Music

Long time gone

2011-02-21T20:57:00.001-06:00

This stays up for archival purposes, but I am in reality long time gone from here.

Find me here.

Be Here Now

2007-12-28T20:33:00.000-06:00

I suppose it is appropriate that I should chose to return to this long-abandoned blog while pickled on eggnog and listening to the one Oasis album that you need to be drunk to enjoy, the bloated and excessive 'Be Here Now'.

Looking back on what I wrote all those years ago (yes, it is years), most of it still makes sense and my opinions haven't really changed, so I feel pleased about that.

Blogger has changed so much, though, that it is almost like starting over!

Remastered

2006-06-16T20:04:00.000-05:00

The energy that record companies devote to ensuring their consumers buy the same music over and over again never fails to astonish me. I suppose it all began in the 1970s when independent companies such as Mobile Fidelity began offering 'half-speed remasters' of popular best-selling rock albums, particularly those that attracted audiophiles in the first place.

Then along came the CD with its supposedly miraculously large dynamic range and scratch-free reproduction. Again, those same best-sellers were pushed onto that format, complete with a price premium to match those 'half-speed remasters', and what did we find? A very variable result, with some recordings well-mastered even from the earliest days (I have excellent CD versions of Wire's Pink Flag, and Sonny Rollins' Saxophone Colossus dating from those early days), but many sounding somewhat lifeless compared to LPs. a few sounding downright bad.

So began the CD remaster. Some in the 1980s, a lot more in the 1990s and 2000s. In some cases, they really do sound a lot better than their precursors. In others, marginally so. Some sound merely as if they have been remixed to boost the bass, some sound genuinely opened up with more detail coming through. But it is all a matter of degree. And, in a movement of sweet irony, much of this music is recompressed, reduced in sonic quality and recycled as mp3, WMA or iTunes. Portability easily trumps fidelity in most people's estimation.

Now we are moving into DVD audio and SACD, allowing 5:1 and more remixes for home theaters and supposedly even greater fidelity. In strict signal terms, yes, the greater bandwidth of these new formats allows for even greater fidelity to the original source. But for most of us, it doesn't matter at all.

For me the best thing about CDs was the removal of all those scratches and hisses. I was never such as audiophile that I really cared that much about the sonic imperfections of the earlier CDs. Certainly I can hear the improvements in the remasters. Sure they are nice, but they don't really alter whatever artistic value I get from the music. Two speakers, mostly just headphones, are all I am ever going to want for music reproduction so the multichannel enhancements are essentially meaningless. In truth, I'm not even sure the jump from mono to stereo was really that significant. I prefer to spend my cash on seeking out some fresh and new music rather than buying yet another copy of Dark Side Of The Moon.

What's The Story?

2006-06-13T18:16:00.000-05:00

Walking to the sound of my favorite tune
Tomorrow never knows what it doesn't know too soon

I was cycling through Forest Park this morning on my way work, my mind wandering as it usually does at that time. This time I was thinking about music, and specifically the Oasis of 'What's the story (Morning Glory)?". Part of this relates to my weekend experience of reminding myself how far and how low this band fell after the release of "Morning Glory".

But there was more at work here than that. It's about one full year since I finished my college course on the music of The Beatles, and I was thinking of that band as well. Oasis and The Beatles are tightly connected - the lyric quoted above directly refers to The Beatles' song "Tomorrow Never Knows", and this is just one of myriad Oasis borrowings and references.

Oasis manage to transcend this obvious fixation by never actually sounding like The Beatles. The guitar roar and Liam Gallagher's whine place the band far closer to, say, the Sex Pistols sonically. For their first two albums, the band certainly squeezed out enough inspiration from this clash (no pun intended) to produce some truly catchy and unforgettable rock. But then it all fell apart, and the interesting thing about this is how slight the musical change was.

Post-"Morning Glory", Oasis is not that different in sound and style from pre-, but what once sounded fresh and exciting becomes dull, uninspired and sometimes even turgid. It's difficult to analyse exactly why. Certainly, songs became over-extended or relied one time too many on familiar sounding riffs and melodies. But something intangible was lost - best described as inspiration in both composition and performance - once the original band fragmented, even as the sound remained largely the same. Playing "Morning Glory" and "Be Here Now" back to back is perhaps the most effective demonstration I can think of recordings that rise to art and fall to over-confident mediocrity.

The Beatles, although not as consistently great as their reputation suggests, nonetheless never experienced such a tipping point. During the lifetime of that band, a lifetime well exceeded by Oasis, The Beatles produced about twice as much music and remained vital to the end.

I think this is a clue as why I have been so let-down by Oasis. The sound of this band is just about as close to the perfect sound that I have ever heard; their early songs as close to perfection as I could hope for. But this amounts to about two albums worth plus a collection of worthy singles. They should have broken up there and then and kept my fond memories and impressions intact.

The Beatles managed to do just that - break up before their decline (and the solo work demonstrates just how far they could have fallen).

I guess it really is all about timing.

Raw Power

2006-03-12T21:23:00.000-06:00

Considering all the vitriol and censure that has been inspired by rock music from its very beginnings when Elvis asked if it was alright, mama, there are really very few rock records that can be considered truly toxic.

Elvis has been so assimilated that it takes a spin of his Sun Records recordings to remind you of how intensely powerfully he could rock, as well as reminding you as well as anything how a burning, brilliant star can be dulled and quenched by commerce.

But throughout the history of the form, a few rock artists have ducked expectations and produced music that is simply out of time and place. One such recording is Iggy & The Stooges Raw Power.

I bought this record when it first came out, all the way back in 1974. I'm glad I did, because that record has essentially ceased to exist. There is a CD, but this is a remixed version. A very worthwhile version, to be sure, and definitely worth having, but it is not the same.

The remix, by Iggy Pop himself, is entirely understandable. The original sound of the record is incredibly monochromatic. Guitars and vocals are merged into each other. The rhythm section churns underneath like a quicksand. It could have been recorded directly from a cheap transistor radio.

Nonetheless, this compressed sludge of a sound is perhaps the greatest hard rock/heavy metal you are ever going to hear.

The Stooges are (rightfully) touted as the first true punk band, in the 1970s meaning of the term, and everything you hear in punk music from that date onward has its roots in that sound. All the masterpieces made by The Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Buzzcocks or The Ramones are unthinkable without The Stooges, and Raw Power is surpassed by no one.

Whichever recording you hear, you are going to be pinned against the wall by the first cut, Search and Destroy, and you won't slide down to the floor until the final, the most appropriately named Death Trip.

Not a long time to hang suspended for sure, about 30 minutes, but you might not be quite be the same ever again.

Raw Power was made by a band in the throes of dissolution, with nothing to lose and nothing to spend. The extraordinary dense mix is attributed to the use of an ultra-cheap, practically lo-fi, recording studio. David Bowie attempted to apply to 1970s-style clarity to the original recording and failed spectacularly. Iggy Pop simply cranked all the meters into the red for the remix and let the sludge bleed through unadorned.

Raw Power is in no sense a pretty record, despite a peerless heavy metal ballad in Gimme Danger, and it is best listened to when you are in a really foul mood. For however bad you might feel, you are not going to match Pop for sheer piss. When a song such as Your Pretty Face Is Going To Hell is one of the lighter tunes, you know you are in deep. Deep as a song such as the highly ambivalent Penetration will take you.

It's a great ride.

City of Ruins

2006-03-11T21:48:00.000-06:00

I recently picked up a copy of Bruce Springsteen's album The Rising in a clearance sale. Getting it this way I removed myself from accompanying publicity on its release about 3 years ago that mostly focused on the World Trade Tower attack theme running through the record. In addition, time has cast a more nuanced view of that event, a tragedy that spawned more reckless tragedies. Things are not quite so black and white now.

The record is a good one. I have never been a great lover of the Springsteen sound, but he sings well here and the E-Street Band plays well. The production is guitar heavy, which I like, but the drums are mixed too loud and too trebly. If I have any problem with the record, it is that it tries too hard to be a heartfelt epic. The lyrics are mostly generalities and are pretty obvious ones at that. That need not necessarily be a problem, but 15 songs in much the same vein is too much. Musically, too, it relies often on r&b and gospel derived forms that have regrettably also become somewhat clichéd.

I think Springsteen made this record too soon. Perhaps he felt he had to at the time, and there is no lack of sincerity in his approach. Memorials made soon after any event are notoriously difficult to pull off, because what seems earnest at one time can become overly sentimental and even mawkish later on (witness Elton John's almost unlistenable today Candle In The Wind for Princess Diana). I don't think anything on The Rising will suffer that fate, but should Springsteen return to the subject today, I think he would make a better record.

Fog Tropes

2006-03-02T17:51:00.000-06:00

I have always found the sound of fog horns uniquely compelling. Perhaps the song of whales comes close, but the unwavering and slowly unfolding music of the fog horn will hold me entranced for hours on any coastline where I should chance to hear the sound.

So when I first came across Ingram Marshall's Fog Tropes on a compilation of various pieces put together by John Adams , I was intrigued. One listen, and I fell in love .

I subsequently acquired an equally entrancing early version of the work, also conducted by John Adams on Ingram's own New Albion CD ( NA002CD) featuring the work along with Gradual Requiem and Gambuh I.

Ingram is an assured master of the ambient soundscape. His work often resembles that of Brian Eno with whom he shares a strong structural underpinning for even their most ethereal works. But, unlike Eno, Marshall is more apt to make use of conventional 'classical' instrumentation, albeit in a heavily electronically treated form.

A brass sextet plays an important role in Fog Tropes, providing melodic and coloristic counterpoint to the wailing of the also electronically treated fog horns. He also introduces voice, again in a strictly coloristic mode, to give a human touch to the electronic fog. It does so admirably.

In some ways Fog Tropes resembles the famous Ives' Unanswered Question. There is a low register, relatively unvarying, foghorn-derived bass over which brass and voice pass repeated musical phrases. But it is more multitextured than the Ives' piece and consequently has a different feel. If Ingram was trying to paint a sound portrait of a fog bank he succeeds admirably, but the work has a resonance that goes way beyond those pictorial associations.

I often compare it to the Eno work, Ambient 4: On Land, and it shares many qualities with the pieces on that album. But unlike the Eno works, there is a sense of progression, climax and resolution that separates it from the more static ambient pieces. Fog Tropes tells a story as well as representing a state of nature, and that gives it one extra level of meaning.

A wonderful work.

Brian Eno

2006-02-26T10:39:00.000-06:00

Ambient Music has been around for along time now. We all know the type - often played in art museums (and especially art museum shops), it's a low volume, usually highly consonant and low dynamic range form of background music.

Most of it is drivel. Drivel because it lacks any originality, strength of form or focus. Music such as this deserves to remain in the background and never come forward. The vast number of interchangeably bad ambient albums, usually with pictures of nature on the cover and psuedo-spiritual titles, almost beggars imagination. But then again, what is different here from the vast number of horrendously bad pop albums? In short, nothing.

But although the style has been ill-served by the majority of its practitioners, at its best ambient music is as fine as any music. It is striking how many serious composers in the latter part of the 20th century have embraced elements of the style, perhaps none more successfully than the American composer Ingram Marshall whose 'Fog Tropes' I regard as one of the masterpieces of the genre.

But Marshall can wait for consideration at another time. I wanted to use this article to highlight the contribution of Brian Eno to the form.

Eno is undoubtedly the grand master and main mover of all that is good in ambient music. In a way he was well placed to do this, emerging out of both the experimental (the Portsmouth Sinfonia) and rock (Roxy Music) musical environments on the early 1970s. Comfortably embracing cultural divides, Eno brought a new sensibility to music making that led to a series of masterpieces in the late 1970s.

According to the accounts of the time, Eno conceived of the concept of a low volume, essentially environmental, music as a result of being confined to bed following an illness and being unable (literally) to reach the volume control of the stereo in his room. Forced to listen to what I believe was a classical work at sub-optimal volume, Eno realised that the music, which of course blended into the environmental sounds of his room, had taken on a new character and feel. It had become ambient.

Eno's primary instrumental skill is with the synthesizer and tape recorder, both instruments that are ideally suited for the generation of sounds that resemble and integrate the low level environmental noise that we constantly hear, and rearrange it into music. This is precisely what he did.

Begininng first with a looped and essentially minimalist sampling treatment of a classical work on the album 'Discrete Music', he moved onto his first true masterpiece of ambient music, "Music For Airports'.

"Music For Airports" is such an important record that anyone who loves music should have it in their collection. A series of four meditative pieces based on piano, voice and synthesizer, this is perhaps one of the most beautiful sets of music put on tape. It is best played at low (i.e. ambient volume) but the four sections are constructed so artfully that it can be played and analysed at normal volume with equal satisfaction. This is music that washes the soul clean.

Eno followed "Music For Airports" with a series of equally delightful ambient recordings, either on his own or in collaboration, most notably with Harold Budd on "The Plateaux Of Mirror" and "The Pearl". My personal favorite remains "Ambient 4: On Land", a series of short soundscapes based around impressions derived from real and evocative places. Some of these, such as "Lizard Point", I have actually visited, and it is quite extraordinary how well Eno's music matches the emotional aura of that beautiful rocky seashore.

Perhaps it is familarity with these works that has reduced my patience for the less-inspired workaday efforts of the host of other practitioners of the form. I think, too, that without the knowledge of Eno's work I would have been inclined to dismiss ambient music altogether as just another example of wishy-washy New Age thinking. And that would be unfair. For the best ambient music is simply amongst the best music.

Desire As

2006-02-06T17:45:00.000-06:00

Certain popular music stands both in and both out of its time. To acquire the latter quality, it needs to appeal to a wide range of emotions, and sustain the appeal even when whatever stylistic facets it shows fall out of general fashion.

Most of the music that has endured has these qualities, that are most clearly defined in folk music. Popular music, of course, draws its roots from folk music but is quite clearly distinct. Much of it is made for purely commercial reasons, and most of it is clearly derivative of itself or other less well-known musical streams, be they folk, jazz, gospel, country (which in itself is an adaptation of the folk idiom, blues, and the composed popular song (Minstrel into Tin Pan Alley & Broadway).

Today, the dominant popular forms are rock 'n' roll derived, so much so that rock influence has seeped right back into those contributing forms. Listen to jazz or country these days, and the rock influence is clear.

This is no bad thing - popular music thrives on cross-fertilization and withers on the vine in isolation.

All of which serves as a pertinent preamble to a consideration of Prefab Sprouts' Steve McQueen album (inexplicably called Two Wheels Good in the U.S.).

This is a pop/rock album, owing something to early 1980s aesthetic - it's produced by Thomas Dolby and is awash in his synthesized orchestration - but ultimately it is more out of than in that time period. It is also drenched, however, with sounds and song structures drawn from American vernacular music spanning the whole 20th century (and to some extent even earlier, Stephen Foster comes to mind here).

I hear the words of Georgie Gershswin sings songwriter Paddy McAloon in Hallelujah and Gershwin's shadow is long over this record. As, indeed, is the craftsmanship and melodic sensibility of all the pre- and between-wars song composers - Kern, Rodgers, Carmichael, Berlin etc.

Not that this record aspires to sound quite like its influences. On the surface, it's not that different from a contemporary pop album by, for example, Elton John. But dig a little lower, and a much stronger set of songs than typically found on John's records becomes apparent. Lyrically, McAloon shares the same wit and acumen that you would find in the best Elvis Costello or Squeeze songs - to name but two contemporary artists with early Prefab Sprout.

Melodically, those great songwriters of the past are clear models, even as any direct influence is disguised by the pop-rock arrangements. Although the song Faron Young uses country music instruments, they are mixed to provide a strangely displaced and ironic sound over what is essentially a mid-to-fast tempo pop song.

