2011 – A Different Kind

of Top Ten List

By Jeff Katz

They’re all around you. On TV, in magazines, on the radio and in your daily paper. You love them, you hate them. They are the end of the year top ten lists. Whether you’re a movie, or a book, or a celebrity sex tape, you will be ranked. Does the #8 “Year’s Stupidest Criminal” wish he made it higher up the list? Hard to know.

Top songs and albums are, in my role as music editor, my bag, but I got to thinking. Is it so important what was the best music released this year? Isn’t that initial listen the most important thing? What makes 2011 releases so special? And while I spent my college years running the SUNY-Binghamton record store, Slipped Disc, and getting into heavy duty debates over who heard the first Violent Femmes album first, a serious jockeying for position on the “in the know” pecking order, I realize now that those to-dos meant squat. Being a hipster leads nowhere.

Is the person who bought their first Beatles 45 in Liverpool in 1963 so much better than the one who bought theirs a year later at Korvettes in New York? Did our hypothetical 1963 Liverpudlian love that record any more than a random Brooklynite in 1964? Pushing it further, did that 1964 teeny bopper derive any more pleasure than I did when I bought Something New back in 1979, completing my Beatle collection? How about the kid who discovers the Beatles right now, in 2011 through the life-changing remasters of 2009? Joy is joy – doesn’t matter one whit if the first time your hear a song is the year it came out, or decades later.

So here’s my Top Ten list of 2011, a two-fisted list of old and new. What they share is that they all came to my attention these past 12 months.

10 – Art Garfunkel – Breakaway (1975)

His is a lesser light, who rode a genius’ coattails (see that genius’ latest further down the list). There’s no two ways about it. Handsome? Yeech. Charismatic? Please. His voice is that of a true castrato and his lack of balls came through during his solo career. Yet, after watching the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Concert DVD (I was actually there!), I pulled out my copy of Angel Clare. “Garfunkel,” as he was billed on his premiere solo disc, shoulda been “& Garfunkel.” I liked some of his solo hits – “Wonderful World,” “Breakaway,” and Jimmy Webb’s “All I Know.” So I figured if I saw Artie’s ‘70’s LPs used, I’d buy them. Not a few days later I was at Last Vestige in Albany and there was most of his catalog at three bucks a pop.

Breakaway is surprisingly good and effective. The title track shines, and I was tickled to hear Garfunkel tackle, in English, my favorite Jobim tune, “Aguas de Marco.” There’s also the single from the short-lived Simon & Garfunkel, “My Little Town.” All in all, Garfunkel’s fey voice is put to fine use.

9 – Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds (2011)

Despite their penchant for ripping off Beatle riffs, and Gary Glitter riffs, and everyone else’s riffs, I loved Oasis. Or maybe it was because of their plagiaristic “homages.” Either way, they made me happy. Yet their breakup didn’t bother me one bit, most likely because recent albums kinda sucked. Liam Gallagher’s first effort post-split, with his group Beady Eye, was predictably weak. Liam was the lesser of the two Gallagher brothers – his voice way too whiny, his songwriting talent non-existent. All hopes rested in big brother Noel’s debut.

He delivers with a strong set. “The Death of Me and You” is forceful and poignant in light of the band and family rift, and “(I Wanna Live in a Dream in My) Record Machine” stays on your mind. Who uses the term “record machine”? Eddie Cochran in “Twenty Flight Rock,” the tune Paul McCartney played for John Lennon and gained entry into The Quarrymen. And so the stealing continues, but it’s good fun.

8 – Syl Johnson – Complete Mythology (2010)

This monstrous box set of, to me, an unknown soul singer, became an obsession after seeing the still grinding Johnson at Wilco’s Solid Sound Festival this summer. The package is a beauty, with an exceptionally written booklet, five LPs with original covers, and a sweet portfolio of four CDs.

Granted, there’s a lot of repetition here – backing tracks used over and over in different incarnations, phrases used again and again in a number of songs – but I didn’t know the guy and a full scale immersion into his canon was a tremendously enjoyable experience. Syl is best known for the Wu-Tang’s sampling of “Different Strokes,” but he’s got a lot more where that came from. Plus, any catalog that has multiple songs about short dresses, hot pants and the power they contain is worth your time.

7 – Paul McCartney and Elvis Costello – The McCartney/McManus Collaboration (1998)

The songwriting summit of McCartney and Costello was much in the news in the late ‘80’s. “Ah,” pundits cried knowingly, “Elvis will provided the hard edge that Macca’s been without since he and John Lennon broke up.” It didn’t turn out quite that way. Much of what came out on Paul’s Flowers in the Dirt and Off the Ground    and Elvis’ Spike andMighty Like a Rose was soft. It was, on the whole, very good stuff, but it was soft. There was a higher brand of wit and emotion in their product – “Don’t Be Careless Love,” “Mistress and Maid,” “Veronica,” So Like Candy” – but, of course, it was never possible to recreate Lennon-McCartney in McCartney/McManus.

Or was it? Turns out there was one song that was inexplicably left off all the albums that contained parts of the team’s effort: “Tommy’s Coming Home.” It’s a beautiful tale of a girl waiting for her dead soldier boy to come home. The lyrics are superbly realistic and imagistic; the two voices soar in and around each other. It is one of the best songs in either artist’s solo career and it’s contained on this album.

6 – Eilen Jewell – Queen of The Minor Key (2011)

How great is Eilen Jewell? Even Tom Hanks is on this hard-drivin’, genre-bustin’ pixie’s bandwagon. Her latest turned the heat up during an already steaming early summer. Queen runs the gamut of styles; the opening and closing swamp-twang instrumentals surround an abundant sampling of traditional country, rockabilly, honky tonk, forlorn ballads, torch songs and the occasional 1950s’ guttural sax. Jewell embraces it all with style and energy, and, regardless of song type, pure authenticity. Maybe that makes her hard to peg but it’s the key to her wonderfulness. And it’s all delivered with a healthy amount of enjoyment and humor. Each song is a highlight, not a bit of filler in the mix.

Her band, a band she’s managed to keep together since 2006, cooks. The big star, the main man, is guitarist Jerry Miller. He’s Duane Eddy, Link Wray and James Burton rolled into one. (Note: Eilen Jewell’s Miller is not the same Jerry Miller of Moby Grape, the height of the Haight-Ashbury bands that came out of late 1960s’ San Francisco. Regardless of what you may read on the Internet, it’s not the same guy). Eilen Jewell is a turbocharged kewpie doll. Don’t be fooled by her innocent looks or you’ll be left behind. Queen is a good place to start.

5 – Emitt Rhodes – Emitt Rhodes (1970)

I’m a late-comer to the cult of Emitt. I knew his tune “Live,” which was covered by the Bangles, but I didn’t know him, or his one-album band, The Merry-Go-Round. I do now.

On a sweltering July day I journeyed to New Paltz and Rhino Records. There, waiting for me, was Rhodes’ debut. From the first spin I was in love. Rhodes is a McCartney clone and one can overlook how wonderful that can be. Sometimes we forget just how large McCartney looms  as a melody maker; Rhodes was heavily under his spell. Like his musical hero, Emitt plays all the instruments as he laid down the tracks in his home studio. These are pearls, each and every one, Like the aforementioned Oasis, there are snatches of familiarity, but Rhodes is more his own man than either Gallagher. Emitt Rhodes was the album I listened to the most this year.

4 – The Baseball Project – Vol. 2, High and Inside (2011)

Like a typical Yankee pennant winner made up of high priced superstars, The Baseball Project brought big guns together to win it all. After their debut album, Scott McCaughey (Young Fresh Fellows), Steve Wynn (Dream Syndicate), Linda Pitmon (Golden Smog) and Peter Buck (R.E.M.) went their separate ways, but came back this year with a new collection, Vol. 2, High and Inside.

The thirteen tracks cover a wide range of baseball history — Tony Conigliaro’s lost possibilities, the travails of the ’86 Red Sox, the death of quirky phenom Mark “The Bird” Fidrych, to name a few — and travels through straight ahead indie rock, to surf music, to Steely Dan inspired rock. Bemoaning the early death of “The Bird” in the opening number “1976,” Wynn sings “What does it say for the rest of us when our heroes die and leave us alone?” That’s deep stuff. “Here Lies Carl Mays” closes the album. Yankee Mays, whose pitch killed Indians shortstop Ray Chapman in 1920, croons from the grave, defending his career and expressing the remorse he never showed in real life. It’s a beautiful song about the curves life throws and how we are often left futilely explaining our actions to no one. Sad and touching, it’s the epitome of what The Baseball Project does well, presenting universal emotions disguised in a sports song.

3 – Doug Dillard & Gene Clark - The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard & Clark (1968)

Sundazed Music can always be counted on for quality reissues. They have beautiful taste and that was made clear with their three Gene Clark reissues of 2011. Clark, the most-forgotten but  most important of The Byrds, was returned to the pedestal he should always rest upon. For me, Fantastic Expedition was at the top of that trio.

The soft, often quaking, depth of Gene Clark’s voice on the lead track “Out On the Side” will break your heart. But this opener is a head fake, a rock song that serves as an amuse-bouche for an eight-course bluegrass feast. “Train Leaves Here This Morning” is bittersweet wonder, redone years later to much lesser affect on The Eagles’ first album. The country pickin’ gospel of “Git It on Brother” is a rollicking hoot and the only non-Clark penned tune. (Gene wrote or co-wrote every entry except this Lester Flatt number). From start to finish it is a wonderful record.

2 - Paul Simon  –  So Beautiful or So What (2011)

I’ll admit that I am predisposed to like a new Paul Simon album. From the get-go, Simon’s solo work left Simon & Garfunkel in the dust and, among his peers (McCartney, Dylan to name two), Simon’s solo work has been an unparalleled run of excellence.

So Beautiful is ridiculously good, bouncing effortlessly from the seriousness of Iraq and life after death to the goofiness of the secret of existence contained in an old Gene Vincent tune. “The Afterlife” is as funny a take on eternity as Albert Brooks’ Defending Your Life, and it’s only 3:40!  “Dazzling Blue” is an amalgam of Simon’s solo styles. Over tabla and clay pots, Simon strums a tale of a leisurely drive out to Montauk. It’s followed by “Rewrite,” where Simon thanks the Lord for interceding as he revises his work and his life, accompanied by djembe, glass harp and bass talking drum, in another fusing of the exotic with the common.

So Beautiful or So What mixes the best of Paul Simon; super melodies over solid beats, with words that’ll make you smile as you think. So, where does So Beautiful or So What sit among Paul Simon’s 12 studio albums? Classic.

1 – Liam Finn – FOMO (2011)

As with Syl Johnson, my Liam Finn focus began at Solid Sound. I’d heard of him, the offspring of Tim Finn, the effortless popsmith of Split Enz, The Finn Brothers and, for a short time, Crowded House. This apple is so close to the tree that it never fell off.

Liam’s songs are a life force, powerfully driving. From “Neurotic World” to “Jump Your Bones,” FOMO will move you. The drum and bass pulsate in a distinctive way. Finn’s voice floats lightly, though not weakly, above the music. Like his father before him, Liam has as many hooks as a tackle shop, but the best song of the bunch is “Cold Feet.” It was my favorite song of the year, the one I turned to most often. My #1 song belongs on my #1 album.

Happy New Year!

Deluxe Dilemma

(Or, Boxed in By Box Sets)

By Jeff Katz

It used to be so easy. Go into a record store or a department store, find what you were looking for, pay and leave. Even when CDs were foisted on a public not looking for an alternative to vinyl, the same process adhered. The shift to downloads was different only in its delivery and absence of physical space and touch. In this era, when the public has grown used to the idea that free music is a new human right, record companies, the few remaining, have figured a new way to milk the public: deluxe editions of back catalog classics.

I don’t mind being gouged on music. Hey, I bought both collections of Beatles remasters, mono and stereo, AND Beatles Rock Band in the same month. We older folks, the 45-65 set, have the money and the desire to buy yet another copy of Exile on Main St. and those evil executives know it. My very real problem, a dilemma that has induced quasi-paralysis, is the wealth of options being made available. Sometimes there can be too many choices, anti-American as that sounds.

My initial enthusiasm for The Promise, the collection of lost Bruce Springsteen songs created during his forced hiatus between Born to Run and Darkness On the Edge of Town (Bruce was in legal limbo as he attempted to switch managers) was squashed as thoroughly as the hopes of the couple in “The River.” Should I buy the 3 CD/3 Blu-ray deluxe edition with facsimile notebook of Bruce’s lyrical jottings? Nice, but that was $90. What about the slightly lesser cost option, with plain old DVDs instead of Blu-rays? That was $80. Or should I go basic, CDs only, for a ten spot?

I wanted the remastered Darkness, but that was only available in the big money packages. I didn’t need the videos, in either format. So it came down to this: was a remastered version of my favorite Springsteen album (well, that and Tunnel of Love) worth an extra 70-80 bucks? Short answer: no. Long answer: no, but give me time to think it over. It took me months to come to that decision and, by the time I bought The Promise, I’d lost nearly all interest.

That was one year ago. Since then the situation has worsened. Massive reissues of What’s Going On, Layla, Quadrophenia, and many others have left me as confused as Jimmy the Mod from the plain original version of The Who’s masterwork. (I assume he feels the same way in the $130 version that I won’t buy). The worst of all is Smile. I’ve waited a lifetime for an official release of Brian Wilson’s teenage symphony to God, and now it’s here. Have I bought it? No. Is the 2 CD set the one for me, or is it the double vinyl album? The set I really want has 5 discs, 2 LPs, a booklet and hardcover book plus a poster. That’s $140, reasonable for what you get, but, really, not reasonable at all for music I already own. I have a bootleg of the record, and then there’s Brian’s own version from 2004. Seeing Wilson perform the entire work live went a long way towards ultimate Smile satisfaction.  I know one thing, I’m not into the $700 package that lights up and has a Brian Wilson autograph. I could buy a piece of stereo equipment for that money.

