Savage Rose

Before I get into anything music related, I'd just like to mention how happy I am that Mitt Romney took a beating in the primaries yesterday. He's got the charm and class of a used car salesman. Anyway...

Apologies for the lack of posting in the past few days. I've been dealing with a brief illness that pretty much knocked the life out of me. The only good thing that came out of this illness: endless amounts of time to look for new [old] music. My biggest find: The Savage Rose, a Danish band that started in the late 60s but has maintained its native popularity through today.

While the band's sound has apparently been very malleable throughout the years (I wouldn't know, as I've only heard their first two records), the initial incarnation was vaguely psychedelic and jazzy. Apparently, the band's lineup has also been rather malleable - the only constants being pianist Thomas Koppel (the son Danish composer and professor Herman Koppel) and Annisette, a woman whose voice is hard to forget once you've heard it.

The track I've posted today is from their second album, 1968's In the Plain. Of particular note: Alex Riel's phenomenal drum work (he would later go on to record with such jazz legends as Bill Evans, Donald Byrd, and Stephane Grappelli) and Annisette's wailing vocals.

Evening's Child

The Twisted World of Todd Rundgren

I first heard of Todd Rundgren from two sources. 1) A K-Tel Battle of the Bands cassette I owned as a kid that contained a track by Nazz (Rundgren's band) 2) My father, who still refers to the 1973 Rundgren show he saw as the only concert he's ever walked out of. "It was the most masturbatory piece of shit I've ever seen," he fondly remembers. I was always confused by his statement. "Hello It's Me," the Nazz track with which I was familiar, was a well-written track. On top of this, I've always read favorable reviews of Rundgren's abilities as a songwriter, producer, arranger, and guitarist.

I became further confused when a trusted friend introduced me to A Wizard, A True Star, Rundgren's 1973 solo record. Sure, it's meandering and a little against the grain for a pop album, but there are some great songs on the record. I couldn't believe that my father, who usually has pretty damned good taste in music, was repulsed by the concert he saw from the same era. Again I asked him about the show, and again he further elaborated: "It was masturbatory shit. He didn't even have a band with him. He was prancing around the stage, jumping from instrument to instrument, playing along with his album. And when he stopped from time to time, he just kept talking about how he played every instrument on the damned record."

Dad, I finally know what you were talking about. I've discovered a clip of Rundgren from the Wizard tour, and it's every bit as shitty as my father suggested:





A few things of note: 1) Rundgren's one-piece outfit. 2) Around the 29 second mark, he decides to run a lap around his piano. Why the hell not? 3) His resemblance to Celine Dion. I don't know if this is worse for Todd or Celine, but neither of them look too good in the first place. 4) Is he brandishing a scepter for the duration of the song?

Apparently, this is what happens when you surround somebody with yes-men and give him more acid and coke than he can handle.

As proof of Rundgren's musical ability (if you'll believe me after seeing the stage-show spectacle), I have uploaded "Zen Archer," a track from A Wizard, A True Star. The album's actually worth a listen (or even multiple).

Zen Archer

Scott Walker is a Badass

I always find it tremendously satisfying when "teen idols" - the people the entertainment industry puts forth as pinnacles of normalcy and mass appeal - become slightly warped. I don't take as much pleasure from those who end up as truly screwed-up individuals - it's a little disturbing, for example, to think of how many belt-beatings it took to turn Michael Jackson into the thing he is now - rather, I derive most of my satisfaction from those whose artistic intentions become more subversive in time. I suppose the best modern example would be Justin Timberlake. To call his work with *NSYNC tripe would be a gross understatement. Yet, all of his boy-band sins were forgiven the moment he appeared with his dick in a box on SNL.

The ultimate example of such a figure, however, is Scott Walker. In the mid-60s, Walker was a member of the Walker Brothers, a pop group whose zenith of popularity in Britain rivaled that of the Beatles. With Scott as their lead singer, the Walker Brothers charted their biggest hit with "The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore":





Subsequently, Walker grew tired of the teen pop scene and began recording his own solo records. These records (particularly the first four - Scott 1, 2, 3, and 4) are extraordinarily unique, combining bombastic arrangements, Scott's crooning voice, and often bizarre subjects. The example I am providing is "The Seventh Seal," the first track off of Scott 4 (considered by many - me included - to be his finest record). The song is a reference to the classic Ingmar Bergman film of the same name, and the lyrics are essentially a plot summary.

The Seventh Seal

Fairport Convention

Fairport Convention arrived on the British folk scene in 1967 as a shadow of what it would become. Best remembered for its later albums with Sandy Denny that fused folk, rock, jazz, and country elements, Fairport initially resembled an English Byrds. Not to suggest that this was a bad thing. The original Fairport featured the vocals of Judy Dyble, whose ethereal voice (while more limited than that of Denny) is tragically overlooked in the pantheon of English female vocalists.

In addition to great songwriting and vocals, Fairport also featured the tasteful (and often stunning) guitar work of Richard Thompson. The quality of Thompson's playing becomes even more apparent in a live setting as opposed to studio recordings.

