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