So here’s what I’ve come up with. Each high end repackage of a timeless album finds a spot on my Amazon wish list. There they sit and wait, as I watch the prices like a stock ticker. One day, some day, I’ll find a copy of Achtung Baby for half-price. When I do, I’ll spend some time wondering whether it’s really worth even $70.

Friendship Enterprise:

The Car is Also a Time Machine

A lot comes my way. Some good, some not, but very little that makes me want to listen to an entire work and then write about it. So what happens if something I like comes from someone I know? Is it wrong to be enthusiastic about a group when I’m a friend of the family? Yet isn’t it also a mistake to deny that I’m hooked on a group and ignore them purposefully? What about the moral problem of writing about that? It’s not nepotism, they’re aren’t blood, and I do know that if I heard music from someone close to me and didn’t like it, I’d never jot down a word.  Where does it all leave me? Oh, what the hell, read on!

The Clabbys of suburban Chicago are a combination Von Trapp/Cowsills with more variety and broader talents. They sing, act, write, dress up, and all with great humor. Father Mike (not a priest) and I stood shoulder to shoulder, quite literally, for seven years in the S & P options pit at the Chicago Board Options Exchange. In a world of Gosselins and Kardashians, the Clabby clan, two parents and five kids, deserve a TV show of their own. They’re the family you wish you had.

It was from Mike that I was tipped off to Friendship Enterprise, a band grounded in an adoration of ‘80’s synth-pop, with healthy bits of Oingo Boingo and Kraftwerk and, to me a little same era Suzanne Vega. To show they aren’t late teens stuck in a time warp, they love Lady Gaga, The Strokes and Dutch minimalists I Am Oak.

If the name Friendship Enterprise gives you visions of Kirk in a death struggle against The Gorn, you’re on the right track. The group is a fivesome of sci-fi geeks, with many songs emanating from their devotion to Star Trek, Star Wars, and Battlestar Galactica, to a future that now seems old and past. That inspiration runs from mild to saturated, from general space age themes to actual fan fiction.

Kids today. It takes so little to create a polished track on Garage Band.  Full bands or solo multi-tracking, it all comes together in a jiffy.  Friendship Enterprise’s first salvo, a six song EP titled The Car Is Also a Time Machine (nice nod to the 1984 cult classic film Repo Man), was done old school, in the studio, over a three day period. The songs are all co-written by singer and keyboardist Lucy Clabby and drummer Brandon Waldon. Actually, Brandon is more a multi-percussion talent and all around musician, beyond what “drummer” signifies. The two near twenty year olds, met in the summer of 2010, found common ground, started with the band name and went on from there. In a year’s time they were playing locally and recording.

“Facebook Official” begins with spare keyboard space effects that burst into the danceable. Lucy’s slightly vulnerable voice is the perfect counterpoint to the mechanical sound. To reemphasize where they’re coming from aesthetically, a photo of Spock and Uhura appears as the song plays on Sound Cloud. Harrison Waldon (yes relation) thrashes away with a nice piece of punk guitar. Noah Lande is solid on bass and B. Waldon is excellent. His drum work shines on “Friendship with Extraterrestrial Benefits.” The haunting “On Plots and Plans” will stay with you. It’s Clabby’s vocals that keep me listening. She’s a bit of a Midwestern Kate Nash, plaintive, at times with little inflection, but in a way that is completely spellbinding.

For now, you can only hear Friendship Enterprise on Facebook, but soon The Car is Also a Time Machine will be available at your local Skylab and other intergalactic outlets.

www.facebook.com/FriendshipEnterprise

 * * *

Nick Lowe and The Smiler Dilemma

Nick Lowe’s career as a sarcastic troubadour, whose quiver was filled with songs of pointed invective and sharp wit, took a turn circa 1994, when a calmer, more sober (in all senses of the word) Lowe released The Impossible Bird. The country infused collection of laid back tunes was a triumphant look inward, his barbs directed more personally. Had “Basher” become a sensitive singer-songwriter? Possibly. Without doubt his songwriting style had changed.

Bird was followed by three more albums mining the same vein: Dig My Mood, The Convincer and At My Age. His latest, The Old Magic, is more of the same and that is both pleasing and worrisome. There’s no call for concern that Lowe has lost any of his cleverness. The leadoff track, “Stoplight Roses,” lays out the reasons why cheap flowers purchased from anonymous fundraisers at a red light don’t quite cut it. In a recent interview Lowe confessed that he fights being too clever, too cute. The old Nick the Knife, who could write a couplet like this – “Do you remember Rick Astley?/ He had a big fat hit, it was ghastly” (from “All Men Are Liars”) – and make it flow, is long gone.  Even in his weakest, silliest moments, Lowe made his snark work for him, but his admission makes sense.

Every song on The Old Magic is worth listening to and there’s a wide sampling of easy going styles (strings on “I Read a Lot,” Tex-Mex on “Somebody Cares for Me”). Lowe is nothing if not a master craftsman. In that sense, it is a fine album, but there’s more old than magic. Rod Stewart went through a similar problem in the early ‘70’s. His first four albums were monumental works, all following a similar format. By his fifth solo effort, Smiler, it got too damn predictable and tiresome.

The cover of The Old Magic presents a retro cutie, having a personal dance party. The photo is straight forward with a hint of mockery. Nick Lowe needs to bring back the rollicking pub-rocker, punk, New Wave performer that he used to be, even in small doses, if only to prove that that man does exist. The current recipe is starting to taste a little stale.

About the author:

Jeff Katz is the music editor of Ragazine. He lives in Cooperstown, New York, and blogs ferociously at  http://maybebabyoryouknowthatitwouldbeuntrue.blogspot.com/, and http://missionofcomplex.wordpress.com. 

The Sad Journey of Gene Clark

By Jeff Katz

“Poor Gene.”

I was talking to Tony Leone, drummer for the roots powerhouse Ollabelle. We were discussing a Roger McGuinn-Gene Clark bootleg, Live at The Bottom Line 1978. Indeed, Clark’s career is a tragic tale of a super talent who, preyed upon by personal demons, left the fame of the mid-‘60s rock scene and subsequently created album after album of fine work, only to be ignored by the record-buying public.

When Clark quit The Byrds after their second album, the group lost their best songwriter and finest singer.  Though the trembling warble of McGuinn was the signature voice and the crystalline precision of David Crosby’s harmonies made the band’s tunes richer than those of the average pop group, it was Gene who provided the soul, a warm husk with a strong hint of vulnerability.

Why did Gene Clark leave The Byrds in May of 1966?  His fear of flying gets the most press and it’s true he departed a flight and, in effect, the group.  There are other reasons: nervous strain, general illness, guilt over his financial success as primary songwriter (“I’ll Feel A Whole Lot Better,”  “Eight Miles High”) that put him atop his band mates in wealth. There was also anger that McGuinn was often given the lead vocal nod on the group’s big releases and Dylan covers.  Who knows? He was gone, and though he’d come back briefly mid-year and again in October 1967, he had broken for good and despite his skill, Gene Clark was quickly forgotten.

It’s easy to elevate Gram Parsons, with his rich-boy good looks, his Rolling Stones connection and his spectacular flame out and death. Better to burnout than fade away, right? But take away Parsons’ gloss and, when you compare the grooves, Clark is clearly his superior. Chris Hillman, his Byrds-mate, as well as Parsons partner in The Byrds and The Flying Burrito Brothers, said this:  “As much press as Gram gets, I constantly remind people that Gene Clark wrote some amazing songs, and lots of them. Gram had some talent, but no discipline.”

Gene proved it from the get-go, with 1967’s Gene Clark and The Gosdin Brothers, a country and rock tour de force, the first of its kind. No one was ready to hear that in 1967, the psychedelic year of Peanut Butter Conspiracies and Chocolate Watch Bands. It’s the price a visionary pays. The lack of commercial viability began there and continued, regardless of quality. While Clark’s poor sales plagued his career, what he produced soared high.

Sundazed, they of top notch reissues and exquisite taste,  has released three of Gene Clark’s masterworks — The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard & Clark, White Light and Roadmaster — bringing them to vivid life on CD and LP. Each title is equal to or far surpassing the dedicated country rock dabbling of Bob Dylan or Neil Young, and collectively they go a long way to redeem this lost soul.

Like Gene Clark, Doug Dillard had recently left his band and needed some soothing. The two refugees convened at Dillard’s house for good-timey jam session, fueled by much beer, necessary to loosen the minds of the players. The chemistry was apparent, leading to the seven sessions that produced The Fantastic Expedition of Dillard & Clark. Two musicians, now on their own, found the camaraderie they needed.

The soft, often quaking, depth of Gene Clark’s voice on the lead track “Out On the Side” will break your heart.  But this opener is a head fake, a rock song that serves as an amuse- bouche for an eight-course bluegrass feast. Clark’s voice is terribly forlorn pitted against Dillard’s shiny banjo work that bursts forth like a thrown spear in a 3D movie. “Train Leaves Here This Morning” is bittersweet wonder, redone years later to much lesser affect on The Eagles’ first album. (It was co-written by Gene and Bernie Leadon, who plays on Fantastic Expedition and was a founding member of The Eagles, who made all their dough resting softly on the backs of artists like Clark and Parsons). The country pickin’ gospel of “Git It on Brother” is a rollicking hoot and the only non-Clark penned tune. (Gene wrote or co-wrote every entry except this Lester Flatt number).

Clark sings “Where do I fit in the plan?” on the album’s finale. The sad answer is nowhere. Undeservedly, the record was another flop. Said Dillard, “We didn’t make the charts but we sure influenced a lot of people.” For whatever that’s worth. It is a work of utmost sincerity; a quality absent in the masquerades of Dylan, the ever shifting career moves of Young and the pretense of Parsons.  Again, Gene Clark found himself ahead of his time. Nashville Skyline wouldn’t come out for another year and, with the clout that only Dylan had, make this kind of music acceptable to a rock audience.

By March of 1971, Clark had retreated to Northern California, far enough from the LA scene as to be a hermit. Here, at peace with a new family, Clark wrote his usual overflow of powerful tunes and headed south to create White Light under the production of guitar whiz Jesse Ed Davis, late of Taj Mahal and soon of Concert for Bangladesh fame

The harmonica blast that heralds “The Virgin” recalls Dylan’s John Wesley Harding. White Light is a stripped down opus that plays as a pastiche of late ’60s Dylan, but Clark’s simple, unaffected voice, coupled with his usual authenticity and clarity make the style his own. This is no put-on or copy, though the “Tears of Rage” cover is the necessary signifier.

 * * *

Much is made of this record by the few paying attention, as an entry into the singer songwriter movement of 1970/71 ushered in by James Taylor and Neil Young, but it’s not quite in that vein. It doesn’t seek mawkish sentimentality and an “oh look at my sensitivity” vibe. It is Gene Clark as Gene Clark, an honest performer and stellar songwriter. Davis created a wonderfully crisp recording in his first effort as producer. The acoustic guitars shimmer, and while there is little in the way of showy instrumental work, bare music matching bare soul, there is a beauty of a bottleneck guitar on “One in a Hundred” and straight electric mastery on “1975,” both courtesy of the man behind the control board.

In “Because of You,” the dark clouds break away and the rainbow comes on through. One can’t help but feel that was never quite the case. It shows in Clark’s voice — the sorrow and painful despair. Again, Gene Clark sent a gem out and no one cared. White Light was another commercial disaster.

Flashback one year previous. Jim Dickson, former Byrds’ manager, sought to halt the steep decline of Gene Clark’s career and found his former colleagues willing to help. That’s not to say they were willing to be in actual proximity. McGuinn overdubbed guitar and vocals and Crosby popped in separately to add harmonies. Clearly no room was big enough to hold the egos or peaceful enough to mend old wounds. Only Hillman and drummer Michael Clarke were willing to be in studio with Gene.

The two cuts, “She’s the Kind of Girl” with McGuinn’s jangle and classic group harmonies prominent, and “One in a Hundred” (in its first incarnation) are solid and far superior to the “real” reunion that would take place in late ’72, both in sound and spirit. That these songs were not released is beyond odd.

Roadmaster is a schizophrenic album. The first two tracks, The Byrds’ mock coming together of 1970, are followed by eight tracks from spring 1972 sessions that were abandoned after A & M got wind that the original group were planning their reunion for David Geffen’s Asylum Records. The songs are of the non-Byrds variety, though post-Clark band member Clarence White provides sharp guitar. It’s a solid piece of work, with Clark’s typical, and seemingly effortless, ability to write great songs. He alone was able to give top of the line work to the group reunion soon to come, perhaps because he could; there were plenty more where they came from. Roadmaster is less a grand statement than a solid album.

“Full Circle Song,” which appears here and would later show up as “Full Circle” was not written for the second coming, but very well could have. “Funny how the circle turns around/First you’re up then you’re down.” Gene Clark sings about himself, the former rock icon quickly turned rock remnant. Gene travelled tentatively to Los Angeles for the recordings, a city where he was once hailed a king. Now, only six years later, he didn’t even have the power to have his newest album released in the United States. Ariola, a Dutch subsidiary of A & M, set Roadmaster free, where it was warmly received. Gene remained a popular force in parts of Europe, though not in his own home.

The Byrds’ 1973 comeback was a spineless effort to replicate the smooth California sound of The Eagles, instead of revitalizing their unique brand. It was met with scornful reviews and sold moderately. Any plans for a future involving the five founding members were scotched. Gene Clark would produce more quality work, including 1974’s No Other, a gem once again unnoticed. McGuinn, Clark & Hillman would form in 1977, quickly becoming McGuinn & Hillman, featuring Gene Clark. Gene’s songs are consistently the best of these passable efforts. He still had it, though no one was listening.

