonies. Listen as well to the lazy psychedelic intro - one would not expect whistling and slurred crooning to lead into such a powerhouse track, but it does nonetheless.

Afterglow of Your Love

Ja, dä ä dä

Part of the adventure that comes with listening to foreign bands is the guesswork that goes into defining their respective influences. Of course, we have our own English-language music with which to compare the foreign stuff, but rarely do we consider the home-grown influences of these foreign acts. The most recent example I can provide is Dungen, whose Ta Det Lugnt (2004) drew instant comparisons to The Who Sell Out (1967). Not that The Who Sell Out is a poor point of comparison (the records do, in fact, have many similarities), but I tend to believe that for a Swedish band that sings in its native tongue, there are probably quite a few indigenous influences in play as well. The problem then becomes pinpointing those influences.

A month ago, I stumbled upon a Swedish record that I believe must have been on Dungen's turntable during the making of Ta Det Lugnt. The culprit: Ja, dä ä dä (1969), Pugh Rogefeldt's debut album. A rocker who sang in Swedish (unlike contemporaries such as the Tages), Pugh would go on to have several hits in his native country. The similarities between his record and Dungen's are too numerous to ignore. Both records begin with drum solos, both of which are recorded in a similar manner - the drum kits are rather natural sounding, with room mics rather than close mics doing the trick. The lead guitar tone on the albums is also strikingly similar - there are moments on Ja dä ä dä when you will swear you're listening to a Dungen's Reine Fiske on guitar. Even the vocal tones are similar - it would not surprise me if Gustav Ejstes lifted his singing style from Pugh.

Today's post is "Här Kommen Natten," the second track on Ja, dä ä dä. Dungen fans will recognize the familiar guitar tone from the start, as well as Pugh's similar vocal stylings. Dungen comparisons aside, though, this is a record that stands out on its own. Far from just a Swedish-language curiosity, Ja, dä ä dä is a fine piece of psych/folk/prog that deserves your attention.

You've got to respect the mustache.

Här Kommen Natten

Play It Cool

From my experience, there are two levels of blues appreciation. The first level is an understanding of the structures and tropes of the genre. Since the blues is a very traditional and structurally consistent form of music, it behooves any listener to familiarize himself with the "baseline" - that is, to know the genre in its most elemental form. The second level is an appreciation of artists and how they manipulate that traditional structure to make it their own. It is this second level that separates blues listeners - most can agree on the genre's merits on a basic level, but there is often disagreement as to who interprets the form most passionately and/or intelligently. Everyone, it seems, has his or her own blues guy - an artist whose take on the genre resonates most with the individual listener. For some, a Lightnin' Hopkins or Robert Johnson fulfills the need for a pure and unadulterated take on the form. Some prefer the high-energy cuts of a Bo Diddley or Chuck Berry. For others, a Little Walter or Memphis Slim answers the call for an instrument other than guitar as a lead voice. Still for many more, an Eric Clapton or Jimi Hendrix puts the genre in a more palatable and easily accessible rock form. My blues guy is Freddie King.

I initially discovered Freddie King's work as I searched a pile of my father's old records for jazz. Up until this point (I was 11 or 12 at the time), I had a very limited sense of the blues. I was, of course, familiar with the likes of Hendrix and Clapton, but had never taken the time to delve into anything that had not been filtered through a heavy filter of psychedelic rock. That changed when I was confronted by Freddie King is a Blues Master (1969), King's first Cotillion LP, staring me in the face. Literally. The album cover is a photo of the artist, Gibson ES-335 in hand, looking straight ahead while broadly smiling at the camera. Deciding to expand my record search to include blues as well as jazz, I picked up the album and threw it on the turntable.

You can't say "no" to a guy like this.

Perhaps what immediately drew me to King were his arrangements. This was not a blues-rock album, but it was nonetheless very accessible to my rock-accustomed ears - at the root of the record was the interplay between electric bass, electric guitar, piano, organ, drums, and occasional horns. Furthermore, unlike much of the earlier blues that I had heard, the LP was impeccably recorded. In retrospect, though, I think what kept me coming back to Freddie King is a Blues Master was the sheer amount of tone on the record. Every element had its own unique color - from the tinkling piano to the mournful organ to King's tremendously soulful vocal and biting guitar. When I began seriously playing the guitar several years later, it would be Freddie King's tone that inspired me to get a semi-hollow guitar of my own.