Perhaps the most curious aspect of this record is although it practically should scream Beatles - particularly Paul McCartney's approach - it seems to bypass that band. Or should I say, it runs parallel. It seems to feed off the same sources that nurtured The Beatles, and it is quite conceivable that Lennon-McCartney might have written these songs. But they did not, and somehow the record resolutely seems to have sidestepped their influence.

Which, of course, is most unlikely - but it is a measure of the individuality of this record that it has such an independent feel.

Steve McQueen really is record that stands in and out of its time, and is a true classic of thoughtful, melodic popular song.

Chris Whitley

2006-02-05T21:43:00.000-06:00

The singer, guitarist and songwriter Chris Whitley died last year, taking from us one of the more creative and interesting artists of the late 20th century. Ironically, I have not personally given his career justice as the only album I possess of his is Living WithThe Law, his breakthrough record from 1991.

This is a mistake.

Whitley joins a number of artists who operated largely below my radar in the latter 1990s and 2000s that I really need to become better acquainted with. For the simple truth is that the turn of the century has produced just as much good music as any prior time, but I have not turned onto it.

This is going to change.

The two music courses I took last year have acted as catalysts for this, primarily because I explored in depth areas both known and unknown to me, and have unearthed reams of fabulous - and largely unknown - music in the process. Most importantly, I was reminded that great music is made all the time and all it takes to find it is a curious mind.

Listening again to Living With The Law, as I am doing tonight, is strongly affirming of this sentiment. Not least because of Whitley's deep and symbiotic understanding of American vernacular music, particularly roots blues and folk on this record.

Reading about his later albums, I realise he is an artist of far wider range than even the expansive Law reveals, and I need to explore this music.

In Utero

2006-02-04T09:38:00.000-06:00

Nirvana marked a permanent shift in my appreciation of rock music, one that brought both losses and rewards. Not that it was any particular fault of the band, which is one I feel a natural affinity for both in sound and feel.

No, what happened with Nirvana was that this was the first band, fitting my own musical sensibilities, that I did not have a finger on from the earliest days of its existence. In fact, the entire Seattle scene was not even a blip on my radar until it broke nationally.

Considering I had been deeply immersed in the 1980s indie scene (taking in records and concerts by acts from Big Black, Game Theory, Thin White Rope, Husker Du,The Pixies, The True Believers, The Primitives - which turned into Uncle Tupelo - and true obscurities like Viv Akauldren and For Against), this blindsiding seems weird.

Part of this is undoubtedly due to the fact that I had largely stopped reading the music press, finding the blend of uncritical fan-worship and relentless chopping of genres into lots of little meaningless pieces boring and unrewarding.

Perhaps, too, was a feeling of saturation. The 1980s indie scene was extraordinarily rich and most listeners today probably have only a glimmer of what was going on then. When I heard Nirvana - this amazing new breakout band - I heard only more of what I had heard earlier, even allowing for Nirvana's unique blend of pop smarts and raw power.

But I think what put the nail in the coffin for me was Pearl Jam. Pearl Jam's first album was so 1970s (and think 1970s' mainstream rock rather than punk) that I was really put off. Pearl Jam improved, and although they are hardly my favorite band, I still think they are decent. But along came the flood of unremarkable Pearl-Jam wanna-bes, and rock became less than interesting.

Meanwhile, after the runaway success of Nevermind, Nirvana socked its listeners with In Utero. Prepared as was by my love of Big Black and early Pixies, the stark production by Steve Albini appealed to me. While the songs show little structural progression from Nevermind, the bleak framing of the sound in conjuction with Cobain's increasing instability, gives this record a power that quite transcends the more radio-friendly Nevermind.

In Utero is where I connected with Nirvana, and yet within months Cobain was dead and the mostly uninteresting commercial alternative movement was in full flood.

Perhaps Cobain's death affected me more deeply than I acknowledged. It was in some ways also the death of the glorious 1980s scene, and, as my life changed, I did not reconnect with anything later in quite the same way.

Which is not to say 'rock is dead'. In fact, I currently feel that old familiar surge of excitment.

We're at the beginning of a new age. Let's hope it lives up to Cobain's vision.

Evan Parker

2006-02-03T21:34:00.000-06:00

After playing The Longest Night again, I pulled out Evan Parker's solo soprano saxophone album, accurately labeled Saxophone Solos. This record, and it's an an L.P. as I have not yet acquired (or come across although I know one exists) a CD version, was picked up about a year after The Longest Night L.P.s but preceeds them chronologically.

There are four cuts on this record, named Aerobatics 1 to 4, and they are well named. For the sound of Parker's saxophone is as I described below, only without John Stevens to expand the aural scenery with his percussion, all you are left with is the gyrating saxophone.

Much of the music consists of long held tones, but they are far from static. Wobbles and overtones are introduced and without even realizing it you find yourself listening to a far more varied sound than you can imagine possible. Interspersed with these long sections of relatively stately development are passages of high speed multi-note flourishes, again pushing the sonic boundaries directly into the vocal range that is characteristic of much free jazz from Ornette Coleman onward.

In many ways the music reminds me of compositions for electronic tape, specifically atonal (either serial or aleatory) ones, as you might find Stockhausen or Cage constructing. But the vocal quality that come with Evan's playing gives his improvisations a warmer, more human, quality.

Evan Parker has made dozens of records and I have only four, this one, the two Parker-Stevens collaborations, and a duo concert with guitarist Derek Bailey. His music is not easy to find, especially in America, and I have not yet become such a dedicated fan as to make the necessary effort.

Somehow, I feel I should though.

The Longest Night

2006-02-03T18:44:00.000-06:00

The Longest Night is the title of a two volume set of LPs released on the Ogun label in 1976. The artists are Evan Parker and John Stevens on soprano saxophone and percussion respectively.

I found both these LPs in a import cut-out bin at Streetside Records in Columbia, Missouri in 1981. I knew nothing of the artists, but bought them simply to try them out. I also kind of liked the cover art, a skyscape.

The music contained was amongst the strangest I had yet heard. Parker plays squiggles on his sax, sounding frequently like a squeaky machine, and avoids the long line and melody like the plague. Stevens hyperactively works a very reduced percussion set to fill in the spaces. He does not hold a beat, or convey a clear pulse.

Most people I knew who heard this music at the time reacted extremely negatively to it. It was noise, and what's more noise akin to chalk scraping over the blackboard.

I can certainly understand that view. It does sound like scraping and seemingly makes no sense on first listen. But I found myself coming back to it again and again, and once you get past the tone and the noise elements (not by ignoring them, but by assimilating them), this is actually very satisfying jazz music. Listen closely, and there is a rhythm and there is a sense of melodic progression.

In other words, it is not random noise. Every squeal is placed there for a reason, and the improvisational interplay between the two musicians is jaw-dropping. The music is extremely vocal - it talks to you, in a way far closer to actual language than most music. Once you get drawn into that conversation - which, of course, is primarily the interplay between the musicians, it's hard to let go.

The pieces start and stop without any seeming sense of conventional opening or closing. In feel, this music is far closer to ritual music, for example that of Native-American cultures, and gives you little if expect the conventional rewards of Western music.

But it is not true ritual music, and requires a combination of approaches in listening to get to grasps with it. This takes a lot of work, but I always emerge from hearing these improvisations spiritually refreshed. An appreciation of avant-garde techniques in 20th century music helps a lot, but there is not an academic aura about The Longest Night. It simply is.

The Beta Band

2006-01-31T18:55:00.000-06:00

All I am going to write is based solely on what I have from the Heroes To Zeroes album, and I don't know any of their other music (other than the snippet played in the Hi Fidelity movie).

This is a situation I plan to rectify a.s.a.p. Rarely have I felt so compelled to collect a band's opus as I do with this band.

Simply put, The Beta Band, are the greatest neo-sixties-to-seventies acid/psychedelic rock band I have heard.

In fact, they have so deeply imbibed the zeitgeist of that era that they would come across as a highly original and essential band even at the absolute heyday of The Beatles/Pink Floyd/Pretty Things/Beach Boys/Traffic/Family/Soft Machine/Gong psychedelic explosion.

But little touches of everything that has come between also infuse this music, so that it is not merely a throwback. Particularly evident is the music of the greatest neo-psychedelic rock band of the 1970s/80s, Siouxsie & The Banshees. Also evident is the greatest neo-psychedelic pop band of the 1980s, XTC.

If all the record relied upon was the production values of those eras it would not amount to much. But every song here is a melodic and harmonic gem, capable of standing besides the very best of their influences and frequently surpassing them.

Most sadly, The Beta Band are no more. But they demonstrate unequivocally that the experimental rock music of the 1960s/1970s need not remain fossilized, the lode can be mined afresh by every succeeding generation.

In this way, The Beta Band resemble Stereolab, although their sounds and artistic vision are quite different.

No greater counter-argument to the perennial "rock is dead" lament that aging rock fans trot out when confronted with a scene that seems to have left them behind exists than this. For the truth is that no one is left behind unless they choose to be, and every amazing offshoot of rock 'n' roll continues to thrive.

Cured?

2006-01-30T15:38:00.000-06:00

For some reason, I dragged out a number of old Cure albums today and gave them a spin. The Cure is an extraordinarily inconsistent band in my opinion with the exception of their early (pre-The Top) work most of which I find compelling.

Later CDs never grabbed me though. The sole exception in Disintegration, and upon playing it again today I felt that it, too, had lost its magic. But as the record played on, I found my resistance to it slipping. Somewhere in the middle of Prayers For Rain I capitulated completely, and found myself wondering inwardly at what a great record this is.

Just why is difficult to pin down. Does it just wear you down with its unrelenting gloom until you simply have to sucumb? Perhaps there is something to this, but I think there is more. Robert Smith has never sung better than he does on this record, and his thin, whiny voice overcomes its limitations by using them to maximum expressive effect. At first, he seems merely theatrical but as song follows song, the theatre receeds and a starker, more personal, feel makes itself apparent.

Considering this is a band that has made the sparse, stark confessional its modus operandi from the very beginning, the fact that Smith is able to pull this off with such success on this particular record suggests that he was unusually in tune with some deeper, darker emotion.

What is true is that Disintegration stands out qualitatively far above the immediate preceeding and following Cure albums, and to date they have not matched it again. It is the only late - i.e. arena rock - manifestation of the band that makes much artistic sense to me, even as they were simultaneously achieving worldwide commercial success.

It's hard to imagine they will ever top it.

William Billings

2006-01-29T20:30:00.000-06:00

The following essay was another part of my recent course on American Music. and was written in response to the following question:

Q. Read William Billings’ prefaces to his Continental Harmony – both “To the several Teachers of MUSIC…” and “A commentary on the preceding rules…”. Comment on what these treatises seem to say about Billings himself: his sense of humor, his ability as a teacher, and his views on music, especially vocal music.

Billings may be better known today than he was even just a few years ago, but he still needs advocating. His music is simply wonderful

The Boston composer William Billings (1756-1800) represented one pinnacle of the uniquely American musical flowering in the latter 18^th century. Unique, because although the music was European in background, it was very different from the music of Europe of that time. By the time of Billings’ birth, J.S. Bach was dead and Handel had but three years to live and the Baroque style that had been perfected by those two masters was evolving, not least through the medium of Bach’s son, Carl Philip Emmanuel, into the Classical style that would peak during Billings’ lifetime in the works of Haydn, Mozart and early Beethoven.

None of this music played any significant part in Billings’ development. Instead, Billings reached back, through the writings of earlier composers and psalter compilers such Willaim Tans’ur and John Playford, to older styles dating back to the Renaissance. But the music of Tans’ur and his followers never aspired to the level, of, for example, a Thomas Tallis or John Shepherd. It was strictly practical writing for small groups of people with limited resources, lacking in many cases any accompanying instrument such as an organ. This was music for the parish church and concentrated on settings of the Psalms. A ‘do-it-yourself ‘element was a necessity – practitioners were frequently self-taught, given the difficulties of gaining a musical education in an isolated rural region of England. The American colonies could be considered in some respects as further flung regions of England; it is thus unsurprising that music making of this type, particularly with the strong religious sentiment of its practitioners, would flourish in the New World.[1]

Billings published four volumes of psalm settings, fuging tunes and anthems during his life, beginning with The New England Psalm Singer, published in 1770. This was followed by The Singing Master’s Assistant, (1778), the Psalm Singers Amusement (1781) and the Suffolk Harmony (1786). The early volumes sold well, the latter less so. By the time The Continental Harmony was published in 1792, Billings was in financial difficulties and his last work failed to restore his fortunes.[2] He may well have been aware that The Continental Harmony was likely to be his swansong given his age, changing public tastes and his financial problems, and writes within from the point of view of someone summing up his discoveries and attitudes to music and music performance. Now let’s consider the work itself.

Approaching the writings of William Billings from the point of view of a sophisticated listener but a rudimentary at best scholar of the language of music, I find myself drawn immediately into the role of student to Billing’s master. This is helpful in gaining an understanding of Billing’s persona as I am already casting myself in my mind back into a New England home, sitting alertly in a wooden chair, listening to the words of the Master as he imparts his knowledge.

And alert I would have to be, for Billings packs a lot of information into his long sentences. Nonetheless, his approach is methodical and well ordered. He begins with The Continental Harmony with a series of lessons directed to ‘the several TEACHERS OF MUSIC, in this and adjacent states[3]”. Note the reference to teachers. Billings is laying out the syllabus and principles here that he believes should be taught, and is giving the local choirmaster a comprehensive set of guidelines by which to do so.

The first lesson, “The Gamut[4]”, consists of tabulated listing of the notes of a scales for Tenor or Treble, Counter and Bass complete with their soundings as fa-mi-sol-la. Immediately, it is apparent that Billings is approaching the pupil as singer, which is as it should be for a book of song, but indicates that Billings is tailoring his musical teaching with practice in mind, as opposed to more abstract theorizing. Billings points out the whole and half note relationships, taking time out even at this early juncture to point out a common mistake of singers singing a B mi note as C fa. In doing so, he shows an empathy with the trials of many a choirmaster as well as the fruits of his own experience.

Swiftly he moves onto “Lesson II On Transposition”, where in two long sentences that need several readings to grasp, he lays out the travels of mi away from B as the key changes and the relationship of fa, sol, la etc. to mi after such changes. Again, practical advice for singers.

Lesson III on “Cliffs” (the 18^th century spelling of clefs), introduces us to the written stave and the familiar bass clef, the identical treble and tenor clefs – the G clef – and the unusual counter clef that gives the middle line of the stave the identity of C. In a note Billings tells us how far, in intervals, a note set by one particular clef differs from that same note defined by a different clef and ends by defining the octave as any sound plus a seventh[5].

Lesson IV, “On Characters[6]” defines all the notes by duration, from semibreve down, through minum, crotchet, quaver, semiquaver and demisemiquaver. He points out the changes in note duration from systems in the past where the semibreve was the shortest note rather the longest. He introduces the equivalent rests, and the additive terminology that adds one third to length of any note– the dot – known at the time as the Prick of Perfection but which Billings prefers to name the Point of Addition.

Billings then introduces us to the modifying elements that affect the notes he has just defined – the Flat, the Sharp, a Repeat character, the Slur – ‘a form like a bow, drawn over or under the heads of two, three or more notes, when they are to be sung to but one syllable[7]” (an explanation that personally explains slurs more effectively than any I have come across). He gives us the bar divide, the Direct to show the placement of the first note of the next staff, the Natural, and the Mark of Distinction, a quotation-mark like character set over a note to indicate it should be ‘distinct and emphatic’ - a character that ‘when properly applied and rightly performed, is very majestic[8]”. It’s worth noting here the value of the long abandoned habit of capitalizing the opening letter of a significant word that Billings, along with all contemporary writers of his age, uses in large measure. It is a wonderful aid to understanding.