At The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction ceremonies on January 16, 1991, Gene Clark joined Roger McGuinn, David Crosby, Chris Hillman and Michael Clarke on stage to accept their honor as newest members and they performed all together one last time. Clark was a very sick man, with ulcers exacerbated by years of alcohol abuse. By May 24 he was dead at 46.

About the author:

Jeff Katz is music editor of Ragazine. He and his family live in Cooperstown, N.Y., where in addition to cranking out articles for Ragazine, he routinely blogs on: 

http://maybebabyoryouknowthatitwouldbeuntrue.blogspot.com/ , and

http://missionofcomplex.wordpress.com

Eilen and Wanda Jackson, 1950s' legend.

By Jeff Katz
Music Editor

How great is Eilen Jewell? Even Tom Hanks is on this hard-drivin’, genre-bustin’ pixie’s bandwagon, declaring her as one of his summer must-listens. With her new album Queen of the Minor Key just released, and a heavy touring schedule, Jewell is turning the heat up on an already hot season.

Queen runs the gamut of styles; the opening and closing swamp-twang instrumentals surround an abundant sampling of traditional country, rockabilly, honky tonk, forlorn ballads, torch songs and the occasional 1950s’ guttural sax. Jewell embraces it all with style and energy, and, regardless of song type, pure authenticity. Maybe that makes her hard to peg but it’s the key to her wonderfulness.  And it’s all delivered with a healthy amount of enjoyment and humor.  Each song is a highlight, not a bit of filler in the mix.

Recently caught live at The Oneonta Theatre, Jewell and her band, a band she’s managed to keep together since her 2006 debut (Boundary County), cooked. Sometimes they simmered, sometimes they boiled over. Jason Beek,  a solid, powerful drummer, and Johnny Sciasia, doing a fine job of slappin’ the upright bass, provided expert rhythm. But the big star, the main man, was guitarist Jerry Miller. He’s Duane Eddy, Link Wray and James Burton rolled into one.  (Note: Eilen Jewell’s Miller is not the same Jerry Miller of Moby Grape, the height of the Haight-Ashbury bands that came out of late 1960s’ San Francisco. Just accept it, Dead fans. Regardless of what you may read on the Internet, it’s not the same guy). His solo during a performance of “Shakin’ All Over” (did I mention Eilen also has a penchant for ‘60s’ British Invasion?)  was a mini-history of rock and roll with snatches of “For Your Love” and a long bit of “Paint It Black” thrown in for good measure.

Eilen was an impish vision in black knee length dress, pearls and cowboy boots. Funny and hip, Jewell led the band through her catalog with enthusiasm, taking some detours into her side projects, the Loretta Lynn tribute Butcher Holler and the gospel of The Sacred Shakers (“not commercially viable,” she cracks). Introducing Lynn’s “I’m a Honky Tonk Girl,” and noting that this was Loretta’s first record AND first hit, Jewell marked that that was “not her path.”

The band revved it up with a cover of Arthur Alexander’s “The Girl That Radiates Charm,” and a hyperspeed psychobilly version of the title track of her new record. Her explanation of the deranged Cupid of “Bang Bang Bang” (also from Queen of the Minor Key) had the audience giggling. After a request time, that ignored most shouts with Eilen claiming the band didn’t know the tune  or that they would play something that someone would have requested had they only known (all said with great humor), they ended with the aforementioned “Shakin’ All Over,” more Johnny Kidd & The Pirates than The Who.

Eilen Jewell is a turbocharged kewpie doll. Don’t be fooled by her innocent looks or you’ll be left behind.

Bowl Food, Jon Nickoll

When we last checked in with Jon Nickoll, Cinema Music was his most recent release. (See “My Imaginary Friend Has a CD” in ragazine, April 2010). With his new album Bowl Food, Nickoll finds himself a first-time father without the free time to head to the recording  studio.

The recording is decidedly and unapologetically low-fi. Think Springsteen’s Nebraska meets Lennon’s Double Fantasy. Nickoll’s voice is his strongest point, a soothing Elvis Costello.  Weighty themes — emerging from periods of black, the passage of time, the transition from personhood to parenthood — are delivered with the spoonful of sugar that is Nickoll’s vocal signature. Baby Charlie appears as himself in “Liberty.” It’s a beautiful bit of harmony and, I’ll admit, made me a little teary.

An effortless tunesmith, Nickoll’s numbers flow smoothly. That’s not to say it’s a slow  album. At 25 minutes, it cruises along, veering a steady course between reflective and up-tempo.  “Which Friend First” exemplifies the former; “Still We Try” the latter, “Friend” contains my favorite line: “Though I didn’t cry/ I carried tears around.” Very relatable. Any guy who starts a song with a nod to “a box of records with Pet Sounds on the  top” (“Beginnings and Ends”), wins my heart.

Hints of influence pop out: a little snatch of The Doors’ “The End” in “Fasten Your Seatbelts,” a dash of The Beatles’ “It’s Only Love” on “Slowly,” but this is singularly Jon Nickoll and that’s good.

– Jeff Katz

No Banjo Hitters They:

The Baseball Project’s Vol. 2,

“High and Inside”

By Jeff Katz

The marriage of baseball and music has been a rocky one. Most attempts are jokey novelties: The Treniers tribute to Willie Mays (1954’s “Say Hey”), Teresa Brewer’s 1956 love song to Mantle, “I Love Mickey.” John Fogerty’s “Centerfield” connects with the joy of playing, but 26 years of incessant overplaying has rendered the tune impotent.  But who will speak to the nerdy devotion of the rabid fan who listens to good music as he or she scours the daily box scores and devotes disproportionate brain space to the names and games that mark the long seasons of their lives? Terry Cashman with “Talkin’ Baseball?” Certainly not.

Coming to the rescue like Mariano Rivera, The Baseball Project strode forth with 2008’s Vol. 1: Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails. Finally, great musicians tackled baseball in a way that was satisfying to the ears of rock fans and the researchers at SABR. Two great tastes in one musical bar, The Reese’s Cup of hardball pop. (But don’t think of Pee Wee Reese’s cup; that would be gross!).

Like the 1997 World Champion Florida Marlins, The Baseball Project brought big stars together to win it all. After their debut album, Scott McCaughey (Young Fresh Fellows), Steve Wynn (Dream Syndicate), Linda Pitmon (Golden Smog) and Peter Buck (R.E.M.) went their separate ways, but are back again with a new collection, Vol. 2, High and Inside.

The thirteen new tracks cover a wide range of baseball history — Tony Conigliaro’s lost possibilities, the travails of the ’86 Red Sox, the death of quirky phenom Mark “The Bird” Fidrych, to name a few — and runs the gamut from straight ahead indie rock, to surf music, to Steely Dan inspired rock. The level of detail shows these band members are no dabblers in the national past time. In “The Straw That Stirs The Drink,” a look back to Reggie Jackson’s debut season with The Yankees, a reference to Manager Billy Martin’s drunken fight with a marshmallow salesman (which took place a few years after Jax’ 1977 start with The Bronx Bombers) comes across as both minutiae that works for an obsessed fan and a bizarre bit of imagery for the unknowing.

It would be easy to fall into the “Van Lingle Mungo” trap, a straight listing of funny ballplayer names that Dave Frishberg worked to magnificent effect in his classic jazz piano nostalgia trip. The Baseball Project sets themselves apart by combining a media guide knowledge of the game with a healthy amount of philosophy. Bemoaning the early death of “The Bird” in the opening number “1976,” Wynn sings “What does it say for the rest of us when our heroes die and leave us alone?”  That’s deep stuff.  “Fair Weather Fans” reels in the years as each band member recounts their own lifelong love of their hometown teams as they grow up and move on to other cities. And woe to that sad soul who grew up without a nearby pro team!

“Here Lies Carl Mays” closes the album. Yankee Mays, whose pitch killed Indians shortstop Ray Chapman in 1920 ( still the only fatality as a result of a thrown ball), croons from the grave, defending his career and expressing the remorse he never showed in real life. It’s a beautiful song about the curves life throws and how we are often left futilely explaining our actions to no one. Sad and touching, it’s the epitome of what The Baseball Project does well, presenting universal emotions disguised as a sports song. It’s the old hidden ball trick, performed masterfully. Gene Michael would be proud.

Look it up.

1 + 1 = 0

10 Musical partnerships that don’t add up

By Jeff Katz

Ever have someone you trust do something so stupid, show such obvious lack of judgment that your jaw drops and you scratch your head wondering if you were completely off-base in your assessment of that person? Sure, we all have. Sometimes these lapses come from our friends, spouses, children, political leaders, you name it. But I’m the Music Editor, so on to the topic at hand.

It’s easy to come up with a list of failed musical partnerships, but a tad more difficult if you stay away from the obvious: Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder’s dip into overly simplistic race relations in “Ebony and Ivory,” David Bowie and Bing Crosby’s psycho duet of “Little Drummer Boy/Peace On Earth,” Frank and Nancy Sinatra’s “Something Stupid,” an innocent song that became a creepy celebration of incest, to name a few.

Here’s a smattering of epic fails by musical icons.

1 – Johnny Cash and Fiona Apple – “Father and Son”

Most of the pairings in the latter part of The Man in Black’s career worked. Producer Rick Rubin connected him with many, including Tom Petty, Carl Perkins and Willie Nelson. Those matches are the best matches since Dolly Gallagher-Levi’s heyday. Some are less successful. (Sad to say, Cash and Joe Strummer’s take on “Redemption Song” doesn’t cut it for me). But the team of Cash and Apple is perplexing at best. There’s the obvious: Fiona can’t be Johnny’s son; she’s got lady parts! That’s number one. Number two is that their voices are impossible to mesh. Now, I love Ms. Apple. Her When the Pawn… and Extraordinary Machine are two of my all time favorite records, but this endeavor is pretty worthless. Her wispy feyness weaves itself unsurely in and out and around Cash’s craggy old-man voice. Plus, I can’t stand Cat Stevens and this song sucks.

2 – Burt Ward and Frank Zappa – “Boy Wonder I Love You.”

This cut requires some explanation. It’s not really a song at all. Conceptually, it’s hysterical; TV Batman’s Robin reads fan letters over a wry early ‘60’s pop sound that Frank presents tongue firmly in hairy cheek. It’s all done for ridiculous effect, but the problem is in the execution; it’s a one-joke record that gets old in a hurry. And it’s only two minutes and ten seconds long!  I take a back seat to no one in my adoration for the Batman TV series. Heck, I have a retro Batmobile sitting on the shelf to my left, still in box. It gives me hope and inspiration. But, Holy Hi-Fi, Batman, this record is a threat to the ears of all the good citizens of Gotham.

3 – R.E.M. and KRS-One – “Radio Song”

No band has been a greater disappointment to me than R.E.M. From the moment Chronic Town came out in 1982, at the same time I saw them open for The English Beat, I was madly in love. But I bailed after Out of Time and this opening track was the warning signal. KRS-One, influential rapper though he may have been, doesn’t go with Michael Stipe. It’s embarrassing and one wonders where their musical compass went awry. Lately, I’ve been trying to come to terms with the group and who they are, not what I wanted them to be, and were, from the first EP to Green, but, for me, “Radio Song” marked the beginning of the end.

4 – Cher and Beavis and Butthead – “I Got You Babe”

High camp can work. This one is painful; five minutes of painful. The back and forth of the two animated miscreants is a bit of a giggle, but nothing can wipe a smile off my face quicker than the opening strains of Sonny and Cher.  Even the boys know this sucks; “wuss music!” they cry. When the song cranks into heavy metal mode, they shout with glee. It still sucks. I get the feeling when Cher sings “Butthead, I got you,” she may have once used that line on Sonny, or Gregg Allman. “I Got You Babe” is execrable in its original form. “Cougar” Cher is beneath contempt as she finds that underage human males are no longer good enough for her; now she’s after cartoon minors.

5 – John Lennon and Frank Zappa – “Scumbag”

At The Fillmore in 1971, two of the most creative minds in rock history jammed as The Plastic Ono Mother to a plodding, unmemorable tune. Lennon’s lyrical skills were never lower than in the Sometime in New York City period, but the puerile, political sloganeering that marked that album seem positively Shakespearean compared to the relentless shouting of “Scumbag.”  Two legends (three if you count Yoko, which I don’t) at their worst.  Zappa does take the piss out of Lennon’s ultra-serious posturing. One snide “Right On” from Frank deflates the sanctimonious balloon.

6 – Paul McCartney and Elvis Costello – “You Want Her Too”

I get it; it’s the evil flip side to “The Girl is Mine.”  But that Macca/Michael Jackson ditty does work. This song, a product of the short-lived Paul and Elvis writing team of the Flowers in the Dirt (Paul) and Spike (Elvis) period is pure caricature. McCartney, as usual the sappy one, is at least true to form. Costello’s venom spitting is strictly faux. Much was made in the late ‘80’s that Elvis was the John to Paul’s Paul, but that year’s model of Elvis Costello was not the authentically mean prick of his first albums. It shows.

7 – Bruce Springsteen and Billy Joel – “Born to Run”

At the end of the first night of The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Concerts at Madison Square Garden, Billy Joel came out as a surprise guest during The Boss’ set, creating in the flesh a Tri-State music fans’ wet dream. Though they are truly contemporaries, I never think of them together. Joel is Springsteen-lite. When Billy sings, it’s pretend toughness, a posture. Bruce is always the real deal. For “Born to Run,” Joel, searching for the balls needed for the Springsteen anthem, reached for a Bruce impersonation to do the trick. Weak, weak stuff. You may gather that I’m not a fan of Billy Joel.