Today's track is the first song on the LP, "Play It Cool." It is my favorite blues track of all time - this song is what made me take a broader interest in the genre as a whole. Listen to King's fantastic solo at the 1:55 mark, which is stunning for both its poignancy and its economy. His phrasing is casual and uncomplicated, yet he extracts tremendous emotion from every note. This is all, of course, in addition to the fantastic lyric and vocal performance. When you're a 12 year-old boy, you tend to identify with lines like:

Now women look good these days
They can look sexy in so many ways
They can wear those dresses up above their knees and that'll make a man
Take his life away

In addition to the track, I am also posting a video of King playing unplugged at a prison in 1976, the year he died. The video quality (it looks like a VHS transfer) is somewhat spotty at times, but it was badass enough that I had to post it anyway. Love the shots of him playing to the inmates in solitary...

To have been an inmate...

Play It Cool

Sir Douglas Quintet + 2 = Honkey Blues

The album in question
When I begin listening to an album, my first order of business (apart from deciding whether or not I actually enjoy the music on a superficial level) is classification: Where does the record come from? When was it made? What traditions does it see itself as being part of? The longer it takes me to answer these questions, the more fascinated I become with an album - nine times out of ten, a record that resists classification will be far more engaging than one that does not. To that end, I have been listening to Sir Douglas Quintet + 2 = Honkey Blues for a few solid weeks now, and I'm still not sure I fully understand it. I certainly enjoy it - I figured that out pretty quickly. I simply don't know how best to describe or classify it.

San Antonio's Sir Douglas Quintet was the project of country prodigy Doug Sahm. After a childhood and adolescence filled with radio sessions and club dates, Sahm was coaxed into forming his band in 1965 by producer Huey Meaux. Seeking to capitalize on the British Invasion, Meaux suggested the name "Sir Douglas Quintet" in an effort to sound more English. The band released its debut, The Best of the Sir Douglas Quintet, in 1966, charting a top 20 single with "She's About a Mover" - an organ-heavy blues number.

"Look, for me right now there are three groups: Butterfield, The Byrds, and the Sir Douglas Quintet." - Dylan

In 1968, the band released Sir Douglas Quintet + 2 = Honkey Blues. As the title would suggest, the album was rooted in blues. Given Doug Sahm's history (not to mention the fact that the band was from San Antonio), the record's country /folk influence was no surprise, either. What was a surprise, however, was Sahm's decision to bring in a five-piece horn section to augment the band - and not necessarily as one would expect. There were certainly songs on the record that utilized the horn section as expected on a blues/soul record - most notably "Are Inlaws Really Outlaws?" and "Can You Dig My Vibrations." What one could not have expected, however, was the sporadic influence of free jazz - a genre which was still young at the time. Throw in a bit of San Francisco psychedelia for good measure, and you've got a band that could seamlessly synthesize a number of American genres at will.

I'm so impressed with this album that I'm uploading two tracks today. The first is the more straightforward of the two: "Whole Lotta Peace of Mind." Right off the bat, the song seems to be pulling two directions at once - the country vibe of the fiddle meets the heavy delay effects of the psychedelic era, creating something all its own. The stew thickens as the horns enter around the 30 second mark and the harmonica makes an appearance soon after. It's like an unholy marriage of Seatrain and The Electric Flag. The second of the two tracks, "Song of Everything," is the more "challenging" - beginning with thirty seconds of chaotic horns and percussion before breaking into more traditional song structure, the cut displays Sir Douglas Quintet's affinity for free jazz.

Whole Lotta Peace of Mind

Song of Everything

Covers: An Idiot-Proof Guide

Following my last post about the many different versions of "Codine," I began thinking about covers. For me, it's a rather polarizing subject. While there are, of course, many tastefully-done covers in the history of pop, there are also an equal (if not greater) number that fall flat on their faces. I began thinking of the characteristics of both tasteful and shameful covers, trying to distill them into a single document. What follows is my simple guide for original bands weighing whether or not to cover a song.

UNDER THE COVERS
How to tastefully select your cover repertoire

DO cover a song if...