Lesson VI covers the pacing of music from slow to fast. Billings begins with the adagio, and details a very precise way for the conductor – the choirmaster – to beat out this pace – or mood as Billings calls it. Each crotchet should be beat using the method “first strike the ends of the fingers, secondly the heel of the hand, and thirdly, raise your hand a little and shut, and fourthly, raise your hand still higher and throw it open at the same time[9]”. What a wonderfully expressive motion this is, surely the method that Billings himself used. Billings very precisely sets the true time of each crotchet as one second, defined by the periodicity of a pendulum thirty nine and two tenths inches long. Should you not have such a pendulum, Billings even tells you how to make one “of common thread well-waxed, and instead of a bullet (as weight) take a piece of heavy wood turned perfectly round, about the bigness of pullet’s egg, and rub them over, either with chalk, paint or white wash, so that they may be seen clearly by candlelight.[10]” Billings was clearly a practical man capable of some invention, as would befit a man who made his living primarily as tanner. Also the one of first, if not the first, in a long line of American inventor-composers! He also has strong grasp of the physics of pendulum periodicity, being able to calculate precisely the length needed for a desired timing.

Largo mood, “in proportion to the adagio as 5 is to 4”, follows with Billings providing pendulum lengths for beating in crotchets or minums. Next is allegro, beat as adagio except with minums replacing crotchets. Two from Four or 2/4 time follows, with each crotchet as half a second – a more manageable pendulum of nine inches and eight tenths![11]

Billings then switches from these common time moods to consider two moods, 6/4 and 6/8, with 6 crotchets and 6 quavers to the bar respectively, judging these “neither common nor triple time, but compounded of both, and, in my opinion, they are very beautiful movements.”

Following come three triple time moods. These are 3/2 time – each bar containing three minums, two beat down and one up. Again we are given precise hand movements “let your hand fall, and observe first to strike the ends of your fingers, then secondly the heel of your hand, and thirdly raise your hand up, which finishes the bar[12]”. Then Three to Four (3/4), similar to 3/2 except crotchets are now used instead of mimums. Logically, Billings finishes with 3/8 – ‘an indifferent mood, and almost out of use in vocal music” where the beat is defined by the quaver.

Billings takes time in lengthy footnote to explain exactly the relationship of the numbers used in these time signatures, the named notes, and their place in the bar. In the same footnote, he gives performance instructions for the singer to negotiate figures placed over the bar, such as a 3 above three tied notes, a situation where you must sound the three notes in same the time it would normally take to sound two of the same kind - directions easier to grasp “by practice than precept, provided you have an able teacher[13]”.

Now we move onto more complex concepts. Lesson VII covers “syncope, syncopation or driving notes”, that “have not been sufficiently explained by any writers I have met with[14]”. Using no more than the musical materials that he has already given us, Billings demonstrates, in his first example, in the Allegro mood (i.e. two minums to the bar or 2/2 time), the equivalence of a minum between two crotchets in a bar to two tied crotchets between two untied. This is syncope.

His second example, again Allegro, with a bar containing a crotchet followed by a dotted minum. Here one beat consists of the crotchet, plus half the minum that is carried back, and the second beat is the last half of the minum plus the point of addition.

His third example, illustrating syncopation, shows the effect of ties that cross bar lines. Here Billings is not clear, and the first two examples[15] that he shows as being the same do not seem to be so, although a third example he gives us is equivalent to the second. Sowing confusion in a subject ‘that has not been fairly explained by any of our modern authors[16]’ does little to separate Billings from his contemporaries, but is perhaps explained by typographical errors – again his “Example 5^th”[17] shows inconsistency as Billing reiterates his ideas of syncope and syncopation using different time signatures.

Finally, Billings concludes his series of lessons with the statement that there “are but two primitive keys in music, viz. A, the flat key, and C, the sharp key” and “these two keys should be well understood; they must be strictly enquired into by all musical practitioners; for without a good understanding of their different natures, no person can be a judge of music.” Furthermore, Billings insists that words be set to flat keyed tunes to portray the sad, and to sharp keys for the happy. Clearly Billings has a strong attachment to a relatively simple set of compositional rules, all of which were being greatly expanded by European developments during latter half of the 18^th century.

Having relatively tersely laid out the basic rules of music, Billings then chooses to develop his themes at much greater length by the strategy of a question and answer dialogue between a doubtless idealized student and Mr. Billings, the music master. This dialogue is carefully constructed to follow the plan of his lessons. Initially, we learn that “The Gamut” is Greek in origin but owes its current form to a monk, Guido Aretinus, “whose name deserves to be recorded in the annals of fame” and who was probably ‘inspired with this invention, by Him, who is the Author of harmony itself[18]”. Billings here underscores his belief in the great religious value of music, a sentiment out of sympathy with the strict beliefs of the Puritans. To make his music acceptable to as large a part of the New World, Billings would need to underscore its divine origins as much as he could.

In such vein, Billings continues with speculation about the music of the original Royal Psalmist, King David himself, ultimately suggesting that The Gamut is none other than “King David’s Scale”.[19] Shrewd speculation, that regardless of its accuracy, stamps Billing’s method with Biblical approval.

In great and turgid detail, Billings then attempts to explain all the transpositions of B first mentioned in Lesson II, a passage to which the ‘student’ responds, “I doubt not but I shall reap the benefit of it”, and after parsing it repeatedly he may well do so.

Billings informs us that he know of only three clefs, the F, G and C, the former two being shackled to the stave, the latter moveable as stated in Aaron Williams in The Universal Psalmodist, 1764, one of Billing’s own reference sources.

Now we diverge from the lesson plan, no doubt to accommodate a practical concern of Billings, to consider choral performance practice. After defining the difference between a medius – a man singing the upper part of a four part musical piece two octaves above the bass – and a treble, a woman singing the same part three octaves above the bass, we then enter a consideration of the worth of each. For Billings, they are best set together for “such a conjunction of masculine and feminine voices is beyond expression, sweet and ravishing, and is esteemed by all good judges to be vastly preferable to any instrument whatever, framed by human invention.[20]”

This is most significant statement. It tells us exactly why Billings chose to be a composer of choral music and not instrumental, and it is clear, as Billings expounds further on the design of choral music, that the interplay of the sung voice is the one element of music that truly inspires the composer.

After this illuminating diversion, we return to plan as Billings informs of the bar filling properties of the semibreve rest, before once again considering the performance practice of the hold, not mentioned in the lessons. Billings has scant regard for this device, where a note is sung for longer than the time value of the note, as it disrupts the time structure of the piece and should not even be present in a properly constructed bar. In doing so, he declares his independence from the written principles of two earlier psalmodists, John Arnold and William Tans’ur.

Billings continues in this vein, considering the role of the double bar in psalms – a point to take a breath according to some – but for Billing a point to merely catch breath while keeping a good sense of time. Billings then reminds us that in psalms double bars are placed at the ends of lines, indicating to the congregation where to stop so they can keep some sense of place using the old practice of lining out, or retailing, as Billings calls it. This gives Billings a chance to rail at the practice of lining out, “which is so destructive to harmony[21]”, and aligns himself with the advocate of musical literacy, Dr. Watts.

We then learn of the old long notes values, the Large, the Long and the Breve, that have supplanted by the shorter values beneath the semibreve, and Billings again, in the manner of his earlier explanation of the transitions of B- mi, expounds on the difference between Common and triple time, doing his best to set to rest the misperception that common time is slow music, and triple time fast, ending with the characteristic assertion “You may depend on the infallibility of this rule in any mood whatsoever”.[22]

He again asserts that 6/4 and 6/8 time are composed of elements of Common and triple time, emphasizing that 6/8 “largely partakes of the beauties of both”[23], before turning has attention again to performing practice, precisely defining the speeding up or slowing down of a musical line that is marked for such as one quarter of the current speed. Billings approves of grace notes but not for note values under half a beat, as “it makes the sound like notes tied together, in threes, which is very false and entirely spoils the air (Billing’s italics)”. Again, Billings demonstrates he has a very clear concept of just how he wants his music to sound.

Back again to the consideration of key, which is best, flat or sharp? Here, Billings expounds on his “flat = sad, sharp = glad” concepts, with a lengthy consideration of the setting of psalms. He quotes the uplifting Psalm 95, “let us make a joyful noise” contrasting it with lamentations such as Psalm 42, “O my God, my soul is cast down with me”, assigning the sharp key to the former and the flat key to the latter. With great enthusiasm he relates how those latter flat key settings “affect us both with pleasure and pain, but the pleasure is so great it makes even the pain to be pleasant…(Billing’s italic)”, but then counters with the exaltation and “ecstasy of joy” that tunes in the sharp key produce[24]. He resolves that neither claim any superiority, and relates a charming story of the susceptibility of Alexander the Great to music, leaping up to slay his enemies upon hearing the sharp key, yet being soothed to weeping by the flat – all in the course of a brief performance. Nonetheless, he ends by declaring that should a vote be taken of all music lovers, the flat key would easily win. On further query by his pupil, he reveals that although men may regard each key equally well, women, nine-tenths no less, would prefer the flat.

Which leads again to another lengthy and dense paragraph on the mechanics of music, seeking to explain the transpositions of keys, a concept more effectively diagrammed than described, but he slips in a disarming poetic verse (previously published in The New England Psalm Singer) to explain the migrations:

By flats the mi is driven round

Till forc’d on B to stand its ground

By sharps the mi’s led through the keys

Till brought home to its native place

His ‘student’ interjects with the not-unreasonable statement as to “the necessity of transposing B-mi from one place to another, for if the tune must always end on A or C, I do not see any great difference between a tune that is set in its native place and one that is transposed”[25]. Billings responds by stating that such transpositions serve to keep the music on the stave, but, more importantly, let the music give “a variety of airs”[26] – a way of saying that every melody has a key that suits its temperament better than any other, and also implying that ending every tune on a C or an A is an easily broken rule.

By now it is clear that Billings is doing no less than codifying all the principles upon which he based his own compositional method. Clearly he feels it important to share this knowledge, suggesting a strong belief in both the originality and substance of his thought.

He continues to parry practices stated by other composers. A well-pitched tune is one where the performers can clearly produce the highest and lowest note, but Billings allows for exceptional singers who can carry a tune “perhaps five or six notes too high, or too low”[27] yet “oftentimes the greatest masters of composition set some of their pieces too or too low” (and there is a strong sense here that Billings is including himself in this class) as the ‘student’ will soon comprehend once he begins composing.

Billings then goes on to state the importance of the third note above the key note, plus the sixth and seventh as important guide notes for composition, rejecting fourths, fifths and the octave. He offers some conjecture as to the singers practice of hitting sharpening the B-mi, being drawn so by the key note. Clearly based on his own observations, he comments on the difficulty that even well-trained singers have harmonizing upon first meeting and performance, assigning the clash to differences in the singers transitions from one note to another. A good choirmaster, by laying emphasis on the first and third beats of a bar in common time, or the first beat in triple time, can effectively knit his singers together[28].

This advice, with its emphasis on accenting, elicits an extraordinary footnote from Billings who, answering a ‘critic’ who notes the lack of such attention on accenting in the earlier The New England Psalm Singer , proceeds to confess that he began composing without understanding “either tune, time or concord (Billings’ italics)”. After this confession, he vacillates between humility and hubris with the latter triumphing. Billings must have been sensitive to his own lack of formal musical training and, inevitably, his growth as a composer would encompass works that he now regards less well. Nonetheless this pugnacious apology is overdone and unnecessary – a strong pointer to an undercurrent of insecurity in the man.

Moving on, we read Billings’ opinion of the interval of a fourth, decidedly casting it as a dischord (contrasting with the opinion of Thomas Walter as stated in The Grounds and Rules of Musick Explained).[29] He then considers the use of dischords in general, confessing that he has formulated no rules to handle them, going so far to acknowledge that “when fancy gets upon the wing, she seems to despise all form, and scorns to be confined or limited by any formal prescriptions whatsoever”[30]. It becomes clear that Billings compositional method begins with such freedom, and involves the attempt to organize and harmonize the latter parts of the work to this, this being “the grand difficulty in composition”.

A similar consideration of concords reveals Billings fondness for thirds, sixths and tenths – “the octave to a greater third[31]” – which he considers to be the greatest concord found in nature.

Returning to performance, Billings states his preference for singers with a musical ear rather than voice, “for any one that has not a musical ear is no better judge of musical sounds than a blind man is of colours[32]”. He conjectures on the global origin of the best singers, allowing that singers from the tropics, “the blacks brought here from Africa”, are better singers than native Americans. No mention is made that those same blacks would be slaves.

Billings defines an Anthem for us, making clear that he considers that the form of this “divine song” to be of his own creation[33].

Finally, Billings returns to his theme of the innate Godliness of music by quoting (through the “scholar”) the Italian proverb, “God loves not him who loves not music”. Claiming that there is no such thing as one who does not love music, Billing’s qualifies his opinion by extending his definition of music well beyond the sound of the choir into abstractness – “the usurer in the sound of interest upon interest (Billings’ italics)”. For Billings, music is “nothing more than agreeable sounds” and “that sound which is most pleasing is most musical.[34]” Only the deaf are excluded (although surely a deaf usurer would rejoice as well as any other in the music of his accumulating interest). Billings’ statements here, although they do not hold up to logical analysis, tell us much about the regard in which he holds music; a regard that is on the highest level and is effectively equivalent to any meaningful and spiritual human endeavor.

He concludes with words of advice to his ‘student’, neither be overconfident or unduly insecure, seek the truth, always be open to new knowledge, but ultimately to be most concerned with the essence of music, an essence irrevocably bound up in faith and allowing entry into “that land of Harmony, where we may in tuneful Hosannahs and eternal Hallelujahs, Shout the REDEEMER (Billings’ italics and capitals)”.[35]

Never one to let an interesting point go said without extra comment, Billings adds in a footnote that “ignorance and conceit are inseparable companions[36]” and expounds with another tale lambasting churchmen who fail to understand the use of appropriate meter for whichever psalm their service requires. A final footnote ends on a more spiritual plane by quoting Milton from Paradise Lost – a short section describing a unison performance of a sacred text “such concord is in heaven”.[37]

The Continental Harmony reveals Billings to be, if not an intellect of the first ranking, a thoughtful, inquisitive and confident individual, not to overbearing extent of excising self-doubt, but clearly an attractive advocate of his music. Indeed, a man of strong opinion as to the worth of music in general, and the competent understanding and practice of such. A strong streak of individualism runs through his works, casting him clearly in the forefront of a long line of ruggedly independent American composers who choose to work with the materials available to them, or invent new ones, rather than simply accept prevailing European cultural concepts. Like all in such a position, he is forced to become teacher to ensure the promulgation of his ideas, but this is a role he clearly relishes and his enthusiasm is very appealing.

[1] Kroeger, Carl Introduction to Billings, William The New England Psalm Singer American Musical Society - University of Virginia Press 1981 pp. xviii-xx

[2] Kroeger, Carl Introduction to Billings, William The Continental Harmony American Musical Society - University of Virginia Press 1990 pp. xiii-xxii

[3] Billings, William, The Continental Harmony, American Musical Society - University of Virginia Press 1990 p. 3

[4] ibid, p. 3

[5] ibid, p. 5

[6] ibid, p. 7

[7] ibid, p. 8

[8] ibid, p. 9

[9] Billings, William, The Continental Harmony, American Musical Society - University of Virginia Press 1990 p. 9

[10] ibid, p. 10 footnote.

