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.

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)