Your cover alludes to an obscure or underground influence. This type of cover, which I will henceforth refer to as an "homage cover" has been employed since the rise of rock and roll. It serves a dual purpose: 1) It provides your audience with a point of reference from which to approach your music - an audience is far more apt to appreciate your music if it understands the lineage and traditions from which you sprung. 2) It is a form of "giving back" to your overlooked influences. The "homage cover" has its roots in the early days of rock, a time when it was common for bands to cover old blues, soul, and R&B tracks - songs that had been marginalized by mainstream audiences as "race music." The Rolling Stones' cover of "Little Red Rooster" is an example. By recording the Willie Dixon/Howlin' Wolf track, the band provided its audience with some listening guidance ("If you want to understand where we're coming from, have a listen to this"). It encouraged an entire generation of listeners to seriously confront a genre once considered entirely irrelevant, thus turning once-underground musicians into venerated icons. A later example can be found in Nirvana's unplugged cover of "Jesus Doesn't Want Me for a Sunbeam." By covering the Vaselines' track, Kurt Cobain paved his influence's way into the pop music canon.

Your cover is of a standard. The challenge here is defining "standard." There are, of course, actual standards - Gershwin's "Summertime" or Jobim's "Girl from Ipanema," for example. There are also broader cultural standards - for example, "God Bless America," "The Star Spangled Banner," "Happy Birthday," or "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." The difficult category is that of "pop standard." There are some pop songs that, for some reason or another, have lended themselves well to reinterpretation. "Hey Joe," for example, has been covered by a number of people (Hendrix's most famous version was itself a cover). Martha and the Vandellas' "Dancing in the Street" is also a standard, with numerous cover versions (most notably the ultra-gay 1985 David Bowie/Mick Jagger take) springing up since its original 1964 release. Basic rule of thumb: if numerous other bands/artists have covered the song before, it's probably OK for you to do so as well.

The original version of the song that you're covering is completely unarranged. Folk songs have always been ripe for reinterpretation - their lyrics are usually quite good, their structures are typically well defined, and their sparse arrangements are blank canvasses for those wanting to expand upon them musically. Is it a surprise that so many of Bob Dylan's songs have been adeptly covered? Of course not - so many of Dylan's tracks are brilliant song skeletons, waiting to be adorned by others. "All Along the Watchtower," "Mr. Tambourine Man," "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue" - all have been successfully and tastefully reinterpreted by other artists. At the same time, the idea of covering a fully-arranged Dylan song is foolish. Because the original artist has already fully realized the song, covering "Like a Rolling Stone" or "Hurricane" would be inadvisable and presumably unsuccessful.

Your version of the song is ironic or parodic. Parody can be a form of both homage and/or criticism. Either way, it is an interpretive form that has its place in the world of music. Zappa's "Flower Punk," for example, is a "Hey Joe" cover that incisively lampoons hippie culture. Nirvana's brief quote of "Let's Get Together" at the beginning of "Territorial Pissings" is yet another example. Richard Cheese makes a living covering pop hits as lounge standards. Parody isn't often the fast-track to artistic notoriety or success, but it certainly bears mentioning.

DO NOT cover a song if...

The song is canonical in its original form. This is the most vital of the cover commandments. Where is the logic behind covering a song that people already know and love in its original form? I'll answer this one for you: there is no logic behind it. Doing such a cover only succeeds in a) insulting the original version and b) making you or your band seem foolish. Do you remember several years ago when Alien Ant Farm covered "Smooth Criminal" by Michael Jackson? That was a great idea, wasn't it? Imagine the flawed thought process (if there was indeed a thought process) going into that one: "Let's cover a song by the King of Pop from the second highest-grossing record of all time. Maybe we can improve upon it." I'm sorry. I thought that a Quincy Jones production with 32 million album sales was something that, you know, couldn't really be improved upon by a group of nu-metal hacks from Riverside, CA. "Modernizing" a song that has already been etched into the public's musical consciousness - the tackiest variety of cover.

You intend on reproducing the song as it was originally performed. Obviously, this caveat (and entire manifesto, for that matter) does not apply to cover bands. Rather, this commandment is chiefly aimed at the American Idol crowd. If you're going out of the way to rip somebody's work off, you may as well present an original take. Do people want to hear an anonymous 18 year-old girl from Florida doing "Chain of Fools"? A 32 year-old insurance salesman covering "(Sittin' on the) Dock of the Bay"? Perhaps. These are, of course, American Idol viewers, not music consumers. But should they? Obviously not. Strip the interpretive component away from a cover and what do you have? Karaoke.