[11] ibid, p. 10

[12] ibid, p. 11

[13] ibid, p. 11

[14] Billings, William, The Continental Harmony, American Musical Society - University of Virginia Press 1990 p.13

[15] ibid, p. 14

[16] ibid, p. 15

[17] ibid, p. 15

[18] ibid, p. 16

[19] ibid, p. 17

[20] Billings, William, The Continental Harmony, American Musical Society - University of Virginia Press 1990 p.18

[21] ibid p. 21

[22] ibid p. 23

[23] Billings, William, The Continental Harmony, American Musical Society - University of Virginia Press 1990 p. 23

[24] ibid, p. 26

[25] ibid, p. 27

[26] ibid, p. 27

[27] Billings, William, The Continental Harmony, American Musical Society - University of Virginia Press 1990 p.28

[28] ibid, p. 30

[29] ibid, p. 31 see footnote 44

[30] ibid, p. 32

[31] ibid, p. 33

[32] Billings, William, The Continental Harmony, American Musical Society - University of Virginia Press 1990 p.33

[33] ibid, p. 34

[34] ibid, p. 34

[35] ibid, p. 35

[36] ibid, p. 35

[37] ibid p. 35 Footnote 55 – refers to Paradise Lost, Book 3, II 369-72

Let There Be Love

2006-01-29T19:44:00.000-06:00

It's strange to consider that Oasis have now been around longer than their heroes The Beatles, albeit with revamped line-up and Ringo's son now on drums. But the essence of the band, Liam's voice and Noel's songwrting remains intact.

Nonetheless, listening to the latest Oasis album Don't Believe The Truth is a rather weird experience. The sound is in someways a throwback for them - if you can say a sound that was a throwback to begin with is a throwback! Nonetheless, it sounds like a classic Oasis album and that means their first two records.

I haven't yet decided if this record is in the same class, but one song, Let There Be Love, is most definitely up there with their finest.

It reeks of Beatles influences (Lord knows how much trouble they went to get a piano sound exactly like that of Lennon's Isolation), '60s production values and instrumentation (prominent mellotron), but, as is the case with all of Oasis's best material, completely transcends them to stand out as a moving and beautiful ballad, gorgeously sung by both brothers, and with the melodic weight of the most enduring folk music.

Oasis were always a group out of time, a sixties-obsessed band thriving in the nineties because they cherry-picked enough of the music in between to give themselves a uniquely powerful sound. But really none of this matters very much. Their strength is their songs and their singing, with Liam as surely one of the finest rock vocalists of all time.

A great Oasis song is simply that - great.

The Unexpected Influence

2006-01-29T18:11:00.000-06:00

Every now and then, I hear something in a piece of music that I know I have heard before - be it a melody or chord progression.

This is a rather bald statement. The truth is that it is very hard to hear any music that does not contain elements heard before. So what separates the new from the merely derivative?

Not an easy question to answer, and I'm not sure I can.

Anyway, these thoughts popped into my mind while listening to The Beta Band track, Assessment, from the Heroes to Zeroes CD. This track contains a very distinctive set of chord changes that I have recognizably heard once before, on the Carlos Santana/John McLaughlin album, Love Devotion Surrender, specifically on the track The Life Divine. This version is a hypercharged guitar jam over the vamp of this particular chord sequence and remains my favorite track on the album.

Considering it's really a very basic descending sequence, I am surprised I have not heard it elsewhere, but there it is. At least The Beta Band had inspiration to write a very affecting song around it. Whether they thought of it on their own, or whether they picked it up from the Santana/McLaughlin album who knows. The only clue is in the title Assessment - which is close to the Ascension or Acknowledgement title used for the title of a Coltrane album and part of the A Love Supreme suite respectively. Love Devotion Surrender draws on Coltrane for two cuts.

Tenuous at best. But that's all part of the fun of trying to trace musical influences.

Shakira

2006-01-28T22:05:00.000-06:00

Despite my oft stated disgust with the current state of mainstream pop - a disgust that in truth could be applied to the mainstream pop of any time - I am actually a sucker for a well-crafted, hook-laden commercial song that shows any spark of individuality and creativity. However, such music seems to be in short supply in the USA right now, so I found myself turning to different sources.

And not necessarily the obvious British alternative. The single hugely successful, hugely commercial, and decidedly mainstream (albeit with a strong individual touch) artist who appeals to me today is the Columbian singer Shakira.

Not that I have heard her latest albums (something to put right soon enough). No, this impression is based on her Spanish only Dónde están los ladrones? that I recently picked up after hearing a clip or two on the BMG website.

This is one masterful CD. Sure, all the mainstream pop motifs are in place, be they dance beats or power ballad guitar chords, but they are fresh and exciting. Shakira is a very good songwriter and has a crack band behind her here. Her melodies are seductive, the arrangements sparkle. Perhaps her greatest gift is to have mastered that effortless synthesis of world music (and I don't necessarily mean NPR-style ethnic world music here) that I believe is the key to popular music growth today. One hears touches of everything from Country, through Latin, through all kinds of alternative, through electronica, through simple balladry, through everything basically, but none of it sounds artificially appropriated.

On top of all that she is a compelling singer. Comparisons to Alanis Morrisette have been made, and, yes, Shakira shares some of the vocal mannerisms of Morrisette. But she has a much larger vocal and expressive range.

She also writes better songs.

Clearly she is richly self-confident in her music, so much so that on her song Octavio día she appropriates the two chord motif of I Am The Walrus and generates a song that carries echoes of The Beatles without in any sense being a Beatles song.

So what, you may say, artists having been appropriating The Beatles non-stop since their earliest records, and this is certainly true. However Shakira's song seems to go beyond homage or mimicry into something reflective and thoughtful. A further example of her creativity is the blending of Western dance with Middle-Eastern melody and form on the catchy Ojos así - not something you would necessarily associate with a 'Latin' artist.

So, an artist I shall be looking into much more. But why did she dye her hair blonde? She looks so much better with those black tresses.

I Predict A Riot

2006-01-28T16:41:00.000-06:00

Listening to the Kaiser Chiefs hugely enjoyable Employment CD reveals the ultimate absurdity of the relentless urge to subdivide and sub-classify rock music. You might as well throw all those endless divisions away and return to simple pop/rock definition that I personally prefer for any music with a pronounced rock 'n' roll derived backbeat.

For the music on this CD would have been called pop music a la Beatles or Kinks in the 1960s, power pop in the early '70s, punk pop in the late '70s, guitar pop in the 1980s, Brit-pop in the 1990s and it is all those things.

So let's just call it rock, and rejoice in the effortless synthesis that the band has mastered to produce yet one more entry in the patheon of highly satisfying rock albums.

Whether Employment is a masterpiece I can't tell yet, but it contains a lot of witty, catchy, energetic songs and is good food for the soul. Despite the long and honorable heritage that it draws from, the band sounds individual and self-contained and may, assuming it holds together, join the finest of its predecessors as another essential building block in the edifice call rock.

I think it will.

The reason why is encapsulated in the single I Predict A Riot, a sublime rocker of social unrest not unlike The Jam's Eton Rifles, and it is just as powerful complete with glam-rock style riffing guitars under the chorus and a very nice sense of dynamics. It resembles a lot of great songs that have come before it, yet sounds exactly like none of them. Which is precisely how it has worked for every great rock song since the beginning of the form.

Postscript: Having listened to this album repeatedly, I have grown only to like it more. It may eventually come to rank with Definitely Maybe.

The Sound Of Fury

2006-01-28T13:48:00.000-06:00

One of the consequences of the "Music of The Beatles" course that I took last summer was an exploration of British rock 'n' roll and pop music prior to the release of "Love Me Do". Adam Faith was one of those artists, but his forte was pop music. Billy Fury was a different story.

Not that Fury recorded nothing but ace rock 'n' roll - far from it, he recorded his fair share of often slushy and unrocking pop ballads. But somehow, astonishingly, in the midst of all this Fury managed to record what is easily the best British rock 'n' roll album before The Beatles.

Indeed, The Sound Of Fury, is a trailblazer in all sorts of ways. One of the more enduring Beatles' myths is that before that band broke, rock 'n' roll artists seldom recorded their own compositions and certainly did not put out albums of new self-composed material.

It certainly true that most albums consisted of a handful of hit singles and hastily arranged filler, but any examination of the 1950s LP output of major artists such as Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley and Buddy Holly, reveals holes in the argument.

The Sound Of Fury is entirely self-composed by Fury. It's also performed by an astonishingly tight and accomplished British band including Joe Brown on electric guitar and Alan White on drums. The music is essentially Sun Records-derived rockabilly and rock 'n' roll with a touch of Buddy Holly's Texan style thrown in for good measure. Nothing strikingly original, to be sure, but it is executed with such self-confident swagger that it easily stands up to the American classics.

All of the songs are gems, but my particular favorite is the opener, That's Love. A mid-tempo rocker with Jordanaires-style vocal harmonies, it is a excellent showcase for Billy Fury's extraordinarily expressive and wide-ranging vocals. Influenced by Elvis, yes, but Elvis has never sung better than Fury does on this session. He's also beautifully recorded, as can be heard to great effect on the latest CD incarnation of this classic record The Sound of Fury: 40th Anniversary Decca Records 8449902.

The Sound Of Fury is superior to the weaker Beatles albums; indeed it's superior to much of the output of the more well-known 1960s British beat-boom. If it has any fault, it is simply too short. But for Fury to persuade his record label to record even only a 10" LP's worth of original material in 1960 was a miracle in its own right.

1990s

2006-01-25T18:42:00.000-06:00

I was listening to the early 1990s CD Girlfriend earlier today, and checked up on the All Music guide review of Matthew Sweet's single and title cut. This led to an interesting review of the new Rhino box set Whatever: The '90s Pop & Culture Box.

This is a 7-CD take on the nineties concentrating on alternative rock, and a cursory glance at the track listing reveals about 35% songs that I own, and about 50% I've heard, 90% I've at least heard of and 10% that slipped under my radar.

All well and good, but as reviewer Stephen Thomas Erlewine points out, the set essentially bypasses hip-hop, dance, Brit-pop as well as a good number of the most important alternate rock acts (Nirvana, Pixies, Sonic Youth, P.J. Harvey, Radiohead for example). That's understandable given inevitable licensing restrictions, but as a record of the 1990s it misses the mark for me.

And it was probably inevitable that it would do so. As Erlewine perceptively points out the 1990s really saw the splintering of rock into self-contained sub-genres, categories so inclusive within themselves that is possible to become completely immersed and shut-out all the rest.

Much of the blame for this has to lie with the record industry, whose penchant for playing it safe reached epic proportions in the 1990s. Outside of a few glory years in the earliest part of the decade, can anyone say that there has been any truly memorable top-40 pop music since? I don't think so, and with radio industry condensing into a series of genre and era-specific formats, all exhibiting woefully repetitive shrunken playlists, was there even any reason to listen to see there was something to hear?

No.

No wonder file-sharing took off like a rocket once the technology became easy to use.

So I spent much of the latter '90s exploring dance and Brit-pop, giving up completely on commercial radio and greatly reducing my interest in 'alternative', a genre which was running out of steam by 1995. I have always maintained an oblique relationship to hip-hop, dipping into very shallow waters there.

So a 1990s compilation that cherry-picks the best of those genres would be very interesting, and I dare say we will start to see them before too long.

But however splintered and difficult-to-follow the 1990s were, the 2000s has them beat. Half way through, and I still don't have any clear sense of any movement at all! Perhaps the times for those are past.

I'm In Love With A German Film Star

2006-01-25T13:53:00.000-06:00

One of the many mysteries of popular music is the one-hit wonder. Why is it that an artist or band of questionable talent and dubious originality can produce, in one glorious moment of otherworldly inspiration, a song or recording that reaches to the stars?

I have no answer to this question. However, such records form a constant thread throughout the history of popular music, and, when collected into a set such as the Rhino Records Nuggets series form a powerful corpus of delightful music.

All these are thoughts that occur to me as I listen to one of my favorite one-off songs, The Passions' I'm In Love With A German Film Star.

Film Star was released by the band in the winter of 1981, and was a moderate hit, but nothing special. I first heard it in early 1982, on a compilation tape that a friend has sent me from England, and was bowled over by it.

It's heavily derivative (of Cure, Joy Division new-wave doominess), filled with cliches (the standard rock 'n' roll derived skip-drumming of many punk hits), a female singer of no great ability and essentially banal lyrics (I'm in love with a German film star I once saw in a movie; Playing the part of a real trouble-maker but I didn't care, it really moved me).

Nonetheless, I remain entranced by the song, and would put it in any desert island compilation (of decent length!). It works because all the elements are perfectly in balance and thus the song transcends what should be insurmountable barriers. Who cares if the guitar solo is lifted almost verbatim from Robert Smith's work on "Seventeen Seconds". Who cares if the melody is little more than a blues progression - the song suceeds completely on its own terms and joins that select group of what might be called Perfect Pop Songs. Naturally enough, nothing else the band ever recorded comes even close.

Cafe del Mar - Ibiza

2006-01-22T19:24:00.000-06:00

Growing up in the 1960s, discovering rock in the 1970s and following it through the 1980s led to a quandary in the 1990s. How could the music continue to generate freshness?

With a family, ears that no longer tolerated blasts of loud sound, and no great inclination to stay up to 2 a.m. in a crowded club or bar, I was cut off from the root source of much of the music that I had taken on board in the past. Commercial radio was crushingly dull, dominated by the same prepackaged acts that have always dominated it, but without any of the extra-musical hooks that might have drawn me to the music in the past.

What was I to do?

I found an answer by returning to a strategy that I used in the very earliest days of my listening, the dismal mid-1970s when there was precious little good music in the mainstream - I started rifling through cut-out bins and second hand record stores.

This time my object was the burgeoning underground of dance music. Disco revived as house music, and already by the end of 1990s splitting into the hydra head of sub-genres; trance, big beat, trip-hop, speed garage, jungle etc, etc.

Naturally enough, a deal of what I bought was uninteresting and uninvolving. But that's always been true of any time. What I did find were a series of compilation CDs of the music that would eventually be called nu-cool put together by Ibiza DJ Jose Padilla.

These were atmospheric dance cuts, low on insistent beats and high on atmosphere. The first Cafe Del Mar record I heard was the first (1994), and it remains the best.

The artists included were completely left-field to me. William Orbit, Sabres Of Paradise, Sun Electric, the appropriately named Leftfield, The Penguin Cafe Orchestra, Sisterlove, Underworld, Ver Vlads, A Man Called Adam, Obiman and Jose Padilla himself. I knew nothing of them. To this day, I know little about some of them - it is a striking characteristic of underground dance music that most of the records are put out by what one might call 'one-hit-wonders'. The artists emerge and blend back into obscurity carried by the winds of a DJ's passing fancy.

So Cafe Del Mar - Ibiza was new to my ears, and it was fresh. It was so fresh and enticing that I hold it to this day as a one of the very best compilation CDs ever issued covering any period of music.

The first cut Agua by Jose Padilla defines the sound of the record. It's a dance cut, with a house-disco beat underneath much of it. But a slow synthesizer introduction (like the waves washing ashore) , a gentle South American or African-style hand drum beat, electronic bubbles, South-American native pipe interjections followed by Asian Indian flute stylings, and a gentle synthesizer keyboard riff all precede the major beat. Once introduced that drops out to make room for a vocal resembling the Middle-Eastern call to prayer, before returning with ever greater insistence.

On the surface this extraordinary mish-mash of world music should be completely synthetic but the effect is totally the opposite. Despite its undisguised scavenging of evocative sounds. Because of its undisguised scavenging, in fact.