8 – Elton John – Victim of Love

This entire album, released in October 1979 with disco past its peak, puts Elton’s voice over mindless throbbing beats. It’s terrible stuff; I defy anyone to listen to the whole record. Lord knows I’ve tried, but I simply can’t make it. I find myself wishing for the return of Kiki Dee.

9 – Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell – “The Onion Song”

Less a problem of performance than choice. “The world is just a great big onion?” Really, that’s the best metaphor they could come up with?  And why is Earth like the stinky Allium cepa? It’s because “hate and fear are the spices that make you cry.” That’s according to the songwriters of this dreck, Ashford and Simpson. Marvin and Tammi try hard, but I couldn’t help shed a tear in empathetic embarrassment.

10 – B.B. King and U2 – “When Love Comes to Town”

I love black and white cookies. The taste is sweet, the balance is perfect. Too much vanilla can ruin the entire experience. I’ll leave it at that.

Not Fading Away –

Two Old Men, Two New Albums

By Jeff Katz

How to Become Clairvoyant – Robbie Robertson

One of the biggest surprises of 1987 was Robbie Robertson’s self-titled debut. Yes, he wrote nearly all of The Band’s classic hits (though ex- drummer Levon Helm would later angrily dispute that claim). Sure he was a fierce lead guitarist, but his singing had always been an unknown. Robertson didn’t need to open his mouth in a band that contained Helm, Richard Manuel and Rick Danko, a trio of distinctive vocalists that are topped in rock history only by John, Paul and George. Yet, Robbie’s voice on his eponymous release was a gripping combination of coarse speak-sing, straight narration and straining high-pitched wails of beauty. It was an immediate classic and worth the decade long wait from the The Band’s final studio LP, Islands.

Since then, Robertson’s recorded output has been sporadic, and How to Become Clairvoyant is his first new album in 13 years. As such, it is much anticipated and delivers. Robertson appears on the cover dressed, seemingly, as the Unabomber, but he presents straight forward rock and roll; nothing as threatening as Ted Kaczynksi.

The album is built around its guests: Robert Randolph, Tom Morello, Trent Reznor (a little of Reznor’s moody sound baths go a long way. Hey, I’ve seen The Social Network twice; I get it), Steve Winwood, and the most promoted of all, Eric Clapton. The Clapton-Robertson sessions date from the early 1990s. Clapton has made no bones about wanting to join forces with The Band after the demise of Cream, but until now there were only brief encounters in The Last Waltz and Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Induction ceremonies. The guitar and vocal interplay of the two is at the core of the record – Clapper is featured on seven of the 12 tunes, sharing lead vocals on the casually shuffling “Fear of Falling.” Stevie’s prominent organ bursts are also worthy of a shout out.

There are two musical and historical highlights. “When the Night Was Young,” about a certain youthful musician starting on the road, the road that would, for Robertson, turn out to be “a goddamn impossible way of life,” but for the then teenage Canadian and his band, the sights of Highway 61, God Bless America signs, and billboards touting guns and religious apocalypse were striking welcomes to the country that gave the birth to the music he followed.

“This Is Where I Get Off” is Robertson’s breakup song, 30 years late. Robbie makes it clear that he never wanted to leave the band, that he saw the growing alcoholism and rapid descent of band mates Manuel and Danko as the signal to move on. True? I don’t know. Certainly watching The Last Waltz would give one all the reasons they need to believe that Robbie had his sights on a new career of films and self-glorification with new friend Martin Scorsese. (They’ve worked on eight films together since). Were “the chances I’m taking against my will,” as Robertson sings? Hard to say. It’s an achingly wistful song, a soaring account of an unsure decision.

Scattered among the solid tracks is one big clinker. “Axman,” is of the worst type, in the tradition of tripe like “Rock and Roll Heaven.” Even the great Morello can’t save this singing laundry list of guitar gods. Despite that single lapse in judgment, Robbie Robertson has produced a superb record with How to Become Clairvoyant, adding significant bits of detail to the tales of rock’s past while not wasting a bit of time resting on prior accomplishments.

So Beautiful or So What – Paul Simon

I’ll admit that I am predisposed to like a new Paul Simon album. From the get-go, Simon’s solo work left Simon & Garfunkel in the dust and, among his peers (McCartney, Dylan to name two), Simon’s solo work has been an unparalleled run of excellence. The worst of his work (You’re the One, One Trick Pony and Songs from The Capeman) is quite good with moments of brilliance, and the best of his work (all the rest) are classics. Where does So Beautiful or So What sit among Paul Simon’s 12 studio albums?

The liner notes are off-putting and gave me pause. Written by Elvis Costello, they are grandiosely fawning and, for a second, I wondered if Paul was a little unsure of himself. He gets that way; after public failures like the movie One Trick Pony or the Broadway flop of Capeman, Simon tends to seek out a certain Garfunkel for financial, and perhaps artistic, rejuvenation. 2006’s Surprise was a top-notch recording, but not a hit was to be found.

No worries. So Beautiful is ridiculously good, bouncing effortlessly from the seriousness of Iraq and life after death to the goofiness of the secret of existence contained in an old Gene Vincent tune. “The Afterlife” is as funny a take on eternity as Albert Brooks’ Defending Your Life, and it’s only 3:40!

I’ll admit something else; I don’t particularly like the obtuse lyrics that mark Graceland and The Rhythm of The Saints. Paul doesn’t need to try so hard to convey deep messages and wry phrases. So Beautiful is straight-forward in its poetry, hearkening back to Paul Simon and There Goes Rhymin’ Simon in easy humor and heartfelt emotion.

“Dazzling Blue” is an amalgam of Simon’s solo styles. Over tabla and clay pots, Simon strums a tale of a leisurely drive out to Montauk. It’s followed by “Rewrite,” where Simon thanks the Lord for interceding as he revises his work and his life, accompanied by djembe, glass harp and bass talking drum, in another fusing of the exotic with the common.

Clearly, Paul has mortality on his mind. The sixties legends – McCartney, Dylan, Robertson, The Stones, etc.) – have created something new: the aging, artistically valid, rock star. Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard: they’ve been rehashing their hits for 50 years. That’s true, to a small degree about the ‘60’s icons, but, album after album these guys keep producing fresh, vital music. I’m sure it keeps them young, but they’re not young, and they know it (well, maybe McCartney and Jagger don’t know it).

Simon has always ably mixed seriousness with comedy, but he’s at his happiest stuck in the ‘50’s.  I saw that in full view when he sang doo wop background vocals for Dion at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame concert in 2009. (Clearly, that night was important to Paul too. He thanks B.B. King, who shared the bill, for turning him on to the recordings of The Golden Gate Jubilee Quartet’s recordings, which Simon puts to use in “Love and Blessings.”) That affinity for basic rock, and a rededication to rhythm-based, rather than melody-based, tunes is what marks his pre- and post- Graceland albums. But So Beautiful or So What mixes the best of Paul Simon; super melodies over solid beats, with words that’ll make you smile as you think.

So, where does So Beautiful or So What sit among Paul Simon’s 12 studio albums?

Classic.

– Jeff Katz is music editor of Ragazine.

Marvin Gaye

Mercy Mercy Us

By Jeff Katz

Here’s how I remember the beginning of April 1984.

It was a sunny spring day; most welcome in Binghamton, one of the ten cloudiest cities in the country. I was a senior at SUNY-Binghamton, in the last month before a clerking job on Wall Street awaited to begin the slow process of sucking out my soul. As general manager of the campus record store, Slipped Disc, I got paid in records, the only currency that mattered to me back then. The day before I’d snatched a three-record Marvin Gaye Anthology and was in the midst of a soulful haze, the strains of “Can I Get a Witness” coursing through my skull.

As I walked toward the union from the library, someone came up to me and asked if I’d heard Marvin Gaye was killed. I hadn’t. In some inexplicable way, blame the butterfly effect, my plucking the Marvin record from the racks sent a blast of cosmic bad vibes from campus to California. Once there, they found a home in the confused brain of Marvin Gaye, Sr., and caused him to fire two fatal shots into his talented and troubled son.

The horrific events of April 1^st were revealed over the next few weeks. Marvin, back with his parents in the Crenshaw home he’d bought for them, was in a bad way. Two years after his huge comeback (“Sexual Healing” was a #1 hit), Gaye, Jr. had hit the skids, back in a world of heavy drug use, severe financial distress and depression following a disastrous concert tour. Always a mama’s boy, Marvin sat upstairs with his ailing mother Alberta, when they heard a hellacious ruckus down below.  Senior was on the first floor, in a rage as he futilely searched for some insurance documents.  Marvin called him upstairs, and the Greek tragedy unfolded.

When the father verbally attacked the mother, the good son interceded. The elder’s rage turned from documents to death, and he left briefly, returning with a .38 caliber revolver in hand. Shot one – a bullet through the heart. Shot two – the father leaned over his fallen boy, pointed the gun at point blank range and blasted prone son in the left shoulder, just for good measure. Then the old man went outside, found a seat on the front porch and awaited the police.

At 44, Marvin Gaye, Jr. was suicidal, a fact well known to his family and friends. He’d told those in his inner circle that he was about to exit the world by his own hand, even going so far as to put a gun to his head at least once in the presence of witnesses. He’d tried to overdose on pure cocaine after his 1976 divorce from Anna Gordy, sister of Motown founder Berry Gordy. Eight years later, in the grasp of heavy cocaine use, exorbitant alimony payments and an IRS induced bankruptcy (the government was looking for $2 million in back taxes), the walls were closing in on the greatest soul voice to emerge from the 1960’s pop revolution.

Though his 1982 return to form had brought him great success, it also led to a return to Los Angeles from a self-imposed exile in Belgium. Marvin was defenseless against the entourage that swarmed his house and the drugs which, after a brief cutback, came back in full force. And there was the ongoing psychological struggle between son and father, with the insecure child desperately attempting to prove his worth to a disapproving dad.

At the time he was pronounced dead at 1:01 PM, Marvin’s had nearly completed his new album, one that he hoped would rival Midnight Love as a return to form. Though his sales had dropped pre-“Sexual Healing,” his quality stayed as high as the man himself. Marvin Gaye had produced a non-stop series of excellent LPs after churning out a catalog of hit 45’s during his first decade of recording in the Motown-dominated Detroit that came to be referred to as Hitsville, USA.

Marvin’s 1970’s work was without peer. What’s Going On is the greatest rhythm and blues social statement ever put to plastic. His studio follow-up, Let’s Get It On, is the sex album, nearly melting itself as it spins on the turntable. 1978’s Here My Dear, a painfully personal account of his divorce from Anna set the bar for breakup records. And, his rendition of the National Anthem at the 1983 NBA All-Star Game has gone done as the ultimate version of the hoary chestnut. Watching it live was one of the most exciting musical events I’ve ever witnessed.

Marvin Gaye blazed the trail at Motown as the house artists sought to mature, much to the chagrin of management. It wasn’t without a struggle. In fact, What’s Going On was delayed in its release because the label’s vaunted Quality Control committee felt it was destined to fail. Instead, it became the biggest seller in Motown history, paving the way for Little Stevie Wonder to become plain old Stevie Wonder and embark on his own slate of stellar, profound and relevant records of the 1970’s. No Marvin, no Stevie.

It’s become a cottage industry to bemoan the loss of John Lennon. That’s fine; I share in that sadness. But let’s not forget that, on April 1, 1984, a void was created that, 27 years later, is no closer to being filled. That loss should make us all wanna holler.

……………………………………………………

VIDEO: Eric and Mary Ross’s Kurzfassung

Composer Eric Ross, with video artist Mary Ross (USA), present a special concert performance at the Lueneberg Festival of New Music, Germany. Eric Ross performs on piano, guitar and synthesizer and is a master of the Theremin, one of the first electronic instruments. Eric’s compositions include elements of jazz, classic, serial, and avant garde. Mary Ross’s videos, projected in performance, are organized, arranged and edited to his music. In an hour-long performance, both artists presented their most recent work, the Boulevard d’Reconstructie, (Op. 54).

Visit: The Music of Eric Ross

Sundazed, Not Confused

Let me come clean: I’ve been obsessed with Sundazed Music since last summer. While working on a visit to the warehouse in Coxsackie, NY, and an audience with the great Bob Irwin, the creator of Sundazed and the ears behind the label, I’ve been biding my time listening to their records. So, as they said at the Latin Quarter, ego exspecto proinde ego recenso (I wait, therefore I review).

The Yardbirds’ Little Games and Canned Heat’s eponymous debut are two recent additions to the Sundazed catalog. Before I get into the merits of each title, a word on both, and all of Sundazed’s vinyl treasures. Each album is packaged precisely as originally issued. There are liner notes, if they existed at the time, none if they didn’t. That gives the new versions a very real taste of authenticity. Tribute must be paid to the 180 gram vinyl pressings. The heft of the disc is a tactile wonder, like holding a baby, there to be loved and cherished. Sundazed records are far removed from the flimsy 1970’s-1980’s shoddy vinyl that can be held at the edges and waved to make sounds, similar to playing a saw.

Little Games, the only Yardbirds studio album with Jimmy Page on lead guitar, is impossible to hear without the filter of Led Zeppelin two years off on the horizon. The 1967 repertoire has more than a few hints of the shape of things to come.

“White Summer,” a future Zeppelin concert staple, presages the Bert Jansch-infused British folk that Page would employ so well. The “Over the Hills and Far Away” intro can be traced here. “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor” will have those familiar with Zep thinking, “Now where have I heard that before.” Page’s guitar-bowing, perhaps the single most embarrassing, pretentious signature image in rock and roll history, makes its debut. It’s better to hear than see. “Glimpses,” the psychedelic centerpiece, also gives a peek at the early sound of Page’s future supergroup. The open, echoey feel of Zeppelin’s early work is present, though the tune on the whole is trippier than anything Page would do during his most famous period yet to come. Each song contains the dying of one band, the birth of another.