Codine

The subject of today's post is a song written by folk artist Buffy Ste. Marie, a Canadian of Cree descent. Ste. Marie's story is somewhat typical of early-60s folk artists - despite her being largely unknown by the public, several of her songs were covered by a number of more famous artists. Perennial MP3some favorite Donovan (The Foppish Pansy himself) scored a hit with Ste. Marie's song "Universal Soldier," for example. Later, Joe Cocker and Jeniffer Warnes had a hit with another of her tracks, "Up Where We Belong." Needless to say, Buffy Ste. Marie had chops. She also has led quite an interesting life that has involved everything from Cree powwows to Bahá'í conferences to codeine addiction (about which she wrote today's song in question).

I initially heard "Codine" through an old friend of mine who introduced me to a version of the song from Distortions (1967) by The Litter. He called it "the best version of 'Codine' ever" - an assertion I was keen to believe, as I had never actually heard the song. My friend's status as a folk enthusiast hammered the point home ever further - if he preferred this version to the Ste. Marie version, I reasoned, it must be great. He put on the track, and I sat back. Four minutes and 32 seconds later, I was convinced - I may not have heard the other versions of the track, but this was the finest version of "Codine" in existence. In my mind, The Litter's strung-out take could have no rival.

Today, several years later, I set out to test my theory. I rounded up every version of "Codine" I could find for an overall assessment. I had already heard the version of the song by The Charlatans on the Nuggets comp, and was not very impressed - the band's uptempo waltz version did not seem very fitting for a song about opiate addiction. Gram Parsons' solo acoustic version from Another Side of This Life: The Lost Recordings of Gram Parsons, 1965-1966 was quite good (as is most of Parsons' recorded output), though it was ultimately damned by its sparseness. Parsons was a master at his craft - but a lone man with a guitar cannot compete with the intensity of the Litter's version. Donovan's version suffered a similar fate as Parsons'. Though Donovan's take is actually surprisingly good - perhaps even better than Parsons' version - it is completely unadorned. Next on the list was the Quicksilver Messenger Service. I was expecting the band to give the Litter a run for their money, but they did nothing of the sort. While their version was the most intense of the bunch (particularly from a vocal standpoint), it could not unseat the Litter from their "Codine" throne. Finally, I reached a 1969 version by Wizards from Kansas (whose work I had never heard before), which turned out to be the surprise of the group. Their version, driven by a wah guitar and some fantastic harmonies, was very good - still not good enough to compete with the Litter, but good enough that I was inspired to seek out the rest of the band's self-titled album.

At the end of my "Codine" survey, I realized that while the Litter was still at the top of the heap, all of the versions had their own merits - none were unpleasant. This was the mark of a truly great song, I figured - despite radical changes in arrangement, the track always held its own. My friend was correct - the Litter's version was indeed the best - but the credit here belonged to Buffy Ste. Marie for writing such a phenomenal song to begin with. Finally, it was time to appreciate Ste. Marie's own version:

Where it all started.

Today's post is the Litter's version of the song. And for those of you keeping track, I've also posted my ranking of "Codine" covers*:

1. The Litter
2. Wizards from Kansas
3. Donovan
4. Quicksilver Messenger Service
5. Gram Parsons
6. The Charlatans
   

* There are many conspicuously absent versions that I have not yet heard, including one by Janis Joplin and another by the Leaves. I still doubt they are superior to the Litter's rendition.

Codine

Man Man - Rabbit Habits

The much-anticipated follow-up to Six Demon Bag.

Today, Man Man releases Rabbit Habits, their third studio album. I was fortunate enough to obtain an advance of the record, and was able to give it the couple weeks worth of listens necessary to have a review ready today. Two years removed from the stellar Six Demon Bag, my hope was for a record that pushed the band's sound forward while retaining the sense of conventional songwriting that made their last album so memorable. From that perspective, the record is only semi-successful - though perhaps my expectations were too heightened to begin with. Rabbit Habits is quite a good record with some very fine moments.

First and foremost, one gets the sense that Rabbit Habits was a record that was born out of the live experience rather than extensive studio experimentation - no surprise, particularly given the band's hectic touring schedule over the last couple of years. The jittery first track, "Mr. Jung Stuffed," is a fine example. Its beginning hook is a group vocal articulated over a Rhodes piano and sixteenth-note percussion. Eventually, the Rhodes and backing vocalists drop out, giving way to a verse featuring Honus Honus' vocals (which are spot on, per usual) and what appears to be his newest toy - an RMI piano or Rocksichord. The RMI makes several appearances throughout the album, and Honus Honus utilizes it tasteful, conjuring the spirit of another gritty-voiced pianist: Dr. John. The next two tracks follow the lead of "Mr. Jung Stuffed," delivering group vocal hooks at breakneck pace, embellished with the occasional stop on a dime - for those who are familiar with the band (particularly their live show), you will recognize them immediately as vintage Man Man.