There is absolutely no pretence that this music is somehow 'authentic' or a folk-music. As such it completely bypasses the sometimes unsatisfactory syntheses in the work of artists ranging from Paul Simon to The Talking Heads. It's true sound manipulation, barely conceivable in the pre-digital age, but now almost effortlessly possible.

It's simply wonderful.

The rest of the CD follows a similar pattern, with differing blendings but the same overarching concept. A masterpiece of moody dance music that is equally effective simply as a listening experiece.

Cafe del Mar - Ibiza was the first record of the 1990s that I heard that convinced me popular music was moving forward with as much potency as ever. Nirvana did not do it; neither did Oasis. The 1990s were truly the decade of innovative dance, the implications of which are still not worked out or fully integrated into the mainstream. But it will happen.

One year ago to the day...

2006-01-18T20:32:00.000-06:00

...I attended the first class meeting of "The Music Of The Beatles". There was no hint that this course, and its sequel (or should I say prequel) "From Plymouth Rock to Rock 'n' Roll", would have have the profound impact that they have had at that initial meeting. This changed very rapidly.

The credit for this goes entirely to the teacher, and now my good friend, Ken. He has a knack for leading the student to the essence of whatever music is under consideration, not least because it is clear that he himself is deeply involved with the music. Ken's true stoke of genius was to invite the student to integrate himself as closely as possible with the time and place of the music in question.

His recommendation was follow the music - and this applies particularly to The Beatles' course - chronologically, and listen to it develop as naturally as is possible (allowing for the current ubiquity of Beatles' music!). The classes provided historical context through the use of film and video that reinforced the immersion, and the texts, particularly Ian McDonald's "Revolution In The Head" continued the process out of class.

I took his advice. It was a revelatory experience that in my case led to a far deeper psychological involvement and exploration that I would have considered possible beforehand.

There is no doubt that today I consequently listen far more deeply and with a far greater sense of history to popular music. All of these thoughts struck me as I was listening to a version of Stephen Foster's "Old Folks At Home (Swanee River)" recorded by Louis Armstrong with The Mills Brothers in 1937.

This is very interesting track indeed. Apart from an acoustic guitar and Armstrong's trumpet, all the instrumental effects are provided by the Mills Brothers themselves. Coming out of the barbershop quartet tradtion, this group lay the essential groundwork for the doo-wop stylings of the 1950s. Armstrong sings the sentimental lyric with tongue firmly in cheek, whereas the brothers keep it straighter.

The juxtaposition is very effective. Despite its clear sympathies for blacks in the deep South, the white man's idealization of plantation life expressed in Foster's song rings very hollow for Armstrong. A final sardonic 'yeah man' verges on disgust; by 1937 unacceptably sweet homilies to slavery did not have to be sung to please the white man. Overt songs of black pride were still to come, but Armstrong is being pretty subversive with this song. One wonders how many white listeners of the time picked up on what must come through loud and clear to Armstrong's African-American audience.

Billy Mayerl

2006-01-14T20:59:00.000-06:00

There's always something a little unnerving about listening to music recorded before I was born. Something of the same feeling holds for film too - a sense that human activity was in full flood before I had acquired any form of consciousness, either of it or of myself. Strange how this unease is most closely associated with sound; early silent films share with Art a sense of timelessness and have quite a different feel.

But recorded sound seems to define time in a much more precise manner. I suspect that much of this has to do with a tradition of music where a composition was usually heard in a live performance by a contemporary performer. The music might be centuries old; but the music was here and now. This is no longer necessarily the case.

All of these thoughts struck me while listening to a series of recordings made in the 1930s and 1940s by the British light music pianist Billy Mayerl. Several of the cuts have singing or spoken dialogue, and the posh British BBC accents sound quite strange in today's context. The music, too, mostly syncopated ditties not so much in the ragtime but more in the novelty piano tradition is very much of its time.

Charming, yes, and very attractive. But impossible to hear without a powerful historical veil settling over it and placing it in a time remote from my own.

Funnily, because this music is unfamiliar and little heard, the sense of history is stronger than found with better known works from the same era that, through constant exposure, have lost their strong ties to their genesis.

I think I prefer it this way. Listening to this Billy Mayerl compilation (Naxos 8.120654) is more akin to rooting around in the attic and finding a trunk full of your great grandparent's belongings. There is a sense of discovery and looking back into a different way of doing and seeing things.

Only Life

2006-01-13T15:51:00.000-06:00

I have a particular fondness for music that induces a trance-like reverie, and it's a difficult thing to pull off. One musical device that almost never fails to work with me is a simple guitar or keyboard riff of maybe two or three chords, endlessly repeated to produce a sense of harmonic stasis. One of the finest examples of such is to found on The Feelies' Only Life from the album of the same name.

The Feelies have often been compared to third album (The Velvet Underground) Velvet Underground in sound and mood, and there is certainly a strong similarity. The Only Life album even contains a cover of the Velvet's What Goes On. But although Glenn Mercer's vocals strongly echo Lou Reed's style, they are actually quite distinctive and in some ways more expressive. What is certain is that the sound of The Feelies, guitar-rich yet totally devoid of mainstream or arena rock cliches, was another lasting blueprint for much of the independent music of the 1980s and beyond.

But back to the track, Only Life. It starts with two acoustic guitars settling into a two note/chord pattern, one guitar picked, the other strummed with a prominent rolling bass line and steady uncomplicated drumming. This is sustained throughout the song. The half sung/spoken lyrics concern withdrawl from life - a sort of rewrite of the Velvet's After Hours - and there is but one guitar feedback solo to provide an instrumental break between the first and second verses. Much of the song is simply the underlying vamp without adornment, all of which adds to the static, trance-like, quality of the performance.

At just over 3 minutes, this is a brief cut but it seems much longer than it really is (in a good way) and is wholly effective in setting a reflective mood for the rest of the album. The record continues, with variations, in much the same way sustaining a powerfully coherent mood. The Feelies were a well-named band. Absurdly, this masterpiece is currently deleted (a common fate for good records released on the A&M label). Hopefully that will be put right soon enough.

Twin Peaks

2006-01-12T20:31:00.000-06:00

The Smiths' Sleep aside, there are few pieces that convey the somnabulent mood more effectively than Angelo Badalamenti's score for David Lynch's still unsurpassed Twin Peaks TV series.

From the amazingly evocative title tune, through Julie Cruise's astonishingly opaque vocal performances (Falling, Into The Night), and into those jazz-in-heavy-syrup instrumentals, nocturnal dreams and fantasies permeate this music. It surely must lay claim to the title of the most psychologically effective ambient score ever to reach a mass audience.

I use the word ambient in its fullest sense here - this really is true ambient music that has the virtue of hewing close to the conventions of song, scene background and title score pieces. Much of this effect is due to the effective production, very rich in middle range textures thanks to imaginatively used synthesized strings, and Phil Spector 'wall-of-sound'-derived mass overdubbing. The obvious retro touches, harking back to 1950s/early1960s song structures, sounds and production techniques, provides nostalgic reference points, with none more effective than the slow Duane Eddy-style low-register guitar twang on the Twin Peaks title cut. The overall effect is uncannily like listening to a jukebox from that period in a smokey hazy bar, dazed with drink and overwhelmed with emotion. Emotions primarily of nostalgia, regret, longing, sadness and loss.

In many ways, the storyline of the T.V. show, with its conventions of murder/victim/detective all present (if thoroughly subverted) is the baldest and most obvious facet of the entire production and serves only as a hook to lead the viewer/listener into a more meaningful exploration of certain psychological states - some of which may have particular resonance with the audience - through the use of symbolism. The show may have lost coherence as it continued, but it never failed to deliver an atmosphere that was capable of transcending those shortfalls.

Much of the credit for this lies with the music.

Sing Me To Sleep

2006-01-12T16:20:00.000-06:00

Sleep, the last song on The Smiths' Louder Than Bombs is as direct and effective a lullaby as any. It never fails to make me sleepy, extraordinarily. Strange that that quality should define a Smiths song, but it illustrates why both U2 and R.E.M. failed to get any sort of meaningful grip on me during the 1980s. The competition, primarily The Smiths, was just too good.

I was reminded of this by listening to The Smiths and Louder Than Bombs this afternoon, both of which illustrate the quantum leap in artistry that this band makes over U2 or R.E.M. Morrissey's lyrics are extremely powerful, never more so than in Suffer Little Children that I finally twigged was a direct reference to the Moors Murders and a subject that it is impossible to consider those other bands either addressing or realising with the absolute success that marks this early Smiths song. The music is direct, subtle and unerringly intelligent.

Begin The Begin

2006-01-12T12:27:00.000-06:00

The 1980s were a strange time for conventional (as in 1960s/1970s) rock. The new wave sound worked against the classic guitar/bass/drums format, giving keyboards, drums machines and the like an unprecendented role. However, conventional bands did not go away, and two came to represent the decade.

These were U2 and R.E.M., both of whom achieved enormous if inconsistent critical and popular success, and both are still around today. No one would deny that both band's finest moments currently lie long behind them (although rock always has a capacity to surprise) but those moments were very fine indeed.

Nonetheless, I never really warmed to either band. I collected the records, admired much of them, loved little, and was indifferent to the rest. I was reminded of this while replaying R.E.M.'s Lifes Rich Pageant today, and finding, much to my pleasure, that it is actually an even finer record than I first felt upon hearing it. I always considered it their best album, but listening again today seemed to reveal a deeper songcraft, lyrical incisiveness and instrumental facility than I recall from my first involvement with the music.

Perhaps I should revisit their other albums now than I am more receptive. Music has a funny habit of variably fitting into particular times, places and periods, and I am convinced that much of this receptivity (or lack of the same) is psychological in origin, so much so that I regard my musical preferences to be a signpost of my deeper pysche.

Which is how it should be for music, as for any art form. Art should always dig beneath the surface and burrow into hidden truths and meanings, even if they are not necessarily pleasant or consoling. For this reason, I am constantly searching out new music and re-evaluating old. I value the power of the medium to strip away the calcified layers that can bury one's own natural cognition.

Shaman's Blues

2006-01-09T20:25:00.000-06:00

Like many people, I went through an avid Doors fan phase in my youth, focusing primarily on their first two and their last two studio albums. Traditionally, the best regarded efforts by the band. I postponed buying the two central studio albums, Waiting For The Sun and The Soft Parade, for a long time as I did want to be disappointed.

Eventually, though, I picked them up and, yes, I was disappointed. Neither album is anywhere near the standard of the other studio efforts, although Waiting For The Sun holds up better by sustaining the group sound evident on Strange Days and a number of very pretty melodies.

The Soft Parade, however, has few redeeming features. Adding strings and horns to the band dilutes rather than enhances the power of the band and many of the songs are pure throwaways. However, two songs stand out. The lengthy title cut, ironically in some ways their finest extended setting of a Morrison poem, and the shorter Shaman's Blues.

Shaman's Blues is a completely successful Doors song, and as such stands comparison with all their best material. It's a blues, a precursor to the much more extensive exploration of that style that would come with Morrison Hotel and L.A. Woman, and it is magnificently sung by Morrison. In many ways it is his best blues performance, partly because it is free of the ennui that drenches his later vocals but show intimations of the depth that would also infuse the band's later blues performances. The arrangement is sparkling, a riff driven song heavy with harpischord and wailing electric guitar figures, strong deep bass, and a jazzy blues drum figure from John Densmore. The lyrics are typical Morrison mysticism, but again with that personal touch - "will you stop the pain?", "I'm alone for you - and I cry" - that prefigures the starker later songs. There is little sense that Morrison is acting or uninvolved with these lyrics, something you cannot say about most of the other material on The Soft Parade.

Shaman's Blues is so markedly superior to the songs that preceed and follow it that you wonder how the band could feel comfortable with those woefully substandard efforts. In truth, canning the whole album and putting out a single, The Soft Parade b/w Shaman's Blues, would have been an ideal solution. Thirty years later the rest could appear on an "Anthology" style record to enthuse the true believers.

But that didn't happen, and at least we can be grateful that Shaman's Blues appeared at all.

A Perfect Pop Album

2006-01-06T13:07:00.000-06:00

The Beatles perfected the form of the pop album; a series of short, catchy, well-crafted songs, inventive arrangements, and a 'feel' that binds the whole together that reached its zenith with Revolver but marks all their earlier output. Naturally enough, the overarching influence of the band on the music of the 1960s led their competitors down the same road. Thus, in many ways, this period is considered the golden era of the pop album and with bands such as The Kinks, The Rolling Stones, The Byrds, The Who, Jefferson Airplane all producing masterpieces of the form, it certainly states a strong claim to be so.

But, despite the fragmentation of rock post-mid-1960s-pyschedelia into an ever expanding series of streams, many of which chose (such as progressive rock, heavy metal and jazz rock) to move well beyond the 45 rpm single length song as the basic building block, an adherence to and love of the pop album was maintained. You had to look deeper, as many of the finest records (such as Big Star's influential first two albums) were not much more than cult favorites, but the music was always there. From time to time the style would gain a name - Power Pop being one such in currency in the late 1970s/1980s.

But the essentials remained largely the same, all based on the classic guitar, bass, drums rock band line-up established with the original early 1960s beat boom. Fashionable accessories - organ, various keyboards, synthesizer - might be added to the mix but always in a coloristic manner; not as the base.

With such a weight of history behind the style, one might think that later efforts would be hampered by a lack of originality and to some extent that is true. There is always a slightly nostalgic subtext at work when listening to new pop albums while simultaneously being thoroughly aware of their precursors. However, this diminishes to vanishing point when listening to a truly well-made record and one such is Positive Touch by The Undertones.

By the time of that album's release The Undertones had already established themselves as a superb pop/punk band in the Ramones/Buzzcocks manner, but Positive Touch is quite a different animal from their prior work. Firstly the band almost completely abandon the guitar roar of The Undertones and Hypnotized for a much more layered, strummed, picked and altogether more carefully constructed guitar sound. The volume level is greatly reduced, keyboards and horns introduced here and there and Feargal Sharkey is allowed to make full expressive use of that remarkable voice of his.

One might also add that the bands melodic sense reached full-flower here, but in someways that would be inaccurate as the band had always possessed an unerring understanding of the melodic essence of great pop music. Nonetheless, the varied instrumentation and added textural touches allowed the melodies to shine as never before.

So far, so very good, but what makes Positive Touch a truly great album is the sustained mood of disillusionment, hypocrisy, and foreboding that underpins all the material. Perhaps most overtly demonstrated in the long delayed single release from the album It's Going To Happen, an oblique commentary on the political situation in Northern Ireland at the time with more specific - although not directly stated - reference to the hunger strike and eventual death of IRA member Bobby Sands. The song primarily focuses on the futility and repetitiveness of the struggle moving from generation to generation without resolution. Such themes run through most of the songs; in one sense this is a very jaded and cynical record but it has a much lighter tone than that might suggest. More, it is effort to make the listener penetrate the unconsidered assumptions of whatever life he or she may be living to see the framework beneath clearly in all its strengths and weaknesses.

Heavy stuff, perhaps, but this album in no way preaches or hits you over the head. What it does do is to draw you deeply into its mood and leaves you, as the final cut, the aptly named Forever Paradise fades out in psychedelic weirdness, feeling that you have been taken somewhere, learnt something and been brought home again.

As such, it closely resembles the earlier but near-contemporary Buzzcocks masterpiece A Different Kind Of Tension but that record is a far more flat-out punk/rock recording. One thing is sure - as a record of the slow boil in British society that was about to explode into nationwide riots and burnings, Positive Touch accurately chronicles that tension (if not its specifics) more than any other record.

Of its time and out of its time, like all the greatest music, Positive Touch is easily one of the very greatest rock albums ever made.

Wikipedia-ed!