There’s some down and dirty blues, the type that, had the Yardbirds kept at it exclusively, would have kept Eric Clapton from quitting the group. “Drinking Muddy Water” is a blistering beauty, the equal to anything Butterfield or Mayall (or, OK, Cream) were putting out that year. “Smile on Me” is of similar merit.

Even the simple pop tunes, like “No Excess Baggage” and the opening title track, contain bursts of Pageian genius, feedback laced eruptions and wild bursts of virtuosity. Keith Relf’s vocals atop Jimmy Page’s playing make for a knockout combination. (I won’t get into my theories of Jeff Beck vs. Jimmy Page, or how The Jeff Beck Group outpaced Led Zeppelin due to the superiority of their lead singer. That’s for a different article.).

While producer Mickie Most’s work is, at times, a bit dense, Sundazed’s mono release brings to a sometimes muddy mix ear-pleasing clarity. Page’s acoustic numbers are crisp, the vibrations shimmering from the speakers.

Little Games is a mixed bag of styles, but important as Jimmy Page’s only full studio album with his pre-Led Zeppelin group. The seeds are sprouting for the plant that will grow and dominate the music scene for decades.

Far from London, emerging from the most unbluesy area of suburban Los Angeles, came Canned Heat, a group of blues writers, record collectors and music scholars, who, like Indiana Jones, knew how to turn dusty academia into a wild adventure through their burning dedication. Their first record is a solid set, resuscitated by our friends at Sundazed.

As good as Heat are, as authentic as their playing was, the delight of the band is in their dual lead vocalists, the gritty, deeply resonant Bob “The Bear” Hite, and the quirky, high-toned Alan “Blind Owl” Wilson. No vocalist produces smiles of pure pleasure as Wilson does. The mono mix rings as clear as a smog free LA day, the band’s passion pushing through and grabbing a late 1960’s record buyer by their swinging medallion, shouting “Hey, man, these are the real blues!’ And you better listen.

Henry “Sunflower” Vestine, fresh from his firing by Frank Zappa due to Henry’s penchant for  chemical intake, blazes through the album, wielding his six-string scalpel through precise blues phrasing. His work on “Catfish Blues” is so fiery that it’s a good thing stylus’ are diamond, for fear that any other substance would melt. Wilson, who John Lee Hooker called “the greatest harmonica player ever,” is omnipresent, but most dominating on “Goin’ Down Slow.”

Bob the Bear is featured on nearly every track, so when Wilson’s high hooting gets the spotlight on “Help Me” I can’t help but laugh. Nothing makes me happier than “Blind Owl” crooning in my ear.

Canned Heat, like Little Games, is a forgotten and undervalued record. At their release, both platters charted at nearly the same point. For Page, #80 would be the worst performing album he’d ever have. (Even The Firm’s first effort soared to #17). For Heat, topping out at #76 was good news for a band yet to hit its stride.

There’s a level of tragedy that hangs over both of these records. Keith Relf, dead at 33, electrocuted by an improperly grounded guitar. Bob “The Bear” Hite, dead at 38, collapsing after a heroin overdose. Alan “Blind Owl” Wilson, dead at 27, a barbiturate overdose, his body found near Hite’s Topanga Canyon home. Henry Vestine, dead at 53, cancer.

What makes Sundazed great is their appreciation for important pieces of music that have been lost over the years, and to those musicians who need to be heard. There’s a legacy far beyond sales, well past this temporal life. It lays in the music, in the grooves, and these lost treasures, sounding so alive, bring it back.

_______________________________________________

THE BASEMENT TAPES, from KKID in Rolla, Missouri

Be yourself on the radio

With Bootsy Hambone and Nick Thomas

of Diezelfitter.

_______________________________________________

Jeff Katz Photo

Doug & Telisha at the Otesaga Inn, Cooperstown

Sweethearts of the Rodeo:

Doug and Telisha Williams in Cooperstown

By Jeff Katz

February concerts in Cooperstown are usually jam-packed. It’s cold, there’s nothing else to do, and Cooperstown Concert Series (full disclosure, I’m co-chair of the non-profit CCS) always brings in little known, high quality musical acts. The downside is it’s February in Cooperstown! Severely slick roads and snow kept many away, but the sparse crowd that appeared was warmed as Doug and Telisha Williams melted the ice with sweet ol’ country music and red-hot Americana romps.

From the moment D & T’s album Ghost of the Knoxville Girl hit our desk, we were captivated by their twangy sound. Doug is a pretty mean picker and Telisha, well, Telisha’s voice is the second coming of Patsy Cline and Loretta Lynn (yes, I know Loretta is alive). It’s a haunting record, one that sticks with you for the long haul. It did well, spending 15 weeks on the Americana Top 40 and making the Top 100 albums of 2009 on the same chart.

The Williams’ cut a striking figure on stage; he, head to toe in black with the best sideburns since Chester Arthur; she in fishnet stockings, brown boots and lace dress. As they played on through the night, the flower print curtains and chandeliers of the Otesaga Hotel ballroom morphed into a honky tonk roadhouse. If you closed your eyes you could see the neon signs blinking “Lone Star Beer,” and feel the sticky floors under your boots.

Up north from their Martinsville, VA, base, D & T sang songs of the struggling working man, some wallowing in the depths of unemployment (“20.2,” titled for the jobless rate in their hometown is the kind of song that John Mellencamp only dreams of writing), others taking to armed robbery and the bottle.

Don’t get the idea that this was a somber affair. Telisha is a hoot, chatting about her penchant for cemeteries and locomotives, combining both interests in the rocking “Graveyard Train.” With Tom Berry’s Hammond B3 as accompaniment, Telisha launched into a “gospel drinking song,” noting that if an audience doesn’t chuckle at the reference, the band changes the set list.

Doug, a recent convert to the electric guitar, worked wonders on the Telecaster. His solo on “I Fall to Pieces.” was soft and beautiful, so delicate that the notes disappeared in the quietest moment. On acoustic, Doug was often a furious strumming machine. And that boy can sing too!

On the road, the Williams’ watch downloaded TV shows and they were thrilled to be at The Otesaga, setting for a classic Ghost Hunters episode. Hoping to rile up a few spirits, they peppered their set with murder ballads and ghost stories. “Loretta’s Ballad,” a sordid tale that starts like an old Dylan folk song, revved up into a manic jam that threatened to explode into chaos. “Ghost of The Knoxville Girl,” D & T’s answer song to the classic Louvin Brothers’ woman-killing tune, got some bones a-rattling up on the spooked fourth floor of the classic old hotel. (Charlie Louvin, who passed recently, was long an inspiration to D & T. They served as the opening act for the cantankerous, chain-smoking Charlie on several occasions).

Here’s a lesson in southern speak, courtesy Telisha Williams. “Can’t” is the contraction of “can” and “not.” “Cain’t” means something else entirely. It means you “could” but you “ain’t.” After watching Doug and Telisha Williams live, I’m convinced there’s nothing they can’t do.

……………………………………………………

VIDEO: Eric and Mary Ross’s Kurzfassung

Composer Eric Ross, with video artist Mary Ross (USA), present a special concert performance at the Lueneberg Festival of New Music, Germany. Eric Ross performs on piano, guitar and synthesizer and is a master of the Theremin, one of the first electronic instruments. Eric’s compositions include elements of jazz, classic, serial, and avant garde. Mary Ross’s videos, projected in performance, are organized, arranged and edited to his music. In an hour-long performance, both artists presented their most recent work, the Boulevard d’Reconstructie, (Op. 54).

Visit: The Music of Eric Ross

Spinning Into Oblivion

or, Music in the Age of Dinosaurs

By Jeff Katz

I’m not a shopper. For me, going to the mall will result in increased irritability, nausea and headaches. It’s like Legionnaire’s Disease.

But I do like buying music:  records, CDs, doesn’t matter. There are few things as wonderful as flipping through stacks of LPs, the touch of the cardboard edge pressing against my fingertips, the blast of recognition at a long forgotten but instantly recognizable photo. Each one is a precious work of art, from the covers to the inner sleeves, to the inserts (the occasional poster or lyric sheet) and, most importantly, the black grooves of pure heaven. CD browsing was never as tangibly fun, whether in the bulky cardboard outer shell of early discs, or in their present incarnation with simple shrink-wrapping.

Regardless of the form, music was an item high on the list of necessary or impulse purchases. Sure, record stores were, and still are, a major destination point for me, but there were so many times I happened to see a great bargain CD that I bought for the drive home. Instant gratification! That wasn’t even true for albums, which needed to be safely delivered to their new home for playing.

Yesterday, I found myself in a few shops as I waited for my car to undergo a 60,000 mile checkup. First stop, Barnes and Noble, where the reissue of Band on the Run was piped throughout the store. Having not yet decided on which of the myriad formats to choose from (the plethora of packages at varying price points is driving me crazy with the wealth of “new” editions of McCartney, Springsteen, Lennon, et. al.). With “Mamunia” ringing in my ears, I figured I’d check out what the new Macca classic looked like.

Strolling through the music and movie section, I felt a wave of confusion sweep over me. Shelves and shelves of DVDs. Where were the CDs? Were they gone? Couldn’t be.

Finally, I hit a single rack with a smattering of new releases at B & N’s usual exorbitant prices. (The Complete Bob Dylan Mono Recordings, which I just bought online for $79 was nicely priced at $129!). It was a smack in the face – music is disappearing right in front of our eyes.  But it is a bookstore, I told myself soothingly,  not a music store, so perhaps it makes sense. Then I headed over to Best Buy.

Last time I was in a Best Buy over Christmas in Illinois, they had a decent, though much smaller music section, than they used to. I could comprehend that. CD sales are shrinking and have been for years. I was pleasantly surprised to see a sampling of vinyl; a good sign, I thought.

Not so anymore. The CD section was shrunken to about the size of the Hello Kitty accessory area. I did get to see the new Darkness on the Edge of Town deluxe set, but little else. This was Best Buy! This was an entertainment epicenter! And the amount of space dedicated to popular music was all but gone. Grief-stricken, I left.

Can it be that we have so devalued music as a commercial entity that there will be no place to purchase a physical piece of it? Will music only be available via computer or on my phone, like credit reports and porn?  Napster committed the eternal crime, creating the very idea that music is a monetarily valueless commodity, there for the taking. Only suckers BUY music, right? It is a major tragedy that CDs are on their way out. Love them or hate them, the little silver discs were the last bulwark against the ephemeral, the final trace item of a once popular purchasable.

There are still vestiges, tiny oases in most bigger cities. They are your local independent record stores and you better run there while you can if you care about the future of recorded music. As the great philosopher, James Douglas Morrison, once said, “When the music’s over, turn out the lights.” If people don’t tune in to the fact that musicians have to make a little dough in order to make a living creating the tunes we love, then all that will be left are darkened shops. The little light from your iPhone won’t help one bit.

(Top: Photo from Geekologie)

Top 10 for 2010:

A Different Kind of  List

By Jeff Katz

They’re all around you. On TV, in magazines, on the radio and in your daily paper. You love them, you hate them. They are the end of the year lists. Whether you’re a movie, or a book, or a celebrity sex tape, you will be ranked. Does the #8 “Year’s Stupidest Criminal” wish he made it higher up the list? Hard to know.

Top songs and albums are, in my role as music editor, my bag, but I got to thinking. Is it so important what was the best this year? What makes 2010 releases so special? And while I spent my college years running the SUNY-Binghamton record store, Slipped Disc, and getting into heavy duty debates over who heard The Violent Femmes first, a serious jockeying for position on the “in the know” pecking order, I realize now that those to-dos mean squat.

Is the person who bought their first Beatles 45 in Liverpool in 1963 so much better than the one who bought theirs a year later at Korvettes in New York? Did the 1963 person in Liverpool love that record more than the Brooklynite in 1964? Pushing it further, did that same 1964 teenybopper derive any more pleasure than I did when I bought Something New, the last Beatle album I didn’t have, back in 1979? How about the kid who discovers the Beatles right now, in 2010, through last year’s life changing remasters? Joy is joy – doesn’t matter one whit if the first time your hear a song is the year it came out, or decades later.

So here’s my Top Ten list of 2010, a two-fisted list of old and new. What they share is that they all came to my attention these past 12 months.

10 – To Bonnie from Delaney (Delaney & Bonnie, 1970)

Delaney & Bonnie

I spent the end of 2009 working on a book proposal on Delaney & Bonnie. The Bramletts were massively influential at the turn of the decade 40 years ago. They propelled Eric Clapton to solo stardom, Delaney taught George Harrison slide guitar and Delaney & Bonnie’s band went AWOL to join Joe Cocker and, under the leadership of the recently resurgent Leon Russell, became the musical punch behind the Mad Dogs and Englishmen tour.

So, during my initial research I had a conversation with the Widow Bramlett. Not Bonnie. Delaney’s last wife Susan told me in no uncertain terms that, though I had the right to write about D & B, Delaney’s story was hers and, if so inclined, she would have no hesitation letting her lawyers off their leash. Honest as always, I told my prospective publisher, who was spooked and called off our plans. Not before I bought a ton of Delaney & Bonnie records.

To Bonnie showcases the raucous and ramshackle good time music of the band at its peak. Bonnie belts “The Love of My Man” with the occasional squeak and squeal that is both scary and sexy. Delaney’s voice is uber-soulful; he’s a sadly forgotten giant and that was going to be my point had I moved forward.

Plus, Little Richard plays on “Miss Ann.” What could be better than that?

