Music Review
By Jeff Katz
Night in Manhattan with Nodzzz
Saw Nodzzz. From San Francisco. Opened for The Soft Pack. At Mercury Lounge. Tiny club. Lower East Side. Near Katz’ Deli. Had pastrami. And a knish. And a hot dog.
At club. Long narrow bar space. Too tight. Lots of kids. Could be their father. A little uncomfortable.
Awesome show. Geeky trio. Double lead singers. Cool guitar interplay. Quirky pop tunes. Kinda like The Feelies. Or The Voidoids. Lots of fun.
Bought CD. From singer with Clark Kent glasses. Ten bucks. Ten songs, fifteen minutes total. Haven’t stopped listening. For days. Very catchy.
I’m hooked. You should be too. Go here —à Nodzzz on MySpace:
Valleys of Neptune – Jimi Hendrix
What is it that makes Jimi Hendrix an object of fascination? Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison, two notable dead peers, have had their occasional resurrections, but Hendrix is a consistent source of fascination. Here’s why I think. Janis, in screechy pursuit of her man, is simply not good enough to remain in limelight. Morrison, with his Lizard King rap and the self-absorption of a poet manqué, is too full of shit to maintain a constant hold. But Hendrix, in his three plus years in the spotlight, redefined what it meant to be a rock guitarist, put out four colossal albums, and defined his era with iconic performances at the signature happenings of Monterey and Woodstock. That’s why, four decades later, we still care.
Much hoo-hah preceded the release of the new Valleys of Neptune CD. I won’t get into the politics of the Hendrix estate and Sony’s deal with said organization. I don’t find that interesting at all. I do find it amazing that in his short burst on the scene, Hendrix created so much music that in 2010 there are still hours and hours of unreleased material. Credit The Beatles. It was The Fab Four’s desertion of touring and devotion to the studio that paved the way for Jimi to exist in a world where creation became a recordable event. No longer did a pop artist come to work to simply lay down a track. Now, the studio was the place for creation. Roll tape.
Valleys is all peak. Sure, there are some psychedelic museum pieces, damn good ones, like the sweet and comfortable groovy title track and “Ships Passing in the Night,” (where drummer Mitch Mitchell is at his frenetic best), but it’s when Hendrix rocks out, or gets into down and dirty blues, that the sound is as fresh as the newest music. From the opening twang of guitar strings on a radically revamped “Stone Free” to the last gallop of “Crying Blue Rain,” I was at aural altar of God. (What made Hendrix tear up about the weather, from blue rain to wind that cried Mary, I don’t know).
Jimi rips into an Elmore James tune, “Bleeding Heart,” with an aping of his great hero, which cracked me up, but turns it into something that is only Hendrix. An original blues, “Hear My Train A Comin,’” leaves no doubt that the original Experience, with Mitchell on drums and Noel Redding on bass, were born to play together. Their completeness, their cohesiveness is undeniable. (Hendrix’ Army buddy and later member of Band of Gypsys Billy Cox plays bass on the first three cuts). Hendrix’ vocal and guitar are often one, reminiscent of Erroll Garner’s vocalizing while playing piano. The real burning of Hendrix’s Monterey guitar can’t compete with the heat he generates on this track.
But “Red House,” a Hendrix penned blues that was excised from the American version of Are You Experienced? and surfaced on 1969’s Smash Hits, steals the whole damn show. At 8:20, it’s both the longest and the tastiest work. If you want to know where Eric Clapton took both his singing and his playing from to record Derek and The Dominoes Layla album, look no further. If you are one of the younger generation that download songs rather than complete albums, plunk your 99 cents down on this one.
There are plenty more fun here. “Mr. Bad Luck,” is in the style of funky goofs like “Crosstown Traffic.” The version of “Fire” is sloppier and more fun than the original; the guitar pitched higher, the backgrounds vocals pleasantly kooky and a bit whiny. And Jimi’s playing is, as they say in rock critic-land, incendiary. The cover of “Sunshine of Your Love,” displays the effortless brilliance that scared the shit out of Clapton when he first saw Hendrix play in London.
There are very few new purchases that I will not listen to first on my computer. The Beatles remasters, both mono and stereo, were deserving of an initial spin on my best hi-fi. Valleys of Neptune was, I thought, deserving of such lofty status. It did not disappoint.