2006-01-02T13:50:00.000-06:00

See this! Most satisfying.

Symphony No. 4 by Arnold Bax

2006-01-02T10:36:00.000-06:00

I only recently warmed up to this symphony, and much of the credit must go to David Lloyd-Jones and the Royal Scottish National Orchestra who recorded the work on Naxos 8.555343. The earlier recorded version by late Bryden Thomson with the Ulster Orchestra never really gripped me, and as other Thomson Bax recordings most certainly did, I always assumed the music was to blame.

However, listening to this newer recording, it seems that Thomson never quite got the measure of this work. It is a difficult piece - it lacks the 'big tunes' that characterize its predecessors even though there is plenty of melodic interest. More than any other Bax work this is a sea symphony (and Bax hardly ignored the sea in his other works), and it makes a lot more sense if you imagine you are looking out over the waves while listening to this. For this work ebbs and flows in many ways from a great undertow, to an undulating swirl, to the waves crashing on the pebbles, even to shoreline rock pools filling and emptying.

As such, it is a very satisfying tone poem. No, not on the level of Debussy's La Mer, but not far below. More convincing sea music than Britten's Sea Interludes (although I think the Britten pieces are better music overall). Bax's greatest weakness is a tendency to meander; one senses a country walk with him would be filled with interuptions to look at a flower or explore a copse. Naturally enough, this weakens the symphonic structure and is frustrating if you are looking for the rigor of, for example, mid to late Sibelius. So it's best not to think of his symphonies as symphonies at all (doing this actually greatly enhances a feel for Bax's musical structure which is by no means as incoherent as implied by what I have already wrtitten!) and enjoy them as tone poems with symphonic tendencies. As late-Romantic manifestations of a nature lover's fascination with the wilderness, they really are unsurpassed and wholly individual.

Great stuff.

Harvester Of Eyes

2006-01-01T17:15:00.000-06:00

Is there a more seductive riff than found on The Blue Oyster Cult's Harvester Of Eyes?

Probably, but it will do nicely for the moment.

Tyranny and Mutation

2006-01-01T10:14:00.000-06:00

I have always had a difficult relationship with heavy metal music. Part of this is undoubtedly due to growing up when the music was critically despised as being loud, monotonous, lyrically banal and executed by morons.

All of this remains true for huge chunks of the music.

But it is interesting to see the shift in critical opinion over time. Thanks to the punk explosion in the mid-1970s that reminded everyone that loud, monotonous, lyrically banal and moronically executed music was the essence of much of the greatest rock and roll music, it was no longer possible to criticise heavy metal convincingly on those grounds. So, grudgingly perhaps, the music entered the mainstream and almost immediately lost whatever coherency it had, splitting into dozens of subgroups from hair metal, through thrash metal, to goth metal.

But before those days, one band, the 'thinking man's heavy metal group' slipped right through the critical barrier and became hip with those who otherwise disliked metal. This was the Blue Oyster Cult, still around today and making good noise, but whose true heyday was the early to mid-1970s. The first album of theirs that I bought, all the way back in 1976, was Tyranny And Mutation. Originally released in 1973, I spotted this in a record store in Brighton and bought it solely on the strength of the cover, a stark geometrical monochrome rendition of a pyramid against a black and white rainbow backdrop. That, and the title which was strikingly perverse.

The music was not a disappointment, as it so often is after these impulse buys. Thom Jurek has written a very nice review in the All Music Guide that comes closer to the essence of this record than anything I have read before or since. It is, perhaps, the best pre-punk metal/punk amalgamation, and much of the reason for the success of this blending is the clear affection that the band has for 1960s pop/rock music (perhaps most effectively realised in the later Byrdsian masterpiece Don't Fear The Reaper). A melodic sensibility threads through the songs on Tyranny and Mutation that moves them out of the heavy metal mainstream, while still maintaining much of the sound and attitude of the genre as it was at the time. The lyrics are drenched in science-fiction derived obscurities that are difficult to follow, but what is said is much less important than how it is said and singer Eric Bloom really comes into his own on this record with a style that owes much more to Iggy Pop and Mick Jagger than Robert Plant or Ozzie Osbourne. It is easy, listening to this record, to see why The Clash would have sought out the record's producers for Give Em Enough Rope.

Tyranny and Mutation remains as fresh and as enjoyable today as it was then, partly because so few other records manage to pull off the balancing act between heaviness and pop lightness that this record manages with such aplomb. The Cult came close with their prior The Blue Oyster Cult and their later Secret Treaties and Agents Of Fortune but rather lost the plot subsequently.

Nevermind. To have made what they did is reward enough.

Parachute

2005-12-23T18:19:00.000-06:00

One of the earliest albums I bought was, naturally enough, The Beatles' Abbey Road. The sound of this record is unique among all Beatles' records - clear, warm and open. It is by far the best sounding - as in naturalistic - Beatles' album outside of, ironically, their first album. Their first record sounds good because the primitive (by contemporary standards) recording equipment available forced an essentially live-in-the-studio performance that captures the band very well. Even the deficiencies in the bass (bass guitar and bass drum) do not hurt this record that much.

Abbey Road, in contrast, finally put The Beatles into a 16-track studio (albeit without the benefit of Dolby noise-reduction) allowing the band to forgo the repetitive mixing down to mono track that was necessary to create their multi-tracked productions from their earliest records through The Beatles. (Let It Be, recorded largely live in the studio is a different beast altogether). This created dense, compressed, recordings that were artistic triumphs but nonetheless contained elements of artificiality. Abbey Road changed the sound dramatically, and it really is a tragedy that the band collapsed before they could explore these new sonic vistas.

Nonetheless, Abbey Road spawned remarkably few records that actually capture its sound. This is a testament to George Martin's and The Beatles' production skills, but why so many early 1970s records succumbed to a murky muddiness really is a mystery. Perhaps it was an attempt to be heavy that was mostly misplaced, but few producers managed to emulate The Beatles' punchiness and clarity. Led Zeppelin did so with their fourth album, Pink Floyd with Dark Side Of The Moon. Few others though.

However, of those few others, one band managed to produce an Abbey Road-sounding record that actually rivals The Beatles' achievement. The Pretty Things' Parachute is an astonishingly fine record that confounds all expectations one might have of the band, even those generated by their prior album, S.F. Sorrow, generally accepted as the first rock opera. Much of this is due to the (temporary) departure of founding guitarist Dick Taylor and the consequential ascendancy of bassist Wally Allen and singer Phil May who brought a much more ornate pop sensibility to the band's sound. Furthermore, Parachute was actually recorded at Abbey Road studios with Beatles' engineer Norman Smith producing resulting in harmonies (particularly in the opening medley The Good Mr. Square through The Letter) that closely resemble but without in any sense aping those of The Beatles' Sun King.

But in some ways Parachute even outdoes Abbey Road, most clearly in the rockers which have an altogether dirtier and more convincing drive than those on Abbey Road even allowing that Come Together is a assured masterpiece. Cries From The Midnight Circus and Sickle Clowns hew closer to a Rolling Stones sensibility, but that band would only really rival these songs with those on their down and dirty masterpiece, Exile On Main Street. Amazingly, The Pretty Things get away with the best of both worlds on Parachute. Absolutely essential listening for anyone interested in 'classic' rock (or any rock, for that matter), Parachute is a true gem.

The Lexicon Of Love

2005-12-21T20:09:00.000-06:00

Throughout my life there have always been special albums - those records that reflect, absorb, process and refine whatever emotional state I happened to be in at the time. Once such, appearing in 1982, was ABC's The Lexicon Of Love.

I first heard this record when I was living in a miserable bedsit in Bristol with my first wife, already beginning to sense that things were not going to work out with that particular relationship (but finding myself unable to do anything about it for some years to come). A vivacious medical student friend whose name I forget brought it over and we played it as a group on my stereo which happened to the best one available to us.

I was knocked out by it, liking it immediately, and it became established as a favorite. It has continued to be so, if anything increasing in value over the years. Part of this is undoubtedly due to the very skillful production, arrangements and witty songwriting. But I have many such other records that have failed to make a similar impact. Where The Lexicon Of Love scores is in its heart - a rather deep heart that, on the surface, goes against the bright sheen of the record with its glossy Brit-soul/funk and Martin Fry's mannered vocals. Contrived it may be, but there is something more at work here, giving this record a soulfulness that is quite different from American soul music even as it draws it inspiration directly from it.

The true antecedents of this sound lie in the explorations of the British band Roxy Music throughout the 1970s. Roxy Music are going to become, if they are not already so, one of the most important rock bands in the history of the music because they were the first musicians to successfully meld glam, progressive and 1970s soul influences into a coherent European form of dance/soul music. Almost single handedly, Roxy Music laid the groundwork for the European dance music that coalesced in the 1980s and has continued to thrive, with ups and downs, to this day.

ABC were an early manifestion of this burgeoning style, and The Lexicon Of Love deserves to be considered in specifically English terms (certainly the lyrics make no concession to Americanisms) and the record is best appreciated in the knowledge of the social and political climate that dominated the United Kingdom in the early 1980s - Thatcherism, high unemployment and shattered hopes for many young people. Hence the underlying cynicism and weariness that characterizes much the lyrical content, and the very careful arrangements that suggest both excitement and ennui at the same time. A Roxy Music speciality this, and no easy accomplishment.

ABC would make a much more overtly political record with Beauty Stab, a glorious mistake that squandered their strengths (but was scarcely the disaster that critical reputation has given it), but the message is quite clear in their first record. Lexicon questions the basic assumptions not only of society but also those of the individual living in it. Such a personal message was - and is - very compelling to anyone, such as myself, who was coming to terms with the collapse of dreams and hopes. As such it secured a place in my heart.

The spirit that characterizes the American Man

2005-12-19T10:44:00.000-06:00

Purely national music has no place in art. What negro melodies have to do with Americanism still remains a mystery to me. Why cover a beautiful thought with the badge of slavery rather than with the stern but at least manly and free rudeness of the North American Indian?.... Masquerading in the so-called nationalism of Negro clothes cut in Bohemia will not help us. What we must arrive at is the youthful optimistic vitality and the undaunted tenacity of spirit that characterizes the American Man.

An interesting quote by Edward MacDowell, presumably emanating from around the 1890s, that is reproduced in the liner notes to the Naxos CD of MacDowell's two Orchestral Suites (Naxos 8.559075). MacDowell has a reputation of being the most "Europeanized" of American composers active at this time, and consequently has been marginalized as most distinctive American composers, Ives, Griffes, even Gottschalk, came into critical favor. Certainly MacDowell's music comes solidly out of the European, mostly Central European, late-Romantic tradition and even his conscious nods to an American identity - e.g. the Orchestral Suite No. 2, the "Indian" - could just as easily been composed by a European composer as an American.

Pushing this aside though, and simply considering MacDowell's music as music, it is very attractive. If an unabashedly Romantic composer such as the Englishman Arnold Bax can be resurrected and appreciated today, so equally can Edward MacDowell. The suites are prime examples of mythologically-informed tone painting, rich and harmonically lush. The assumed Indian melodies that inform the 2nd Suite are treated solidly within the European Romantic tradition, losing any cultural otherworldliness in the process, but generating entirely satisfactory music. On its own terms these are very convincing works and deserve to be heard again.

But back to the quote. MacDowell is clearly entirely a man of his time. He has absorbed the prevailing wisdom and prefers not to question it. The implicit racism and white supremacy contained within even this fairly innocuous statement were very much contemporary sentiments. Perhaps this lack of questioning is at the core of his failure to stamp an American identity on music. The more visionary American composers of the time, although not necessarily any more culturally or racially enlightened than MacDowell, give a sense of attempting to look deeper into the roots of their thinking that suggests an unease with the assumptions that govern their status in American society. They show a willingness to look beyond the obvious and the acceptable. At least in today's values, this is much more the spirit that charactizes the best of the American Man.

The Noise Of Carpet

2005-12-17T21:37:00.001-06:00

The gloriously expanded sound world of popular music that opened up in the 1980s and has continued to this very day is both an opportunity and a restriction for contemporary musicians.

To make music that sounds fresh today when so much ground has already been covered requires a far more developed sense of musicality than was necessary in the past. Previously, ploughing a genre furrow was enough - the style itself was fresh enough to sustain interest. That's no longer the case. To succeed today requires different skills; the ability to pull the essence out of well-worn forms and weave a new fabric. This is a tough challenge. Personally, I believe this has pushed the sheer artistry of the best new pop music to even higher levels than we've seen before. Sadly I don't think this is recognized, particularly by members of my generation (late 50's baby-boom) many of whom remain solidly wedded to the past.

All of which is a preamble to an appreciation of one of my favorite late 20th century bands, Stereolab.

In many ways Stereolab's music echoes that of Adam Faith recorded 35 years earlier - it is pop music, solidly constructed and seemingly unchallenging, but nonetheless individual and subversive in its own way. Rooting their sound in the German progressive bands of the 1970s such a Can, with elements of the British Canterbury art rock scene (Soft Machine in particular) thrown in for good measure, Stereolab nonetheless almost completely eshew the aesthetic of that period. Instead a solidly 1960s lounge groove is embraced, complete with singsong vocals and muzak-derived harmonies. However these are totally transformed by the repetitive, minimalist, treatment that they get. The result is unique. Rarely is a band more distinctly defined by its sound. I love it.

Adam Faith

2005-12-17T14:10:00.000-06:00

One of the best side-effects of the two music courses I took in 2005 was the infusion into my record collection of a vast amount of new music, much of it music that was unlikely to have been bought by me under normal circumstances.

One of these artists, purchased solely to give me some sense of the British pop scene before The Beatles broke through, was Adam Faith. I picked up a single CD set of his greatest hits expecting nothing much more than featherweight pop.

In fact, much of it is precisely that. But what unusual feathers. Before Faith changed his sound to that of Merseybeat after that scene broke through, he specialized in a series of mid or slow-tempo pop songs backed primarily by orchestra with a light pop rhythm. A recipe for unbearable schmaltz? On the surface, yes, but Faith's musical arranger happened to be none other than John Barry, shortly to shoot to worldwide fame on the basis of the early James Bond movies.

Barry's arrangements are truly subversive. Yes, there are twee pizzicato strings galore, but sometimes there is really hot electric guitar, a pointedly 'country'-style fiddle, bass-harmonicas - the latter usually associated with Brian Wilson and The Beatles' output from the mid-1960s - and other touches that move these songs right out of the conventional pop song style and into something both charming and captivating.

In many ways, when Faith toughened his sound to meet The Beatles (something he does very successfully in conjunction with The Roulettes), as much is lost as is gained. When, for example, you hear on "Poor Me" a chorus singing that undulating harmony that is much better known as the James Bond theme, you feel pop cultural markers being turned upside down and inside-out. That is worth a lot.

Blues Guitar/Singers - a brief survey

2005-12-13T18:45:00.000-06:00

Another response to a project question for my American Music course. It's a shame I can't put the music up to go with it, but it's well worth tracking down. Listening is worth a thousand words.

Q. Collect recorded examples of at least three blues-guitarist singers. Describe and compare their original guitar technique and styles, especially in their treatment of the “breaks”.

On the face of it, this is relatively simple assignment. One can easily find three blues guitarists who, on the surface, seem to have original and unique styles and ‘break’ or solo in a distinctive manner. But, as I thought about this more and more, I began to consider the underlying assumptions behind this question.

Firstly, just what is ‘original’? Original in terms of difference from prior performing styles or original in terms of technique? To answer this question fairly, one needs an encyclopedic knowledge of blues guitar forms. Reading any album note, you’ll find names of influential musicians dropped everywhere. Does this mean that to find a truly ‘original’ blues musician, you have to return to the dawn of the music? Perhaps – and perhaps not.