"Big Trouble" is a sluggish Rhodes-heavy march with some very nicely arranged horns - it sounds like a drunken walk home to one's hotel room in the French Quarter. Like the tracks before it, the song incorporates the characteristic stops and group vocal interjections that make the band unique. "Doo Right" is a lovely solo piano/vocal piece, though one wishes the band had arranged it fully. As well as Honus Honus sells the track, the sparseness is almost to its detriment - one wonders how much more powerful the song may have been had Honus utilized the musicians at his disposal. The same can be said for the title track - though to be fair, the minimalism (piano, clarinet, and vocal) seems to work a little better on "Rabbit Habits" than it does on "Doo Right." "Easy Eats or Dirty Doctor Galapagos," on the other hand, adeptly plays to the strengths of the band, leaning on a thick arrangement and a horn hook that seems as though it were lifted from the house band in the Star Wars cantina.

The only failure on the album is "El Azteca," a track that sounds as if it's trying to approximate electronic music with live instrumentation. It's certainly interesting, but by no means a prudent use of the group's abilities. The song illustrates the album's most frustrating point - despite Man Man's tremendous musical talent, the band seems to have sporadic difficulties deciding when and how to apply that talent. At their best, Man Man is a moving band, capable of writing and arranging some heartbreaking songs. At their most generic, they are "circus rock" - an interesting and fun listen, but not extraordinarily memorable on a deep level. I cannot say that Rabbit Habits is a better record than its predecessor - it is not, as I had hoped, a great step forward. At the same time, it's not a step backwards, either. It strikes me as a record that will show its true colors in a live setting - in fact, I would guess that many of the songs on Rabbit Habits will outshine those from Six Demon Bag the next time I see the band.

Today's post is "Poor Jackie," an epic that stands as my personal favorite track on the album. It boasts the most graceful arrangement on the record, featuring a wonderful fiddle line and some hypnotic harpsichord in the right channel. The song flows beautifully, seamlessly incorporating the band's most unique elements without sounding like a cut-and-paste affair. Additionally, it is the most emotionally poignant piece on the record, recalling some of the finer moments on Six Demon Bag.

Poor Jackie

Kid Gloves Published by Third Party!

For those of you who are interested, I have written a piece that appears on thefatherlife.com. The piece revolves around the merits of vinyl.

I'd like to extend a welcome to those joining me today from thefatherlife.com, and invite you to enjoy MP3some to the fullest extent.

Kim Fowley - Outrageous

In my last post, I referenced Los Angeles freak-rocker Kim Fowley - specifically that Mudhoney vocalist Mark Arm's delivery was reminiscent of Fowley's. I figured it would be cruel of me to mention him and not expand further upon his work.

Kim Fowley came out of the same eclectic Los Angeles scene that gave us the likes of Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart, and Wild Man Fischer. Along with his aforementioned LA contemporaries, he shared a fascination with popular culture and an affinity for the absurd. Fowley spent much of the early 60s producing a string of cult 45s (some of which, unlike Zappa's early production work, actually did fairly well - the Hollywood Argyles' "Alley Oop" charted at #1, for example). In 1965, he released what would be one of the first singles ever to reference LSD, "The Trip/Big Sur." Later, he would move briefly to the UK, where he would continue producing (most notably the Soft Machine B-side, "Feelin' Reelin Squeelin'").

Upon his return to the West Coast, Fowley's solo career further blossomed with 1967's Love is Alive and Well. The album has not aged very well - aside from the often-bizarre lyrics, there is little to grasp on to from a musical or production perspective. It is a rather tongue-in-cheek take on the hippie culture (and music) of the time, though it is more staid than, say, Zappa's Freak Out (1966). "Flower City," for example, features a very standard rock arrangement backing Fowley as he drops stereotypical hippie lingo ("flowers," "love") to the tune of "Ode to Joy." Interesting stuff, but by no means essential.