9 – The Soft Pack (The Soft Pack, 2010)

Soft Pack

Ever since having The Soft Pack’s first album recommended to me, I’ve loved their sound. Simple, straight ahead grinding guitar, very catchy, as piercing as the bullets that literally shot through their debut LP cover, back when they still had the balls to call themselves The Muslims.

Brilliant stuff, instantly memorable, and even though seeing them live at The Mercury Lounge was a surprising bore, that doesn’t detract from this magnificent album.

8 – Volume Two (She & Him, 2010)

Celebrities have a habit of being awful outside their milieu. Don’t believe me? When was the last time you listened to a Don Johnson record?

Not so for Zooey Deschanel. Great actress, better singer, fabulous songwriter. The first She & Him effort was the top album of ’08, Zooey and M. Ward knocking their version of classic pop sounds out of the musical ballpark. Their follow-up was much anticipated.

At first, Volume Two didn’t grab me like their first effort, but it grew on me quickly. Now I find it equal to the rookie masterpiece. Top tunes: “Ridin’ in My Car” and “Brand New Shoes.”

http://ragazine.cc/2010/04/she-and-him-volume-two/

7 – H. P. Lovecraft – (H.P. Lovecraft, 1967)

In the spring, my Aunt from Santa Monica let me know she had a bunch of old records. Frequent readers know that’s my drug and, like the vinyl junkie I am, I told her to ship them all out. Two boxes of treasures followed, the collection of her former step-daughter who was a very very in-the-know teen in late 1960s Los Angeles.

In the pile were lost psychedelic riches, foremost among them H. P. Lovecraft’s debut albums. I’ll admit, though loathe to do so, that this band was new to me. Hadn’t even heard of them, but when I placed the platter on my turntable, I was instantly smitten. Not so much by the band’s paeans to horror author Lovecraft, but by their soaring double lead vocals. HPL employed the same twin-lead interplay made more famous by Jefferson Airplane. By no means were George Edwards and Dave Michaels second class in quality. Just in popularity.

6 – Kings Verses – (Kings Verses, 1966)

I’ve been obsessed with Sundazed Records, a brilliant reissue label located in Coxsackie, NY. Since June I’ve been trying to arrange a visit for a ragazine article.  No luck yet, but I refuse to give up.

While I wait, I buy. There, in the garage sale section of the Sundazed website, I found an album by Kings Verses.  Classic garage rock, from a long lost L.A. band that reached the heights of opening for The Doors, and, with a recording contract nearly in their grasp, found themselves blackballed after testifying against abuses by Los Angeles club owners. They were immediately forgotten. “Lights” is one of my favorite tracks of the year.

5 – Juliet Naked – (Nick Hornby, 2010)

OK, it’s a book, but it is about music and Nick Hornby is great. He is so finely attuned to what music lovers think about and care about that his prose borders on the lyrical. Impossible to keep off the list just because it’s written, not played.

Also, in light of my affection for Double Fantasy Stripped Down (http://ragazine.cc/2010/11/music/), I run the risk of emulating the antagonist. Read it to know what I mean.

4 – Come and Get It – (Eli “Paperboy” Reed & The True Loves, 2010)

Ever since I saw Eli open as a solo act for Nick Lowe, I’ve been a disciple of his old time soul religion. Come and Get It, his first big label release on Capitol, is a danceable hoot, sure to put a huge smile across your now-grooving face. From “Young Girl” to “Explosion,” Eli provides the most fun your ears can legally have.

http://ragazine.cc/2010/08/eli-paperboy-reed/

3 – The Original Mono Recordings – (Bob Dylan, 2010)

I shouldn’t have to explain why. Just get it. (OK, this once. The mono version of “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” on Freewheelin’ emerges from the speakers as warm and live as if young Bobby was singing into your ear).

2 – Doris Troy – (Doris Troy, 1970)

One of the most interesting projects of the year was the remastering of Apple Records classics. Some, like James Taylor’s eponymous debut, or Badfinger’s catalog, are still well known to much of the listening public. But Jackie Lomax? Mary Hopkin? Doris Troy? This is strictly collector territory.

For me, the Troy disc was the most anticipated. With a cast that includes Stephen Stills, Ringo Starr, Eric Clapton and George Harrison, the gospel/soul sound of Tory will shake you to the core. Take particular notice of the Buffalo Springfield original “Special Care,” which is a tad on the slow side in its band version on Last Time Around. Doris, with Stills’ help, makes it thunder. Harrison’s playing exudes the pure happiness that came with being away from the disintegrating Fab Four; he’s a marvel. Ringo, too, is eminently enjoyable.

Doris Tory would have been my #1 musical work of the year, if not for…

http://katzkomments.blogspot.com/2010/11/doris-troy.html

1 – The T.A.M.I. Show – (Various artists, 2010)

T.A.M.I. Show

It’s not often that great expectations are exceeded. For years I longed to see The T.A.M.I. Show, the legendary but elusive 1964 movie featuring a Who’s Who of contemporary pop stars. The Rolling Stones, James Brown, Marvin Gaye, The Beach Boys, Lesley Gore, on and on and on.

Finally, 2010 brought an official DVD release and, oh my Lord, it doesn’t disappoint. The frenetic energy of Smokey Robinson and The Miracles is still seared in my brain. JB, “The Godfather of Soul,” is barely constrained behind the screen. I’ve never seen a filmed performance that rivals it. And those poor Stones had to follow him! After a faltering start, they take over and are wonderful to behold at their bluesy brash best.

The T.A.M.I. Show is the top of the list for this year, hands down.

Happy New Year!

http://ragazine.cc/2010/04/music-grai/

The Post-Modern Deconstruction

of Double Fantasy …

(or, John Lennon Lives!)

By Jeff Katz
Music Editor

What to do about the new John Lennon remasters? Let’s be honest, Lennon’s solo work is a mixed bag. He may very well have the greatest individual work of any member of the erstwhile Fab Four (Plastic Ono Band). Imagine was a huge leap downward, though still excellent. (Here’s the sacrilege: “Imagine” is a puerile piece, perhaps the most overrated bit of pop utopianism ever recorded. Think how much Paul McCartney would have been skewered had he written the sophomoric sentiments of this bit of Lennon legend). There’s a sample of pleasant dreck (Mind Games and Walls and Bridges) and then a dollop of lifeless drivel (Sometime in New York City and Rock ’n’ Roll). After John was murdered, and sales of his catalog skyrocketed, a dorm resident from across the hall knocked on my door with fury.

“This album sucks!” he yelled at me accusatorily. I was, after all, the Beatle expert and therefore responsible.

“Just ‘cause he’s dead doesn’t make his albums great,” I responded.

I love John, have all his solo albums and enjoy them, but I have no interest in the remasters as a set of work.

When Double Fantasy was released in the fall of 1980, I was prepared for anything. What I got was an assortment of disappointment and surprise. The songs, split between John and Yoko, showed the latter to be the edgier and more rhythmically exciting member of the duo. “(Just Like) Starting Over,” the John track that began his first album in five years, was just awful, though I appreciated his tip of the cap to the heroes of his rock and roll youth. Many of Lennon’s tracks were mediocre, though he soared with “Watching the Wheels” and “Beautiful Boy.” Worst of all, the ultra-slick ’80s’ production left me cold. Where was the warmth and playfulness, the fervor of the John Lennon that I, and millions of others, waited half a decade to hear? The album was a solid seller that turned brisk after the horrible news less than a month after it hit the stores.

Turns out John was there all along, and the new “Stripped Down” remix of Double Fantasy, shows the Johnny Boy we always knew. The instrumentation is spare, the production value zero and the vocals boosted to the forefront. John’s songs come across as polished demos, complete with background murmurings and intro and outro commentary a la Let It Be. The Lennon humor is front and center and that voice, oh that voice, is a game changer.

I’m still not a fan of “Starting Over,” but its stark form, including a direct tribute to Lennon’s own four angels, takes a bad song and makes it better. Every song lays bare the soul of the man in a way the original version glossed over. “Watching the Wheels,” still my favorite and, since my own departure from “the big time” financial world at age 40 my self-appointed theme song, is heartbreakingly real. “Beautiful Boy” is less grand in its Spartan incarnation, but the punched up vocals more than make up for it. Over time I’ve grown to appreciate John’s songs on Double Fantasy more, but never more than in these renditions. Yoko’s vocals don’t come across any worse in the naked versions, though her climactic, well, uh, “climax,” to “Kiss Kiss Kiss” is submerged in the new mix. (We do live in more conservative times after all). Overall, the overproduction of the initial release added to the propulsion of her tracks and that’s lost here; “Give Me Something” is a towering exception. The final two tracks, “Every Man Has a Woman Who Loves Him” and “Hard Times Are Over,” are reworked as solid duets. The latter, a churchy pastiche, has Lennon at his most knee-slapping funny.

The passionate, meaningful voice that we think of when we think of John Lennon, not the softened edition prepackaged for a return to 1980 Top 40 radio, has been reclaimed on Double Fantasy Stripped Down. Hearing that voice now makes you realize how much was lost on December 8, 1980.

Shiny New Apples for Fall

By Jeff Katz
Music Editor

The history of Apple Records is inextricably linked to the demise of The Beatles. Not a businessman among them, The Fab Four started Apple Corps Ltd after the 1967 death of  long time manager Brian Epstein. The idea was that the groovy ‘60’s vibe of freedom could be translated into the board room. It couldn’t. Money troubles ensued and, with John, George and Ringo hiring Allen Klein as their manager, and Paul sticking to the Eastmans, his lawyerly in-laws, the Beatles went kaput.

Lost is the indisputable truth that Apple was a vibrant and innovative label, giving new artists a chance to show their wares. At a Lennon-McCartney press conference heralding the new enterprise, John sneeringly said Apple was created to make sure that artists “don’t have to go on their knees in somebody’s office” to, as Paul added, follow their dreams. Apple provided a different path.

With October 25 comes the release of newly remastered CDs from the remarkable roster of Apple artists: Billy Preston, Radha Krishna Temple, John Tavener, The Modern Jazz Quartet, Doris Troy, Jackie Lomax, Mary Hopkin, James Taylor and Badfinger. Beatles appear on many of these records; Stephen Stills, Peter Frampton, Eric Clapton and Keith Richards pop in as well.

I eagerly ripped open the press package. This was my first effort to obtain advance copies of new releases and I knew what I was getting: Badfinger’s No Dice, Straight Up and Ass, Mary Hopkin’s Postcard and MJQ’s Under the Jasmin Tree and Space. I admit I’d hoped for the Lomax and Troy discs, but I was thrilled to make EMI’s distribution list in any capacity. I don’t have much muscle to flex: I’m not Rolling Stone.

Ass is the final Apple release by a non-Beatle artist. With Badfinger ready to bolt their Beatle-y home for greener grazing at Warner Brothers, Ass was rush released by a ticked off Apple board, and has been often vilified as the weakest work in the power pop group’s canon. It is unjustly maligned. Pete Ham’s “Apple of My Eye,” the lead track that lays bare the bittersweet break between the band and their Beatle mentors is beautiful and sad, the aching harmonies unified, but distinct. The guitar interplay rings, showing the band’s strength at its aural best. “Get Away,” the following track (I detect a theme here), features the chewy horns that were a staple of many Beatle solo works. The slashing guitars of “Blind Owl” burst through the speakers. The final song, Ham’s grand, opulent “Timeless” ends the disc with an extended guitar coda crashing, like the band’s career, into a wash of feedback. The Ass remaster does what all great remasters do; it gives listeners the chance to reappraise a lost work. Kudos.

Can’t review any more Badfinger and here’s where it gets weird. My copy of No Dice has two songs on it, Straight Up is similarly incomplete. As to the translucent-skinned Ms. Hopkin, all I got was 4 versions of the international smash “Those Were the Days,” in Italian, Spanish, German and French. The Teutonic take was my favorite. I’d hoped to get a look at the packaging as well, but all my CDs came in a sterile white wrapper.

I certainly have no kick against modern jazz, to quote the famed musicologist Mr. Charles Berry, unless they try to play it too darn slow. The Modern Jazz Quartet’s antiseptic chamber music sound has never been a favorite of mine. What the Beatles saw in them is lost on me. It’s a strange pairing.

The twofer CD of Under the Jasmin Tree and Space sounds remarkable; Milt Jackson’s vibraphone shimmers. “Bags” has always been what makes MJQ work for me, when they do work for me. Connie Kay’s percussion showcases a pinging sound that, in its pristine remastery, had me constantly checking my iPhone for text messages. “The Jasmin Tree” closes album one with a nice prayer meeting groove, complete with hand claps, John Lewis boogie piano solo and Bags wailing away. Space is a terrible album, though still worth a listen in its new incarnation. That’s one of the issue with remasters: does the reviewer review the content, or the new presentation of old songs. I don’t know. Often Space veers to avant-garde, perhaps more suited to the Beatles experimental label Zapple. There are bits where Jackson moved me, but they were little bits. The one bonus track, a light, swinging take on McCartney’s “Yesterday” proved that maybe the match between The Modern Jazz Quartet and The Beatles was not so odd after all.

Is there an audience out there for magnificent sounding remasters of mostly forgotten artists? Surely James Taylor’s debut will pique some interest, as will MJQ’s hard to find Apple performances. But who out there is looking for Doris Troy and Jackie Lomax? Or early Billy Preston?

Hopefully many. Reclaiming the roster of the great Apple era is long overdue and a worthwhile endeavor. Look for them.

http://www.applerecords.com/

There’s Life in the Old Girl Yet:

Jon Weiss and The Resurgent Oneonta Theatre

By Jeff Katz
Music Editor

Jon Weiss sits with his back to the corner of Main and Chestnut Sts. in Oneonta, New York, an upstate college town on the western edge of the Catskill Mountains. Skinny, unshaven and gaunt, looking like a guy who’s spent a lot of time in clubs at night, Weiss is dressed in gray and black, his glasses spread open on his left knee. He’s working his phone, making things happen.