Secondly, I began to wonder exactly what a blues-guitarist singer is. Obviously there is a vocal component. Equally obviously there is a guitar component. But what else, and if there is something else, what role does it play? If one considers the blues, and certainly on listening to it you get this impression, as an effective melodic ‘call and response’ interplay between the voice and instruments or instruments, how is that practically realized? Then there are the harmonic and rhythmic components of the blues song. Are these to be carried on the guitar as well, or allocated elsewhere?

Already we see a marked complexity emerging as we consider the blues guitarist-singer. The temptation, then, would be to restrict this study to the singer-guitarist who works with no other instrument, either on his own account or by adding extra musicians. But that would be restrictive, and missing many ways that a guitar can be used to play blues.

So lets us begin with a musician who stands on the threshold between older African-American musical styles and the blues. A musician who recorded very few blues songs, preferring minstrel, vaudeville, dance tunes (square dances), and ‘rag’ ditties[1].

The exact birthdate of Henry Thomas seems to be unknown, but is conjectured to be 1874. This would put him in into his fifties by the time he recorded 24 songs, only four of which are blues. One of these is Texas Easy Street[2] . Aside from a short introduction which establishes the characteristic blues harmonic progression, the guitar is used as rhythmic and harmonic accompaniment to the voice. Where the voice drops out, the guitar is used solely to maintain the flow of the song. There is a call and response component, illustrated 54 seconds into the recording, where Thomas sings:

Oooooh, tell me what is the matter now? – ain’t nothing the matter

Please tell me what is the matter now? – tell you what, nothing’s the matter

I’m going back to Texas

Live on Easy Street

Another blues by Thomas, Bull Doze Blues[3] , does contain instrumental breaks – but not on the guitar. Here Thomas uses quills, a pan-pipe-like instrument used often in American South but apparently under-recorded, to provide a catchy, distinctive introduction and a singing melodic response to his vocals. Transferring such melodic elements to the guitar would require a playing technique that could provide rhythm, harmony and melody.

Ironically, it appears that some of this movement towards solo accompaniment was driven by commercial considerations. Record companies preferred to record black blues musicians on their own – it was cheaper that way. Many early blues musicians would normally perform with a string band[4]. A field recording of one such was made by Alan Lomax in 1941. This features Son House (guitar, vocal) with Fiddlin’ Joe Martin (mandolin, vocal interjections), Willie Brown (guitar) and Leroy Williams (harmonica).

The first thing that strikes you about this recording of Walking Blues[5] is how busy it sounds. Over a moderately paced rhythmic strumming, you hear frenetic mandolin, second guitar runs, and impassioned harmonica (the train – horn at 1’ 48”, wheels at 2’ 08” was accidental but a wonderful sound effect nonetheless). House’s vocal delivery stands in complete contrast to Thomas’s more measured performance. House swoops, hollers, growls, moans and slurs all around the lyric. Much in the manner of a Southern black preacher in full flow. The song seems on the verge of collapse from time to time but holds together. Remove the backing band, and how is House going to replicate this?

The answer is to make the guitar sing as much as possible while maintaining a driving rhythm and the basic harmonic underpinning. On the 1930 recording, Preaching The Blues Parts 1 & 2[6] , House uses a bottleneck or slide to generate a sliding and singing high note sound, while slashing at the guitar to generate a fierce and forceful, yet flexible, rhythm. Note how he uses a steady foot tap (evident in Part 1, not in Part 2) over which the guitar drops syncopated chords. In this way, he makes his guitar talk to him and to us, carry the harmony, and give the song a series of powerful rhythmic surges.

House does not greatly vary his melodic responses to each of his bellowed lines greatly, in essence sticking to a single riff, but there are subtle fluctuations in rhythm and attack that maintain musical interest. The sole break occurs in Part 2 at 5’ 05”, and is marked more than anything else by a heightened rhythmic insistence, giving the song a rocking quality.

Son House was one of the first blues artists to make commercial recordings, and these influenced later blues men such as Robert Johnson and Muddy Waters. Indeed, his records are so forceful it is hard to see how any blues guitarist who heard them would not be influenced. But House’s approach is not the only way to make an acoustic guitar talk the blues – or emulate a string band. Consider the approach Blind Lemon Jefferson uses for his oft-covered Matchbox Blues[7] (1927) . Here was also have an insistent guitar rhythm over steady foot tapping, but Lemon does not slash and attack the guitar with anything approaching House’s ferocity. Instead, Jefferson uses the guitar to embellish his vocals, which are noticeably smoother (although still impassioned) than those of House. Jefferson fingerpicks runs all around his vocals (much in the style of mandolin playing, good example at 2’ 39”). He varies his accompaniment constantly, even introducing boogie-woogie riffs (at 1’ 30” and 2’13”). Much more melodic action on the guitar here than with the House recording, which, in turn, is rhythmically more forceful. Two artists generating individual styles by altering the blend of the guitar’s melodic and rhythmic qualities to complement their differing vocal styles. Another outstandingly proficient blues guitarist, Blind Willie McTell, finger-picks in a decorous style with fast arpeggio runs, stylistically hewing closer to Anglo-American folk styles, as illustrated in Statesboro Blues[8], recorded in 1928. The stylistic variation among these early blues guitarists is as individual as their singing voices, and one could devote a book to them. The most famous and lauded acoustic blues singer/guitarist was Robert Johnson who laid down most his recordings late in the acoustic blues recording boom. Phonograph Blues[9] is illustrative both of Johnson’s strumming/picking style that combines styles ranging from Son House through Blind Willie McTell, as well as a telling comment that Johnson was learning his licks from existing recordings. Technology was helping broaden the bluesman’s influences far beyond the confines of his region.

The 1920s and 1930s saw considerable demographic changes among the African-American population. Seeking better paying jobs and a daily existence that was not smothered by the overwhelming taint of institutionalized racism, large numbers of blacks migrated north to the big cities such as Chicago and Detroit. Cities provided clubs and steady work for the musicians who followed this migration. The close proximity of these clubs allowed musicians to check each other out, listen and jam.

The blues guitar playing underwent a radical change at the end of the 1930s. Two factors, one musical and one technical, lay behind this. Firstly, jazz music had co-opted blues forms and had generated a series of outstanding blues musicians such as Louis Armstrong, Sidney Bechet, and Earl Hines. But these were primarily trumpet, saxophone and piano players – musicians who could solo above a drum and bass rhythm section and still be heard. The quieter acoustic guitar was suited more for the role of rhythm. All this changed with the introduction of electrically powered amplification that, for the first time, allowed a guitar to be clearly heard above the propulsive rhythm section. One of the very earliest, if not the earliest, electric guitar blues was performed by jazz guitarist, trombonist and arranger Eddie Durham. Good Mornin’ Blues[10] from 1938 is a good example of jazz blues playing. Over a swing solid rhythm, courtesy of Count Basie’s rhythm section, Durham solos along with trumpet player Buck Clayton and bassist Walter Page, and provides warm, resonant harmonic underpinning elsewhere. His solo, 38 seconds into the song, packs a lot into a short period of time. A swift introductory phrase moves into lower register picking, then climbs up, utilizing both picked notes and strummed chords, and ends on a fast flourish. It’s perfectly proportioned and fits seamlessly into the overall jazz performance.

It’s worth emphasizing the radical differences that amplification allowed. With the introduction of a jazz-derived rhythm section, the guitarist was freed from rhythmic and harmonic duties if he wished to be. He could now solo freely in much the same way as a horn player.

Whether Eddie Durham prompted blues guitarist T-Bone Walker to switch form acoustic to electric or whether he picked it simply because ‘it was in the air’, the result was a series of groundbreaking performances that, growing from similar jazz roots, provided a stylistic blueprint for much of later blues and rock and roll guitar grew. With Walker, the electric guitar assumed an overarching prominence.

All of this in evidence in one of Walker’s earliest recordings Mean Old World[11], cut in 1942. After a brief descending chordal strummed introduction, T-Bone solos throughout the first verse of the blues, introducing phrases that would be recycled endlessly in blues and rock playing. He plays on and around the beat, leaves holes in the music, and 30 seconds into the song introduces a signature up-tempo flurry of notes that creates a rush of excitement – and would form one of the bedrocks of Chuck Berry’s playing style and, thus by extension, practically all of rock and roll guitar. At 43 seconds, he sets up a brief high register ostinato, again generating musical tension and excitement. By the time he starts singing, you have been completely drawn into the performance and he continues to punctuate his vocals with apt guitar phrases, fast finger picked runs or bell-like chords or simply no guitar at all. T-Bone, like the finest musicians, knows the value of silence.

T-Bone Walker’s style was a major influence on a far more celebrated blues guitarist/singer, B.B. King, as is evident from this 1951 recording Three O’Clock Blues[12] but that’s hardly a bad thing. Note the horn backing, again illustrating the invigorating influence of jazz upon the blues, but now integrated into the musical texture to provide a solid backdrop over which King sings and solos. From this, King’s playing evolved a highly individual high register stinging tone that soars above the increasingly loud amplified rhythm sections of 1950’s R&B bands. It is a style capable of floating evocatively over a ‘60s soul string and electric piano arrangement such as is found on The Thrill Is Gone[13].

One supremely individual blues electric guitar stylist emerged out the Detroit scene. John Lee Hooker was a throwback to the acoustic guitar styles of the deep South, but he chose to play them on the electric guitar. Thus Boogie Chillun [14] from 1949 emerges a beast clearly in the acoustic tradition, but the single string-led riffing – a riff that one might find on the horns in a small band and that continues throughout the whole song, punctuated only by rapidly strummed high register chords - is loud and in your face. Changing the dynamic between the voice and the accompaniment gives the performance a charged quality, hypnotic in its effect. Likewise the more conventional delta style – in a Robert Johnson/Delta Blues tradition – that Hooker uses on Crawling King Snake[15] emerges as altogether more menacing in this electric performance. These recordings provide yet another blueprint for the rock styles that would emerge most prominently in the 1960s and beyond.

So far finger picking, riffing and strumming. What happens if you add a blues bottleneck or slide to the electric guitar? Look no further than Elmore James. I Believe[16] , recorded in 1952, illustrates James’ roaring slide playing, drawn from Robert Johnson’s acoustic slide, that dominates the rocking small R&B group. Again, insistent ostinato guitar patterns underlie the performance, heavy with the vibrato that only a slide can produce, generating tension that releases only as the blues verses resolve. Plus it is in-your-face loud!

Listening to later performances by blues artists, it’s clear that whatever sheer musicianship is involved in placing the notes or generating a distinctive individual tone, almost everything that you hear has its clear antecedents in the music. Perhaps only in the 1960s was there a re-infusion of truly original creativity into blues guitar playing, and much of this was the product of even more technological innovation in the electric guitar. Although blues guitarist were not averse to making good use of the sonic qualities generated by a malfunctioning amp, truly reproducible electronic enhancements were the by-product of the burgeoning electronic music scene in the 1950s and 1960s. Hitherto uncontrolled elements, such as amplifier feedback, achieved startling precision in the hands of a guitarist such as Peter Green. The Supernatural[17], a track recorded in 1967 with John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers, an extraordinary example of controlled sustain (and a track that is a blueprint for Carlos Santana’s entire early career!). Note that this is an instrumental. Whether by accident or by design, the close link between guitar playing and singing established by the earliest pioneers was progressively loosened as the blues moved through the R&B phase of the 1940s and 1950s and this continued as blues became integrated into rock. Simply, there were not very many rock blues singers who could play guitar well and vice versa.

One exception towers above them all. The musician who most definitively blended a large gamut of electronic sounds into blues guitar playing is, of course, Jimi Hendrix. No recording better illustrates this than Voodoo Child (Slight Return)[18] with its opening wah-wah effects, crashingly distorted chords and waves of highly amplified sound permeating the performance. Yet this is still guitar blues. Hendrix also brought a highly individual singing style to his performances, laconic rather than impassioned in the Son House manner, but the contrast suited his guitar technique perfectly.

On one level, we could leave this overview just where it stands. But that would by most unsatisfying and the true reward of any undertaken project is the unexpected insight. This brief but intense listening survey has served to finally answer a conundrum that has bothered me ever since I was a young man – why are so many lengthy rock, blues, boogie and heavy metal guitar performances so stupefyingly boring? Finally I have the answer. The most convincing blues performances rely on maintaining a balance between the rock solid harmonic underpinning of the blues structure and the tension-generating methods of playing that have been elucidated above. Most extended rock performances fall into the trap of over-extending the stock guitar motifs and/or losing the solidity of the blues harmonic base. In live performance – when the very high volume levels effectively amplify every overtone to produce effectively a grounding drone – or under the influence of mind altering drugs, these musical shortcomings may not be shortcomings at all. But removed from such environments, the music – and I am thinking of the live recordings of Cream as an example here – falls flat.

Only one extended blues-rock recording convinces me on all levels and that is The Velvet Underground’s Sister Ray[19]. Sister Ray, which is based on a basic blues chord pattern much in the manner of Louie Louie, succeeds completely not least because John Cale, importing drone and monotony techniques drawn directly from LaMonte Young’s Dream Syndicate, establishes a true trance-like atmosphere. But above Cale’s organ cacophony (Cale very carefully generates his extreme dissonance by progressively modifying the basic blues chords of the song), we hear blues licks galore, and seven and a half minutes into the performance a perfectly proportioned blues guitar solo, rich in sustain and feedback, from Lou Reed. A second solo at 13’ 25” is even more stunning, not least because Maureen Tucker’s drumming, which has been maintaining a steady foot tap throughout, starts to break up and the rhythm guitar is progressively amplified giving us a series of Son House-style slashing chords. This is one performance from a band (that is not considered a blues-rock band at all!) that suggests a deep and profound understanding of the music. Nor would Lou Reed be considered a blues singer, but his vocal style is not that far removed from Jimi Hendrix and again suits perfectly the extraordinary noise that his band generated. I have played this track perhaps over one thousand times since I first came across it in the early 1970s, and still find surprises and extraordinary touches within. Tracing the roots of the blues as I have done here is revealing many more.

[1] Calt, Stephen. Liner notes to Henry Thomas – Texas Worries Blues, Yazoo CD 1080/0 1989

[2] From Henry Thomas – Texas Worries Blues, Yazoo CD 1080/0 1989

[3] From Henry Thomas – Texas Worries Blues, Yazoo CD 1080/0, 1989

[4] Lomax, Alan. Notes from CD The Land Where The Blues Began Rounder CD 82121-1861-2, 2002

[5] House, Son, with Fiddlin’ Joe Martin, Willie Brown & Leroy Williams Walking Blues from The Land Where The Blues Began Rounder CD 82121-1861-2, 2002

[6] House, Son from Blues Masters, Volume 8:Mississippi Delta Blues Rhino R2 71130

[7] Jefferson, Blind Willie Matchbox Blues from The Best Of Blind Lemon Jefferson Yazoo 2057

[8] McTell, Blind Willie Statesboro Blues from The Classic Years 1227-1940: Atlanta JSP Records 77114

[9] Johnson, Robert Phonograph Blues (Take 2) from The Complete Recordings Columbia Legacy C2K 46222

[10] Kansas City Six featuring Eddie Durham, Good Mornin’ Blues from Away From Base JSP Records 923C

[11] Walker, T-Bone Mean Old World from The Original Source – T-Bone Blues Proper Records Properbox 38

[12] King, B.B. Three O’Clock Blues from The Modern Records Blues Story Fuel Records 302 061 345 2

[13] King, B.B. The Thrill Is Gone from Anthology MCA 088 112 410-2. Interestingly the original version of this song by Roy Hawkins was a contemporary release on Modern Records with King’s Three O’Clock Blues

[14] Hooker, John Lee Boogie Chillen from The Modern Records Blues Story Fuel Records 302 061 345 2

[15] Hooker, John Lee Crawling King Snake from The Classic Early Years 1948-1951 JSP Records JSPCD7703

[16] James, Elmore I Believe from Blues Masters, Volume 8:Mississippi Delta Blues Rhino R2 71130

[17] Mayall, John with Peter Green The Supernatural from London Blues 1964-1969 Deram P2 44302

[18] Hendrix, Jimi Voodoo Child (Slight Return) from Electric Ladyland Reprise W2-6307

[19] The Velvet Underground Sister Ray from Peel Slowly And See Polydor 31452 7078-2

They don't write 'em like they used to

2005-12-12T21:44:00.000-06:00

Another essay project from my recent music course - Early Ragtime and Blues lyrics.