Here we see the band performing "Time Will Show the Wiser" during its early period:

Mah Na Mah Na

Perhaps some of you are familiar with the old Muppet Show sketch in which two alien-looking creatures sing "Mah Na Mah Na" with a bearded guy in sunglasses. It's pretty classic:





While browsing for new records over the weekend, I came upon an interesting tidbit about the origins of the sketch: turns out that the track was not, in fact, a Muppet original. The composer is Piero Umiliani, and it initially appeared on the soundtrack of an Italian film, Svezia, Inferno e Paradiso. The film is a pseudo-documentary focusing on "corrupt" sexual mores in Sweden during the late 60s. Apparently, such subjects were shocking to heavily-Catholic Italy.

Ah, to have been alive in 1968 Stockholm...

The version of the song from the film is fairly different from our beloved Muppet version. It features a lounge-bossa arrangement, vaguely reminiscent of Walter Wanderley (whose work I rather like), complete with a Hammond B3 driving the song. It's a rather jaunty little number - the perfect accompaniment for footage of gorgeous Swedish women prancing about. And essentially, that's exactly how it's used in the film:






I have also uploaded the complete track for those who wish to hear the whole thing.

Mah Na Mah Na

Frank Zappa

It was only a matter of time before I featured some Zappa on my blog. I've been listening to him since I was about 11 or 12 (thanks to my father's spectacular record collection), and his work (well, his early work) has always been a fascination of mine.

A note or two about FZ before we delve in, however. First of all, my understanding has always been that Zappa was, at heart, a Modern composer whose lack of formal training or pedigree made it extraordinarily difficult (if not impossible) to have his compositions performed. As a result, he was forced to parlay his abilities into the dominant genre of his era. In interviews, he mentions that he never wrote a rock song until he was in his twenties - he had written primarily chamber music up until that point. Think about this for a second. Imagine informing another Modern composer - say Stravinsky, Schoenberg, or Stockhausen - that he would have to abandon his art and start writing music for a teenage audience that had grown up on the likes of "Wooly Bully." It's this tension that makes Zappa's work such a treat to me.

I am featuring two Zappa clips today. The first is a television commercial for his 1969 record, Uncle Meat. The track accompanying the commercial is "Sleeping in a Jar," a short piece from the album. In addition to his work as a composer, FZ was also a film-maker (though admittedly not a very conventional one)...





The second clip is Zappa's 1969 promo video for perhaps his most famous composition, "Peaches En Regalia" (Hot Rats, 1969):

Paul McCartney? Emitt Rhodes.

A few weeks ago, I was chatting with a friend of mine when he mentioned a McCartney song he had stuck in his head: "Wonderful Christmastime." He sung the hook, and I had the song in my head for the next 48 hours. I hadn't even heard the track, just my friend's solo rendition as we walked through the supermarket.

I've always had something of a love-hate relationship with Paul McCartney. Not that I actually know the guy.

As a Beatles fan, I have been forced to reckon with Sir Paul's prowess as a songwriter. While the bulk (60% - 70%?) of my favorite tracks are Lennon compositions, there are moments when I have to tip my hat to Macca - most notably on Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. And "Yesterday." Much of Abbey Road. "I've Got A Feeling." Magical Mystery Tour... On top of his abilities as a songwriter, he's also perhaps my favorite pop bass player of all time outside of Motown. His melodic sense is nearly superhuman.

Nonetheless, I've always liked to believe that McCartney's success with the Beatles was a function of his being kept in check by Lennon. It's a claim I've always supported by rolling out Paul's solo records in comparison to Lennon's. While Lennon was exploring the darkest and most personal recesses of his soul ("God," "Mother," "How Do You Sleep," etc), McCartney played the role of candy-man, giving his audiences endearing pop music that was readily consumable. This is perhaps the worst aspect of Paul's songwriting - it's so sweet and so well done that you can't help but enjoy it. It's as if he's taunting us with his music: "Yeah. I know it's candy. See if I care. You're still going to eat it, and you're going to fucking like it."

I suppose my biggest problem with McCartney is that he strikes me as being entirely in love with himself to a degree normally reserved for the likes of Roger Waters. It makes me feel guilty for liking his music, almost to the point that it's painful for me to listen. "How can I possibly like this," I say to myself as "Band on the Run" plays. "The guy is such an overwhelming tool..." As a result, I've largely kept myself away from his solo records. They're the musical equivalent to McDonalds - easy going down, but ultimately leaving you unfulfilled and feeling like hell. Not to mention feeling guilty that you went there in the first place.

But I've found an alternative.

I recently read about Emitt Rhodes - specifically about his uncanny similarity to McCartney - and decided to give his 1970 self-titled record a listen. I'm very impressed. Everything about this record screams "McCartney" - the songwriting, the arrangements, even the guy's voice is a dead ringer for Paul's. New pastime: playing some of the Rhodes record to unsuspecting friends and convincing them that it's a lost Macca outtake. It's not a hard sell, either.

Finally, I can indulge my "sweet tooth" without feeling so damned guilty. This is a very enjoyable record, and it's more honest than anything Paul has done post-Beatles. Some of you may also recognize Rhodes' name from the Royal Tenenbaums soundtrack - his stripped down "Lullabye" (also from his self-titled record) is featured. I have uploaded my favorite track from Emitt Rhodes (1970), "With My Face on the Floor," for your enjoyment.

With My Face on the Floor