“I just want to make sure you’re happy with the contract,” he says to the other end of the phone as he sits at the newly made wrought iron table at the Common Ground Cafe. The marquee of the Oneonta Theatre, a half-block up Chestnut St., looms over Weiss’ shoulder.

In partnership with new owner Tom Cormier, Weiss is quickly making the Oneonta Theatre the cultural hub of Otsego County, bringing live music and movies to the freshly renovated venue. Down the hill sits the Foothills Performing Arts Center, a testament to state financial waste. Since its inception in 2000, Foothills has received millions in government funding and still struggles to find its way. On a relative shoestring, The Oneonta Theatre has beaten them to the punch, and Jon Weiss is at the center of the action.

Already, the old vaudeville and movie palace has presented two successful shows, Steve Earle and Jerry Jeff Walker. Walker, an Oneonta native, packed the 675 seat house and put on a beautiful solo concert, dropping names that had the crowd of ex-classmates, friends and teachers giggling.

“I was very happy with the first shows,” said Weiss. It was important to him that the shows came off without a hitch and were comfortable for the audience. “There’s nothing worse than a disgruntled ticket holder and, in these Internet days, bad p.r. can spread quickly.”

Weiss, a native of Queens, realizes the importance of connecting to Oneonta. It will take a while to gauge what works and what doesn’t, especially when the audience ranges from older natives to seasonal college students.

“I’m not from here,” admits Weiss.

Here’s how far from “here” Jon Weiss is. Back in the 1980’s Weiss was a key cog in the burgeoning garage rock scene that exploded in New York City. Garage rock, that mid-’60s’ sub-genre of fuzzy guitars, pumping organs and shaggy hair. It’s a world where The Sonics and The Standells are the two ruling bands; garage rockers have a fondness for the Beatles but that ends with Sgt. Pepper and the arting up of rock and roll. It’s The Fab Four of The Cavern Club that resonates with garage rockers.

As a high schooler in Queens, Weiss was a typical teen listening to FM radio and taking the train to see Led Zeppelin at Madison Square Garden. When punk hit, Weiss found his way to Max’s Kansas City and CBGB to soak in the sounds of The New York Dolls, The Heartbreakers and Blondie. Weiss liked what he heard, but dug in deeper to find the inspiration for the new sound.

Seeing The Fleshtones the first time blew Jon’s mind. No band combined the frenzied sounds and quick wit of Weiss’ fellow Queensmen. At The Mudd Club, the twang of Keith Streng’s Fender Mustang and front man Peter Zaremba’s wild singing and dancing won Weiss over.

“I’ll tell you how accessible it was back then. I knew a friend who knew the bassist of The Fleshtones. I asked them if I could join up if I learned to play tenor sax, and they said yes. I bought a tenor around 1978 or 1979 and was in the band months later.” Jon was good enough to be enshrined in the group’s virtual Hall of Fame.

After The Fleshtones came The Vipers and their classic Outta the Nest!, with Jon on vocals. Nest moved 20,000 copies, a monumental hit in the garage scene, but the band went the way of many, drugs and recriminations ending in destruction. Though illegal substances were not a big part of the overall garage rock scene, certain bands had certain problems. The Vipers, sadly, were one of them.

So how did Jon Weiss go from the orthodoxy and rigidity of garage rock, a purists’ delight where a non-Vox brand fuzz box would get you drummed out of the inner circle, to promoting a wide range of musical styles?

“I got into promoting to see bands I liked, or bands that no longer existed,” he explains. Starting in 1997, Weiss created Cavestomp!, an annual festival celebrating his garage rock heroes. Contemporary rockers like The Crawdaddies and The Tell-Tale Hearts were matched with the legends of the genre, like ? & The Mysterians, Barry & The Remains (who opened for The Beatles at Shea Stadium in 1966) and, the greatest triumph of all, the reunited Sonics.

Weiss is understandably proud of Cavestomp! “All original members, original instrumentation. The hardest part was convincing the older bands to play exactly as they did when they were teenagers.”

Thinking that extended jams and 20-minute bass solos would appeal to “the kids,” the bands of the ‘60’s were resistant to look completely backward. Asking a 45 year old to play like he did when he was 14,  though he has the chops to play a la Stevie Ray Vaughan, was daunting for the promoter, but when the groups found out what it entailed to garner a good payday, they understood. Major musical figures popped in: Lenny Kaye of The Patti Smith Group, included. Kaye created the 1972 double album compilation of classic psychedelic era tracks, Nuggets, the holy text of the garage rock religion. Little Steven, a passionate follower of the music, appeared in the audience for the 1999 shows.

Could Cavestomp! work in the middle of rural Otsego County? “I’m sure if I began to market a May 2011 Cavestomp! now, I could sell 1,000 weekend passes worldwide.” Garage rock fetishists are as devoted to their brand of sound as the most effete opera fan is to theirs.

But you can’t book a huge theater with what you like alone and Weiss knows it. His hope is to have a live show every week featuring acts of national renown. The challenge is getting the renovated hall on the map for agents and artists. Jon Weiss can make it happen.

For years, the front of the marquee at The Oneonta Theatre was missing a letter: “One nta.”  The second “o” is back up, and people, that is “o”utstanding good news.

WEBSITES:

The Oneonta Theatre — http://www.oneontatheatre.com/

The Vipers — http://www.myspace.com/thevipersoutta39thenest

The Fleshtones — http://www.fleshtones.org/

Extra ! Extra ! –

The Paperboy Delivers Today’s Grooves

By Jeff Katz

Soul with balls. Eli “Paperboy” Reed brings it with Come and Get It, his first big time release courtesy of Capitol Records. Reed, the most soulful sound ever to come out of a Boston high school band, is part Wilson Pickett part Otis Redding, sometimes a shouter, sometimes a crooner, and that ain’t bad. Not bad at all.

From the joyous opening horn riff of “Young Girl” (no, not the Gary Puckett and The Union Gap “Young Girl”) to the frenzied anarchy of “Explosion,” Eli and his super-tight band, The True Loves, knock out the competition with the most enjoyable album of the year. It’s a retro romp that brings back the sounds that made AM radio of the late ‘60’s and early ‘70’s a treat. Influences abound, but Eli Reed’s music is fresh and his biography unique.

How many musicians take this route to stardom: start at a New England high school as a lousy tenor saxman, head southwest to a Mississippi Delta blues joint, then follow Louis Armstrong’s journey upriver to a South Side Chicago church to play a little Sunday morning organ. But don’t stop there. Venture back East to Brooklyn hipster clubs and, finally, do a Horace Greely and “Go West Young Man” on a cross country sojourn to Hollywood and the home of The Beatles and The Beach Boys. Only one guy I can think of, and it’s not Rand McNally.

Eli learned a lot down in Clarksdale. Not only did he discover how an 18 year old could make it on his own in the hotbed of the blues, but how to deliver a tune. The Delta Bluesmen never play it coy with their ladies. Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Son House – they weren’t asking, they were telling. When the “Paperboy” (dubbed so by the veteran players who dug the old timey newsboy hat he sported) sings to the womenfolk, he lays it down for real – he is the man they want, he is the man they need. In “Name Calling,” which sounds like a lost Jackson 5 classic, Reed informs his latest conquest that she went “from name calling to calling my name.” He takes great relish in her comeuppance.

College was no place for the “Paperboy,” and though he gave the University of Chicago a chance, it was in the sounds of the city that he earned his degree, spinning southern soul for his college radio station between bites of greasy fried chicken. (Don’t smudge those LPs). A devotee of performers famous and unknown, Reed tracked down Mitty Collier, a former Chess Records artist who was now preaching the gospel. She brought him in to play and sing at her Sunday service. Finding the Mitty Colliers of the world has been a way of life for Eli. “I’ve definitely made it a point to seek some of these people out who’ve inspired me.” Towering groovemeisters like Mel & Tim (“Backfield in Motion”) and Tyrone Davis (“Turn Back the Hands of Time”) may have been long forgotten by a public that finds Lady Gaga sublime, but they’re never far from the mind of Eli Reed.

A return to Boston jump started his recording career. Sings Walkin’ and Talkin’ and Other Smash Hits! and Roll With You got the boy some notice in the press. Rolling Stone named Reed a “Breaking Artist,” and, in the UK, he was nominated for a 2009 MOJO Award as Breakthrough Artist of the Year. With that the old music industry took note, and, there you have it, a contract with Capitol Records. Now back to Come and Get It, Reed’s most polished effort yet. The additional horns and strings add to the authenticity of his sound.

The title track is the standout, with the greatest harmony heard since The Friends of Distinction (“I Can Dig It, He Can Dig It, She Can Dig It, We Can Dig It…”). “Come and Get It,” the song, was recently BBC Radio 2’s “Record of the Week.” In “Tell Me What I Wanna Hear,” Reed turns the impossible, taking the melody of Ray Stevens’ cornball classic “Everything is Beautiful” and making it swing. His gospel grooming comes through in the thumping hand clapper “You Can Run On.” There’s no praising the good Lord here. The religious grounds: Eli’s irresistibility to the helpless female.

Reed is a big fan of the ultimate musical expression, the 3 minute pop song. “For me,” says Reed, “it’s all about writing pop songs. Soul music was the greatest pop music of the 20th century and its influence is so far-reaching.” Write on, brother.

The penultimate track, “Pick Your Battles,” takes the album down several notches. It’s a breather, folks, for the insane horns of a Medieval celebration run amok. “Explosion” is a fuzzy treat, crazy man, just crazy. Part James Brown, part Eli Reed. Prepare for the countdown. BOOM!

The cover of Come and Get It shows a generic supermarket, its shelves crammed with packages labeled meat sauce, bleach, crackers… You get the idea. Smack in the middle is the always sharp Eli “Paperboy” Reed. His pompadour (absent in off-hours) rises high, his leather suit shines, his black boots gleam. When you visit your local store, pick up a copy of his latest. but don’t head to the “7 items or less” line. All 12 cust on Come and Get It are part of a well-balanced and musically nutritious diet.

http://www.elipaperboyreed.com

______________________________________________

Illustration by Nate Katz

One-Trick Pony Thirty Years Later

By Jeff Katz

Nineteen-eighty was a tough year for ‘60’s rock icons. January found Paul McCartney in a Tokyo jail, forced to sing “Yesterday” repeatedly by fellow inmates after being busted by customs officials for possession of marijuana. In May, Macca released a logic defying embrace of synth-pop on McCartney II, the cover bearing a striking similarity to a mug shot. Bob Dylan was in the middle of his “praised be Jesus” period, releasing one of the worst records in his catalog, Saved. The Rolling Stones were well into self-parody, and Emotional Rescue, their summer release, was a weak collection, the best songs a hollow mimicry of their sound, the worst unlistenable. No one had a worse year than John Lennon, gunned down in December by a lunatic.

The new decade saw a new face on the silver screen – Paul Simon. One-Trick Pony, both the movie and album, were the first missteps of Simon’s remarkably successful career. After a cute cameo in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall, and a hilarious donning of a turkey suit on Saturday Night Live, Simon spent three years writing the screenplay and the songs for his first and only starring role as one-hit has-been Jonah Levin (Levin’s “Soft Parachutes” is including in the CD release). Levin is the “there but for the grace of God” version of Simon. Simon in the lead role is difficult to watch, his range lying somewhere between sleepwalker and corpse. A smoldering sex symbol he is not.

The film has many redeeming scenes: Jonah shaving while his little son pretends, a two-man baseball game between father and child in Central Park, and Levin’s band playing a naming game called “Rock and Roll Deaths” in the van between gigs, arguing whether they should separate the plane crash victims from the overdosers. One-Trick Pony is worth tracking down. Not only do you get to see Paul Simon’s miraculously lush head of hair, most recently seen thinning and combed over on 1977’s Greatest Hits, Etc., but you can also marvel at Lou Reed as a scumbag record producer.

Critics hated the movie and audiences stayed away. It was a resounding flop. But, hey, acting was not Paul Simon’s forte, cut him some slack. Music, now that’s where he ruled. After all, there hadn’t been one solo album of Simon’s that wasn’t better, by far, than anything Simon & Garfunkel produced. That the vinyl version of One-Trick Pony was erratic was a shock to the ears when it hit record store racks on September 6, 1980.

Simon the actor showed no spark, no fire, but at least he was consistent. Simon the singer-songwriter was positively schizophrenic. The cuts are of two varieties: Jonah Levin performances and Paul Simon commenting on Jonah Levin. Maybe the Levin songs are Paul’s best bit of acting, because the tunes are flat and false, but, after all, Jonah is a mediocre performer. Could Paul Simon have intended to write half-assed songs for his onscreen doppelganger? Doubtful, though it’s worth considering. “Late in the Evening,” though propelled by a Latin horn section, is an empty experience, and when Jonah/Paul sings, “I went outside to smoke myself a ‘J’,” it is pandering of the highest order. The sly little guitar line by Eric Gale punctuates the quasi-hip reference that is sure to get the obligatory cheer from the crowd. Side 2 begins with a mirror image of the leadoff track. “Ace in the Hole” may be Paul Simon’s worst song, and that includes, “The Dangling Conversation,” which reeked of sophomoric pseudo-intellectualism. The title track lays somewhere in between these two in quality, equally as slick and devoid of real emotion.

The real songs, the songs that speak of relationships, personal angst and wistful nostalgia are top of the line Simon. “That’s Why God Made the Movies,” “Oh, Marion” and “Nobody” (especially “Nobody”) are stellar works of genius. There are more. It’s a difficult album, well worth your time three decades later as the touchstone of an artist in transition.