When Outrageous was released just a year later in 1968, "freak rock" - hell, rock in general - had already gotten quite a bit freakier. Fowley's new album would reflect such a trend. Most notably, he had ditched the more melodic singing for a paranoid "bark." Furthermore, the arrangements were transformed from gentle West Coast psychedelic to trashy white blues/soul. Over the madness, Fowley ranted psychotically about everything from arson ("Wildfire") to getting busted by the cops ("Chinese Water Torture"), filling the spaces between with sexualized moans and heavy breathing. The absurdity was a recipe for poor sales and cult status. Today's post is the first track on the record, "Animal Man." It's notable for the groove (which sounds like something you'd expect from a more coherent Captain Beefheart) and for Fowley freaking the fuck out. This, my friends, is the way to kick off your Monday.

Aptly titled.

Animal Man

Touch Me I'm Sick

When Nirvana burst on to the mainstream scene with Nevermind in 1991, it marked both the beginning and end of quite a few things. For one, it marked the beginning of a new era in rock - an era in which the grunge sound that had been stewing in Seattle for years would take center stage. It marked the beginning of alternative rock's reign as a mainstream radio staple. Finally, it ended the careers of cock-rockers everywhere, many of which would not be resurrected until VH1 started airing Behind the Music years later. Overnight, the members of Poison, Ratt, and Stryper (among countless others) would be looking for new work. Of course, the genre itself didn't spring up overnight - however instantaneous the effects of grunge were felt on a mainstream level, it was a movement with deep roots and influences that went back nearly a decade. Luckily for us, many of the successful Seattle bands were wont to tip their hats to the original influences - be it in concert (Nirvana covering the Wipers' "D-7" and inviting the Meat Puppets to play with them on their unplugged set, for example) or explicitly in interviews. Kurt Cobain himself seemed to particularly detest listeners who did not appreciate the history of his band and genre, kicking off the unplugged sessions by saying "This is off our first record, most people don't know it" before launching into "About a Girl" from Bleach (1989).

Cobain's concerns (particularly in the wake of his death) did not fall on deaf ears. Post-Nirvana, there has been a good deal of interest in the band's influences. Nonetheless, the popular sentiment remains that grunge was born with Nirvana. This could not be further from the truth. One could argue, for example, that the Melvins (who formed in 1983 when Cobain was just 16 years old) were the first true bearers of the genre's torch. Indeed, there are merits to this argument - lead singer/guitarist Buzz Osborne knew Cobain since he was 11 years old, and was certainly one of the biggest influences on the future rock icon. Furthermore, both Osborne and Melvins drummer Dale Crover were members of Cobain's first band, Fecal Matter.

For me, however, grunge begins with the release of Mudhoney's single "Touch Me I'm Sick"/"Sweet Young Thing Ain't Sweet No More." Mudhoney formed in 1988, and quickly signed to Sub Pop (whose first release had been Dry As a Bone by Green River - a band whose members would eventually form Mudhoney). Soon after, the band would release its debut EP, Superfuzz Bigmuff, along with the aforementioned single. The hallmark of the single is its all-out filthiness - something that must have been particularly shocking, especially given the fact that it was released at a time when overproduction and cleanliness in music was the norm. The B-side, "Sweet Young Thing Ain't Sweet No More," sounds like a Stooges outtake - complete with snarling vocals and a diving guitar line. However, the centerpiece of the single (and today's upload) is the A-side. One notices the filth almost immediately on "Touch Me I'm Sick" - even before the first notes of the track, we hear the buzzing of an overdriven amp. When the guitar does come in, it is shrouded in crackling distortion - the product of a Big Muff pedal. Mark Arm's vocals on the track are delivered in a fashion vaguely reminiscent of an overdriven Kim Fowley ca. "Animal Man." - though not all too similar from a tonal perspective, their phrasing seems cut from the same cloth. The finest (and filthiest) moment of the song comes during the final repetition of the chorus as Arm alters the refrain to "fuck me, I'm sick."

This is as grungy as it gets, boys and girls. Nevermind was one hell of an album, but it never sounded quite this dirty. You can find both the A and B side of the single on Superfuzz Bigmuff Plus Early Singles, an expanded edition of Mudhoney's first EP. It is essential listening for fans of Nirvana and the Stooges, as well as anyone seeking a little more unbridled filth in his or her life.

Pleasantly sullied.

Touch Me I'm Sick

H.P. Lovecraft Gets Its Due

When one thinks of music in the late sixties, the mind usually wanders to the major scenes of the time. We think of San Francisco hippies with flowers in their hair, Los Angeles freaks, London mods, and gritty New York artists with heroin problems. It's easy to forget that every major city had its own take on the music of the era. In Philadelphia, Todd Rundgren was putting his own spin on psychedelic rock with Nazz. Detroit eschewed the peace and love entirely, instead opting for all-out brutal noise attacks. Canterbury, UK, was experimenting with a fusion of jazz and psychedelia.

The subject of today's post comes to us from one of these forgotten scenes - and from the "criminally under-appreciated" file, as well. H.P. Lovecraft formed in Chicago in 1967. Based around the dual vocal attack of guitarist George Edwards and organist Dave Michaels, and further embellished by Michaels' jazz chops, the band managed to make a name for itself in its home city. Their hastily-recorded 1967 self-titled debut was an amalgam of several disparate influences - from feelgood psychedelic pop (a cover of the Youngbloods' "Get Together" - which itself was a cover of a Chet Powers song), to folk standards ("Wayfaring Stranger"), to jazz ("That's How Much I Love You Baby (More or Less)." These influences were masterfully blended by the band, which managed to put its own stamp on everything without sounding like a group of rip-off artists.

Encouraged by the results of their first record, the band moved to San Francisco. It was there that they recorded H.P. Lovecraft II (1968), their finest studio effort. From the beginning acoustic 12-string notes of "Spin, Spin, Spin," one gets the sense that the band had matured quite a bit in the year between their first and second records. The song is completely devoid of drums, and the often-upbeat sound that characterized the band's first record is noticeably absent. The wind chimes, heavily effected vocals, and tinkling piano of "Electrollentando" take the departure even further, creating something of a psychedelic dreamscape. Indeed, it seems the band was trying to do something different on its second album - a claim that is certainly supported by their move to San Francisco. However, H.P. Lovecraft II is not a mere rehashing of the Bay Area scene of the time. Much like it did with their musical influences on the first record, the band put its own unique stamp on the San Francisco experience. Perhaps reflecting further influence of its namesake, H.P. Lovecraft's second album is wrapped in a strange darkness that is absent from most other San Francisco offerings. Today's post is "It's About Time," the second track on the LP. Despite the fairly positive lyrics, this is not sunshine pop. Note the instrumental interlude, laden with tape-delayed guitar and stereo-panned organ, coming to a rousing climax with a descending string line. You won't be finding this on a Moby Grape record.

Not to be judged by its cover.

It's About Time

Shudder

I know that I typically refrain from excessively short posts, but this article caused me a serious amount of distress. Can this be true? Isn't everything that rock stands for inherently opposite everything that Republicanism stands for? Libertarianism I can see, but Republican rockers???

Cressida

Among my closest friends, there's very little that arouses more musical revulsion than the word "prog." Not that my friends are opposed to progress in music (I like to think that by and large, they're a rather forward thinking bunch). Rather, they're put off by the progressive genre - and I can't necessarily blame them. As a whole, the genre is peppered with bands that have very little to say, yet take upwards of ten minutes per song to say it anyway. Furthermore, progressive bands often abused their musicianship to a masturbatory extent, and many of them also incorporated extraordinarily nerdy (read: dungeons and dragons) themes and lyrics. This is a genre that alienates quite a few people - it's too wanky for fans of song-based pop, too raw for classicists, and often not competent enough for jazz-heads.

Nonetheless, I will confess that I have a few favorites in the genre. King Crimson's first few records were all very solid (particularly their criminally underrated 1970 record, In the Wake of Poseidon). I've even been known to get into a little Emerson, Lake, and Palmer from time to time. Say what you will about their genre - Keith Emerson was a motherfucker of an organ player, and Greg Lake's voice is one of the strongest out there. Still, I'm generally put off by most prog "masterpieces" - a little too much style and far too little substance for my tastes.

Despite this, I'm fascinated with the origins of prog - specifically the genre's connection to psychedelic rock. As the psychedelic era came to a close, many bands sought to gradually expand the horizons of rock music by looking towards jazz and classical influences. Some incorporated horns, mellotrons, and woodwinds to augment their rock lineups. Others began basing their music around keyboards as opposed to guitars. Still more ditched traditional song structures entirely and tried their hands at writing improv-heavy instrumental suites. The bottom line is that the musical community didn't snap its fingers and suddenly start churning out music that sounded like peak era Rush or Genesis - rather, there was a short transition period between pop and what we've come to think of as prog. It's bands that straddled this line that particularly interest me - "proto-prog," if you will.