Even more interesting is what followed. One-Trick Pony was Simon’s first studio album as a solo performer that didn’t crack the Top Ten (though “Late in the Evening” did). It was disappointing news to Warner Brothers, who had signed the hit maker to a three-album deal worth between $10-15 million. For Simon, the one-two combination of movie failure and weak sales propelled him into a place he had resisted: a reunion with Art Garfunkel. Garfunkel’s acting and recording career were in the toilet and, he too, was up for a moneymaking uniting of forces.

The overwhelmingly popular Central Park concert, attended by half a million strong was followed by a national tour.  Paul was put back on his confident feet, so much so that he unilaterally erased Artie’s vocals from the planned-for new Simon & Garfunkel record. Now simply another solo effort, 1983’s Hearts and Bones made One-Trick Pony look like a smash hit. It sputtered out at #35 on the album charts.

It didn’t matter now. Paul had completely freed himself of trying to understand what the movie-going and music-listening audience wanted from him. So, if he wanted to record his lyrics atop the swinging mbaqanga sounds of South African musicians backing him, well, then that’s what he was going to do. Graceland, the product of his newly found liberation would become his biggest success, selling 14,000,000 copies and garnering the Grammy for Album of the Year in 1986. “Graceland” the song would win 1987’s Song of the Year Award.

­One-Trick Pony is the pivot point to the third phase of Paul Simon’s career, when he brought world music to the popular consciousness of American record buyers. For that, it should be remembered, revisited and celebrated on its 30^th anniversary.

A Howlin’ Wind Still Blows

By Jeff Katz

Back to Schooldays

I admit I wasn’t on board with Graham Parker, or any of the punk scene, until 1980. During the second half of the ‘70’s, I was still filling my collection with Beatles, Dylan, Who and Stones, catching up on a lot of records that were essential to a growing boy’s musical development. A few outriders may have appeared, a stray Elvis Costello album. Maybe. It really wasn’t until I got to college that I opened my ears.

I’m guessing that my first aural encounter with Parker was on WNEW, the New York classic rock station, and it’s almost certain that “Endless Night” was my entry point. What grabbed me, at first, were the straining harmonies of Mr. Bruce Springsteen. Well, if Parker was worth The Boss’ time, who was I to argue? I rushed out to buy The Up Escalator. Parker’s snarl, his nasty yet sensitive lyrics, hit me where I lived back then. It was who I was, at least in my own mind. The outwardly cynical, bitter me covering the inner, shakier me. I was hooked.

Quickly, or as quickly as money would allow, I caught up. Howlin’ Wind, Heat Treatment, Stick to Me, and Squeezing Out Sparks the amazing quartet of albums that preceded The Up Escalator are the solid foundation on which Parker’s entire canon rests. Remarkable records, really, with his backing band, the nonpareil Rumour. A new sound, fresh, fierce, yet like all classics, having a timeless quality as if they’ve been heard before. Powerful rock with more than a hint of ‘60’s soul coupled with Parker’s distinctively nasal voice. He immediately became a top tier, go to listen for me.

The early ‘80’s found Parker taking a more mellow turn. He dropped The Rumour, got married and settled down. Another Grey Area, The Real Macaw and Steady Nerves projected a content Parker, unfamiliar, but resoundingly real. This second chapter of his career was met with a shrug by the record buying public. They missed out; these three albums are wonderful. For the early 20s’ version of me, they hit sporadically, but as the decade went on, and I met the girl of my dreams and married her, Parker was, once again, providing an intimate soundtrack to my own life. Then, after The Mona Lisa’s Sister in 1988, I stopped buying Graham Parker records. Just like that. Why? I don’t know. He was an integral part of my decade.

And now, as Music Editor for ragazine, I found myself in the position of interviewing the great Graham Parker. I had a lot of catching up to do. I didn’t want to be one of those “loved your album from thirty years ago” guys. So I bought most of the CDs I’d missed, listened in a hurry, and got ready to call one of my musical heroes.

Between You and Me

“Graham, here.”

It was him! Curiously enough, he sounded just like Graham Parker. All I had to do was say “hi” and he was off. The man can talk, and talk, and talk. It was hard for me to get my questions in, and, you know what, I didn’t want to. It was fun listening to him, but, hey, I’m a professional (wait, that would mean I’m getting paid!) and I knew I had to cover some ground if I was going to get any kind of interview done.

A self-confessed “nature freak,” Parker has lived in America since 1988. Though most articles place him in Woodstock, which makes for a nice musical connection, he’s in the Catskills, closer to the much less romantic burghs of Kingston and New Paltz and a good 45 minutes from hippie heaven.

He hasn’t forsaken England, keeping a place in London that he rents out (it’s “quite a good earner”). But buying a house in merry old? Out of the question. “You can’t buy a house and land in England unless you’re a member of royalty…or Sting.” Now, that’s a Graham Parker answer – funny, biting, true. In his mountain hideaway, he looks out the window to the trees and ponds that surround him.

Though Parker has railed against American commercialism (listen to “Disney’s America” on 12 Haunted Episodes), he has nothing but affection for the place. America is “THE country, everything goes on here.” Not so in his homeland. Britain is too small minded, a cynical nation marked by a too cruel sense of humor; Americans are more generous. But Parker is under no illusion that his artistic temperament will permit him to settle down. He’s by no means locked in to his present home, his life too fluid for something like that. But, he gladly admits, America is in his blood.

While I tried to avoid the pitfalls of dwelling on his initial breakout records, Parker brought up his time as a “minor pop star” in England. 1976 was his year, the year that he created the angry snarling singer/commentator of the punk movement that Elvis Costello, Paul Weller of The Jam and Joe Strummer of The Clash followed. But when he split from The Rumour after disappointing sales for The Up Escalator, the UK press murdered him and his middle-period, 1980s’ works. I mentioned I loved those records and he was pleased. His only regret for those works was the ‘80s’ production sound, the loud snare drum that particularly marked Steady Nerve.

Parker recognizes that critics saw The Mona Lisa’s Sister as a rebirth, but he doesn’t view it that way. He’s never had a “slack period” in his estimation. It’s just that rock writers tend to be close-minded, stuck on early songs like “Fool’s Gold”. Isn’t that always the case, for reviewers and non-reviewers alike? The music you hear at a formative time in your life, most likely between the ages 15-18, coincides with an overall awakening to new things. It’s no surprise that for John Lennon, Chuck Berry was, and always would be, his favorite artist. You never get past what you hear at a certain age.

Parker covered Sam Cooke on more than one occasion in the late ‘80s (“Cupid” on The Mona Lisa’s Sister and “A Change is Gonna Come” on Live Alone in America). I’d been listening to Sam myself lately and asked him about American soul music. With this question, Parker was off and running on his musical past and influences.

Music happened for Graham Parker at 12 years old. It was The Beatles and The Stones; that was it. It all began when he heard “Love Me Do.” At 15, he turned mod, complete with skinhead haircut, dapper suit and red braces (suspenders). It would seem obvious that he would love The Who, but except for “Substitute,” he didn’t care much for them. It was a strict diet of soul music. By 1965, the music at the local discotechques was exclusively black or Jamaican ska. The clubs were packed with skinheads and their taste ruled. A few white artists made the cut. Len Barry’s “123” got played (much to my surprise). The Spencer Davis Group, The Box Tops’ “The Letter” and “Cry Like a Baby,” also got some spins. Alex Chilton’s recent death had Parker reflecting on his iron clad belief that Chilton was a “black guy” until very recently.

We returned to the subject of soul and Sam Cooke. I mentioned I had been looking at Sam for a future Maybe Baby story. Otis Redding was Parker’s man growing up. Remember when I mentioned the sensitive man beneath the cynic? Well, Redding’s Otis Blue used to make Parker cry, it moved him so. Like Chilton, there was a bit of racial confusion. Obviously Otis was black, but the cover of the album was of a gorgeous platinum blonde, her very appearance at odds with that conclusion.

By the late ‘60s, early ‘70s, Parker was, to my shock, a hippie, before returning his attention to American black music. Then back to soul. Dipping his feet in psychedelic waters led to his musical epiphany. Why not combine the heartfelt, emotional, even danceable gut sounds of soul music with the intricate, smart lyrical sophistication of Bob Dylan? And he pulled it off ! No one was better than Graham Parker when he hit his stride starting in 1976.

At Mercury Records, he encountered real trouble. They didn’t know what they had in their innovative young talent and, as expected in a short-sighted business, spent no money on marketing Parker.  If you’ve never heard “Mercury Poisoning” you should. It is Parker teeing off on his first label. His difficulty with Mercury led to what Parker refers to as “a bit of mythology that he had label problems.” It was only at Mercury. In fairness, he points out there was no audience for his music in America circa ’77. Even when he moved over to Arista, and “Squeezing Out Sparks” became a hit, he did three concert dates with Journey!

Parker isn’t complaining about his career path. From 1975 when Radio London played two of his demos, catching the ear of a record company executive, which lead to his first record deal and an escape from his job at a gas station, Parker has been “very lucky.” Each new contract resulted in more money, good money. He never was in danger of going broke. It was luxury, limos and Letterman, until the early 1990s. Looking back, he finds it quite unbelievable that he had all that.

Those days are long gone. Not that he minds. Since starting solo tours in 1989, he’s become his own tour manager, travelling from venue to venue, working with local sound men. He enjoys it much more, in full control of his situation. That’s how a musician makes a living these days. As to records, he makes them and presents them as is to his company. (These days that company is Bloodshot Records out of Chicago). That’s always been the way he’s done it. It’s his music – he gets final word.

His new album Imaginary Television is a concept album, a series of TV themes for shows that exist in the mind of Parker. After attempts to write real themes for real series, only to be rebuffed, GP took things into his own hands and wrote songs for programs populated by conjoined twins, Asians obsessed with snow and father and son car thieves. The songs are typical Parker, from poignant (“Broken Skin”) to reggae tinged (“See Things My Way”). He’s very pleased with the new disc, and for good reason.

Adhering to the strict 25 minute deadline I was given by PR at Bloodshot, I said my goodbyes. He remembered my name at the end, a big ego boost. Now, totally obsessed with Graham Parker, it would be a frustratingly long month until I’d head west to Homer, N.Y., to see his solo show.

Pourin’ It All Out

Center for the Arts in Homer, NY

It’s an almost two-hour drive from Cooperstown to Homer. In daylight it’s tedious (except for a surprising detour in Truxton, the birthplace of legendary Giants’ manager John McGraw. I excitedly pulled off the road for a picture of the monument to the great Muggsy, smack dab in the middle of town). At night it’s pitch black, scary and skunk-scented.

There’s something happening in Homer. What it was wasn’t exactly clear, but it turns out that Cortland State is a mile away, so there’s some college town spill over. The Center for the Arts of Homer is a beautiful red brick church. As co-chair of Cooperstown Concert Series, a great organization without a home base, I was immediately envious. The sign out front proclaimed the appearance of Parker, referred to as a “Rock N Roll ‘Legend.’” Why the quotes around “legend?” Did he not really qualify? Were they being sarcastic?

Inside the church, benign figures etched in stained glass looked down on the proceedings. No vengeful icons with crazy eyes staring with scorn at middle-aged music fans. Graham Parker in a church? An odd juxtaposition. While the altar bore no trace of past ritual, flying high above the stage was a painted white dove.

Parker strolled on stage, a rock and roll ninja in black pajama top and black jeans. Though close-cropped, Parker seemed the same as when I saw him last, in the fall of 1983 at Cornell. He was always an ordinary looking guy, his physical features never so striking that age changed his presentation.

He is clearly a man aware and content with who he is and where he is in his career. Introducing “Pollinate,” he cracked wise about his 50-something audience, driven to passion by this tune. “It’s not a pretty sight.” “Sock ‘N” Sandals” was a gentle poke at the attire of his demographic. Even when Parker played older numbers, he has no desire to look back, either in anger or nostalgia. He’s at ease with his past, comfortable in his present and hopeful for his future.

When we spoke, Graham made a point to mention that he’s a funny guy. The night was filled with humor. He riffed on the severe British voice on his GPS, who threatened a severe spanking when he missed a turn. He assumed Homer was named for the Greek poet, not the cartoon character. A hysterical bit, almost a skit, revolved around “Bring Me a Heart Again.” Parker wished he’d been a guitar hero, a Clapton or Jeff Beck, and struck the proper poses: slow motion guitar thrashing, mouth wide open, tongue lolling. Alas, he realized he’s stuck with passable lead guitar skills, BUT, he was willing to take a solo if the crowd would agree beforehand, to go crazy when he was done. They obliged.

“Hotel Chambermaid,” a Heat Treatment classic, was its own chapter of the show. Turned out, it was covered by Rod Stewart on one of his poorest selling albums, When We Were the New Boys. Graham was determined to get a swimming pool out of the deal, but since it was just his luck that he’d be covered on one of Rod the Mod’s weakest records, the pool ended up very tiny, though incredibly deep. “Only a young guy could write this,” he noted about the sex-soaked song, “unless you’re The Stones writing about mating with teenagers.”  That wasn’t the only nod to his early heroes. During the encore, Parker conducted his own celebration of the recent re-release of Exile on Main St. with a killer take on “Shake Your Hips.”

It was a brilliant show, 22 slices carved from a marvelous body of work, in a venue acoustically deep and rich. But Homer, take off those quotes!

Nothin’s Gonna Pull Us Apart

How did I allow 20 years to go by without buying a new Graham Parker album, after all he meant to me? It’s both strange and hard to believe that I could drop him just like that. Well, I’m catching up. As the man says himself, “You better stick to me.” And that’s what I’ll do now.

Jeff Katz & Graham Parker

Websites:

Graham Parker http://www.grahamparker.net/Home.html

Maybe Baby blog http://maybebabyoryouknowthatitwouldbeuntrue.blogspot.com/

Homer Center for the Arts http://www.center4art.org/