Among these bands is Cressida, an English group with trappings of both pop and prog. Existing only briefly from 1969 through 1971, Cressida managed to put out only two records before splitting up. Today's upload, "To Play Your Little Game" is the first track on their self-titled album, and it is fairly representative of the LP as a whole (most notably due to the fact that it's under four minutes long). The song seems to be undergoing something of an identity crisis. For one, the lyrics (which are quite poor, I might add) are squarely based in pop. The song structure is fairly normal - outside of the lack of a bridge, it's textbook pop structure. There is no excessive soloing. Still, the song is driven by a Hammond organ (which is pretty tastefully employed, save the wanky bit before the choruses) and much if it is in a frantically-paced 3/4 time signature. This is clearly not mainstream rock, but it's also not strict prog, either. It's quite a curiosity. And it's got one hell of a chorus, to boot. Also note the album cover, which looks as if it could have come from the height of the psychedelic era.

Cressida (1970)

To Play Your Little Game

The Foppish Pansy vs. Mr. Zimmerman

Where can I get a coat (shawl? boa?) like Donovan's?

A while ago, I alluded to my affection for Donovan. I think in the context of the post, I called him a "foppish pansy" - a characterization I still stand by. Of course, clothing and toughness never enter the equation when it comes to choosing music. For this reason, I am perfectly content - nay, proud - to have several of the man's albums. Donovan's psychedelic folk pop is both pleasant and unique - much of it belongs in your record collection.

But there's something that upsets me about Donovan: the comparisons he's been receiving to Bob Dylan since he was 18. It's insulting to both artists. Superficial similarities aside (they were both young big-haired balladeers who listened to Woody Guthrie), there really isn't much in common between the two. When one decides to listen to Sunshine Superman (1966), he does not do so because he expects his mind to be blown by Donovan's stellar lyrics. Likewise, very few people throw on Highway 61 Revisited (1965) expecting pastoral prettiness. While Dylan was penning poignant social commentary and delivering it with trademark rasp, Donovan was quite content to write songs about being fed LSD by Mama Cass in San Francisco ("Fat Angel"). In retrospect, it is clear that the two were up to drastically different things. Yet, the music media of the era saw the need to compare the two of them - and even to pit them against one another. Hardly fair, really. One wonders who had the great idea in the first place: "Hey, this teen-aged Scot writes some really nice songs. Let's give him a complex by constantly comparing him to the voice of a fucking generation."

As if this weren't bad enough, Donovan himself seems to have added fuel to the fire since day one. Certainly, he idolized Dylan, and I suspect he also fancied the notion of friendly competition between the two of them. Perhaps Donovan saw Dylan as a peer. Dylan, on the other hand, saw Donovan as a minor annoyance - a man who wrote naive little ditties while he was out fighting the more important battles. His dismissive attitude is clearly on display in the video clip below, an excerpt from Don't Look Back.

"Eh."

Later in the documentary, the two finally meet and engage in something of a "song-off." Note that as a raw musician, Donovan is the more accomplished of the two - his voice and guitar playing are both technically better than his idol's. However, raw musical ability alone sometimes doesn't quite cut it - note Donovan's reaction during and after Dylan's rendition of "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue."

"Go back to Glasgow, sissy."

You'd think that Donovan would have learned his lesson over the years, but he apparently has not. In his autobiography, Hurdy Gurdy Man, he states that while Dylan's lyrics are certainly better than his, "musically, I am more creative and influential." Creative, maybe - I might be able to give him that one. But more influential than Dylan? Mr. Leitch, perhaps all that acid you did with Cass is finally catching up to you.

But perhaps I am being too harsh here. Despite his penchant for talking out of his ass, I personally enjoy Donovan quite a bit. I prefer to see him for what he is (purveyor of damned fine psychedelic folk) as opposed to what he is not (the second coming of Bob Dylan). Today's post is "Celeste," the final track on Sunshine Superman. It's a fine example of what Donovan does best - and frankly, of something that Dylan never could (nor would) have done himself. Note the tasteful use of the sitar, as well as the mellotron. Also note the celeste solo in the middle - clever touch. This is a high point of psychedelic folk.

Celeste

A video of Donovan playing a stripped-down version by the side of a lake can be found here as well.