It was something of a surprise to read, in Edward Berlin’s contribution to Ragtime: Its History, Composers and Music[1], that ragtime in its heyday is not typified by renditions of piano gems such as Joplin’s The Entertainer and Maple Leaf Rag, but rather by a large and very popular set of songs. Considering that the only song I, and probably most other people, associate with ragtime is Irving Berlin’s Alexander’s Ragtime Band – a song that isn’t even in ragtime – it’s clear that we are dealing with largely buried history here. The early blues songs may also be largely unknown outside of W.C. Handy’s St. Louis Blues but at least there is a sense that the song was the fundamental manifestation of the blues, even as the form was incorporated into the developing instrumental style of early New Orleans jazz. So why bury ragtime song?

The answer is not in the music clearly. The ragtime revival that began in the 1940s and gathered pace ever since has reintegrated ragtime instrumental music into the vernacular idiom, where is remains popular if not massively so. But the songs have died, and the reason has to lie with the texts. It is instructive here to introduce a song that is considered one of the first, if not the first, ragtime songs. From the pen of African-American songwriter, Ben Harney, we have the 1895 song All Coons Look Alike To Me and this chorus:

All coons like alike to me

I’ve got another beau, you see,

And he’s just as good to me

As you, nig! ever tried to be,

He spends his money free[2]

Not a song that most performers would be comfortable with today. The sad fact is that a large number of ragtime songs are also what came to be called coon songs, and the main lyrical content is based on an outgrowth of the minstrel song’s stereotypical and dehumanizing view of the African-American. An outgrowth that seems even more starkly racist and degrading, in that the stereotype is more negatively drawn and what initially might across as amusement has turned to ridicule and belittlement. And yet, these words came from the hand of an African-American, and Harney was not the only example. Why?

The reason is quite simple. These songs sold. In fact, they were so popular that newspapers included free coon song sheet music in their Sunday supplements, thereby spreading the coon song throughout middle class America[3]. They clearly amused and delighted the predominantly white audience that played and listened to these songs. In doing so, they tell us a great deal about contemporary white society’s attitude to the black man that was clearly patronizing at best and contemptuous and hateful at worst. The fact that an African-American composer such as Harney was able to make some money through these debasing songs might seem like small compensation, but in reality it was a sign of significant financial empowerment of African-Americans in the entertainment industry that compensates in some ways for the acceptance of the negative stereotype. But that was a high price to pay.

So if the ragtime song began and flourished as a series of racist generalizations aimed to amuse whites, where does the concurrently developing blues song fit into this?

The most important point to make about the blues song, and one that is responsible entirely for its character and content, is that it is a song aimed at the African-American listener. Blues was not a music for whites. Indeed it was not even a music for educated middle-class blacks. W.C. Handy may be known as ‘the father of the blues’, but he was ignorant of the music until he came across it in a Southern railway station as an adult. This illustrates the deep folk roots of blues music, and blues songs share the characteristics of folk songs. They are songs about real people, their real lives and their real feelings. There are lyrical conventions and poetical formulae in blues songs, but these serve to support the reality conveyed in the lyric, whereas similar structural elements in the coon song serve to prop up the stereotype.

The coon song survived only as long as it was publicly acceptable to voice such sentiments, and as ragtime developed the public taste for such songs diminished. Ironically, the continuing distaste generated by such songs has led to their expulsion from collections of 1890s songs, such as Favorite Songs Of The Nineties[4]. One can understand this from a political point of view, but it creates bad history that mirrors the selective forgetfulness that applies to much of the chronicle of the slaves and their descendents in the United States. How can one hope to understand if one does not know?

A different kind of forgetfulness applies to the blues song. Largely insulated from commercial consideration until the explosion wrought by the recording industry in the mid-1920s, it developed as a folk music, indifferent to commercial concerns and very much dependent on the oral method of promulgation. Unfortunately, the inherent fragility of maintaining music in this way makes for a spotty history. One is always struck by how the blues appears to spring fully formed, like a Pallas Athena from the head of Zeus, into the vernacular of the fin-de-siècle. One would suppose, though, that the form existed, evolved and was promulgated through African-American society well before it was transcribed or recorded. Such pre-blues developments died with their practitioners, leading only tantalizing clues with a handful of black musicians who lived long enough and were fortunate enough to be recorded[5].

So what we have to work with when we compare these songs is inevitably restricted by the mask of history. Nonetheless, there is enough to get a feel for the differences between the texts of the blues and the ragtime song.

Frankly, there is no better place to begin with than All Coons Look Alike To Me[6]:

Verse 1.

Talk about a coon a having trouble

I thing I have enough of ma own

Its all about ma Lucy Janey Stubbles

And she has caused my heart to mourn

Thar's anotherer coon barber from Virginia

In soei'ty he's the leader of the day

And now ma honey gal is gwine to quit me

Yes she’s gone and drove this coon away

She'd no excuse, To turn me loose,

I've been abused, I'm all confused

Cause these words she did say

Chorus:

All coons like alike to me

I’ve got another beau, you see,

And he’s just as good to me

As you, nig! ever tried to be,

He spends his money free

Verse 2.

Never said a word to hurt her feelings

always bou't her presents by the score

And now my brain with sorrow am a reeling

Cause she won't accept them any more

If I treated her she may have loved me,

Like all the rest she's gone and let me down

If I'm luck-y I'm a gwine to catch my policy

And win my sweet thing way from town

For I'm worried, Yes I'm desp'rate

I've been Jonahed, And I'll get dang'rous

Repeat Chorus

Hogan’s song does make one attempt to lift itself up, I've been Jo-nahed, And I'll get dang'rous, with the biblical reference and the sense that the story is not over yet. Furthermore, he is clearly sufficiently prosperous to have established a life-insurance policy. This puts it outside the mainstream of ragtime coon songs where even a narrative is jettisoned, and the song serves simply to stereotype. Other songs clearly tip the balance in favor of white supremacy. For example Coon! Coon! Coon![7], published in 1900 by Gene Jefferson and Leo Friedman with the completely unedifying lyric:

Verse

Although it’s not my color

I'm feeling mighty blue

I've got a lot of trouble,

I'll tell it all to you

I'm certainly clean disgusted

With life, and that's a fact

Because my hair is woolly

And because my color's black

My gal she took a notion

Against the colored race

She said if I would win her

I'd have to change my face

She said if she should wed me

That she's regret it soon

And now I'm shook, yes, good and hard

Because I am a coon

Chorus

Coon! Coon Coon!

I wish my color would fade

Coon! Coon! Coon!

Morning night and noon

I wish I was a white man

'Stead of a

Coon! Coon! Coon! Coon!

Verse

I've had my face enameled

I've had my hair made straight

I dressed up like a white man

And certainly did look great

Then started out to see her

Just shortly after dark

But on the way to meet my babe

I had to cross a park

Just as I was thinking

I had things fixed up right

I passed a tree where two doves

Sat making love at night

They stopped and looked me over

I saw my finish soon

When both those birds said good and loud

"Coo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oon"

Repeat Chorus[8]

The first year of the 20^th century can fairly be said to represent a nadir in the fortunes of African-Americans and no better social commentary than “Coon! Coon! Coon!” could be found to illustrate the point. With the 1896 Supreme Court decision, Plessy vs. Ferguson, racial discrimination was legalized, and local governments on Southern states lost no time in disenfranchising African-American citizens of their voting rights. Jim Crow laws codified endlessly humiliating forms of discrimination, and lynch mobs and the growing Ku Klux Klan terrorized and murdered. In 1900 alone, 107 African-Americans were killed by white mobs[9].

Ragtime coon songs persisted well into the new century, but as the years went by, some of the more vicious language was moderating. A new genre, the “jungle song” emerged to rival the coon song, most prominently Under The Bamboo Tree by Cole & Johnson:

Down in the jungles lived a maid

Of royal blood though dusky shade

A marked impression once she made

Upon a Zulu from Matabooloo

And every morning he would be

Down underneath a bamboo tree

Awaiting there his love to see

And then to her he’s sing

Chorus

If you lak-a-me, lak I lak a-you

And we lak-a-both the same

I lak-a say, this very day

I lak-a-change your name

Cause I love-a-you and love-a-you true

And if you-a love-a me

One love as two, two live as one

Under the bamboo tree[10]

Another later and perhaps less celebrated example is The Aba Daba Honeymoon by Arthur Fields and Walter Donovan “as featured by Ruth Roye, The Princess of Ragtime”.[11] This, at least, had the good graces to shift the subject from African to simian:

‘Way down in the Congo-land

Lived a happy chimpanzee

She loved a monkey with a long tail

(Lordy, how she loved him!)

Each night he would find her there

Swinging in the cocoanut tree

And the monkey gay, with the break of day

Loved to hear his Chimpie say

Chorus

Aba, daba, daba, daba, daba, daba, dab

Said the Chimpie to the Monk,

Baba, daba, daba, daba, daba, daba, dab

Said the Monkey to the Chimp

All night long they were happy and gay

Swinging and singing in their hunky, tonkey way

Aba, daba, daba, daba, daba, daba, dab

means “Monk I do love you”

“Baba, daba, dab” in monkey talk

means “Chimp, I love you too”

Then the big baboon, one night in June

He married them, and very soon

They went up on their

Aba, daba honey moon, moon

And they say they don’t write ‘em like they used to…(Flintstones excepted)! The lyrics of both these songs are infantile – these are practically nursery rhymes, but, and perhaps as a consequence, became widely known. So much so, as Berlin points out, that T.S. Eliot parodies the style in his poem “Fragment of an Agon”[12] – although this seems hardly necessary given the element of self-parody already present in these songs. Coon ragtime songs did not die out under with the new fad for “jungle” songs, but, again, there was strong evidence of moderation in tone. Consider Herm Siewert and E. Gil Perry’s The Coon-Town Rag[13](1913)

Down across a border lives a ragtime coon

Who plays upon a banjo such a ragtime tune

We slides and sways as he sings and plays

Such a syncopated trance

And I’m gone, that’s all

When that man does call

Oh that Coontown Rag, Coontown Rag

Don’t you want to come and dance that Moontown Rag

First you wiggle then you giggle, dance it now

If you don’t know how it’s done

Come to me, I’ll show you how.

Dance it here, dance it there

Make you think you’re doing a ‘Bear’

Spoontown , Loontown

Oh that Coontown Rag

Oh that Rag

Here we have the crazy loon who makes music to put you in a wonderfully altered state. Presumably a white authored song, one can sense the yearning to partake of this magic, underscoring the ambivalence of the white man who senses attractive qualities here beyond his natural understanding. This may not seem like much, but the change from downright derision to a kind of admiration is a long step.

Ironically (or perhaps not), having reached this level, the craze for ragtime song faded away. The later high water mark was a song that is perhaps the most famous ragtime song of all, Alexander’s Ragtime Band - a song that is really ragtime in name only. By this time the term ragtime had spread to cover all swinging popular music[14]. Including early blues songs. W.C. Handy’s Memphis Blues is subtitled A Southern Rag, and his Yellow Dog Blues was originally titled Yellow Dog Rag. So it would be instructive to examine these early songs, rags in name only, to see how they compare lyrically with what we have seen so far.

The Memphis Blues:[15]

You want to be my man, you got to give me forty dollars down

You want to be my man, you’ll give me forty dollars down

If you don’t be my man, your baby’s gonna shake this town

Mister Crump don’t ‘low no easy riders here

Crump don’t ‘low no easy riders here

We don’t care what Mr. Crump don’t ‘low

We gonna bar’lhouse any how

Mr. Crump can go and catch hiself some air

I'm goin' down the river goin' down the river

Goin' to take my rockin' chair

Goin' to the river goin' to take my rockin' chair

Blues overtake me, goin' to rock away from here

Oh de Mississippi river, Mississippi river so deep and wide

I said the Mississippi river's so deep and wide

Man I love he is on the other side

The Yellow Dog Blues (Yellow Dog Rag)

E'er since Miss Susan Johnson lost her Jockey, Lee

There has been much excitement, more to be;

You can hear her moaning night and morn.

Wonder where my Easy Rider's gone?

Cablegrams come of sympathy

Telegrams go of inquiry

Letters come from down in "Bam"

And everywhere that Uncle Sam

Has even a rural delivery.

All day the phone rings

But it's not for me,

At last good tidings

Fill our hearts with glee,

This message comes from Tennessee.

Chorus:

Dear Sue your Easy Rider struck this burg today

On a south bound rattler side door Pullman car

Seen him there an' he was on the hog.

(The smoke was broke, no joke,

Not a Jitney on him)

Easy rider's got a stay away

So he had to vamp it but the hike ain't far.

He's gone where the Southern 'cross' the Yellow Dog.

I know the Yellow Dog District like a book,

Indeed I know the route that rider took

Every cross-tie, Bayou, burg and bog.

Way down where the Southern cross' the Dog,

Money don't zactly grow on trees

On cotton stalks it grows with ease;

No race horse, race track, no grandstand

Is like Old Beck an Buck shot land,

Down where the Southern cross' the Dog.

Every kitchen there is a cabaret

Down there the Boll Weevil works

While the darkies play

This Yellow Dog Blues

The live-long day.

What we notice here? Well, firstly there is absolutely no mention whatsoever of the word coon! The only descriptive noun for the black man is the relatively neutral darkies. Consequently, neither song is condescending nor patronizing, and the protagonists are described in terms that reflect their real status as human beings. In many ways, this is the most important and significant difference of all, for everything else that follows in the blues relies on the deep seriousness with which the songs treat the humanity of the African American. Not that the blues cannot be humorous, deprecatory or afraid to reveal the darker side of living, but in every case the sentiment is grounded in real life.

Secondly, the lyrics reveal in much richer detail the minutiae of African-American life. W.C. Handy is probably a songwriter more akin to A.P. Carter than a truly original spirit – both artists were sensitive to the music around them, and then slightly distilled it to produce their songs. Thus, with Handy we first come across much of the terminology that fills blues songs – the easy rider[16]of Yellow Dog Blues is a good example here. The famous St. Louis Blues[17] introduces jelly-roll[18] (below)

I hate to see de ev’nin’ sun go down,

'Cause ma baby, he done lef dis town.

Feelin’ tomorrow, lak ah feel today,

Feel tomorrow, lak ah feel today,

I'll pack my trunk, make ma git-a-way.

St. Louis woman, wid her diamon’ rings,

Pulls dat man roun’ by her apron strings.

‘Twant fer for powder and fer store-bought hair,

De man ah love would not gone nowhere, nowhere.

Chorus

Got de St. Louis blues, jes as blue as ah can be,

Dat man's got a heart lak a rock cast in the sea,

Or else he wouldn't have gone so far from me.

I loves dat man lak-a a schoo-boy loves his pie

Like a Kentucky Col’nel loves his mint an’ rye

I’ll love ma baby till the day ah die

Verse

Been to see the Gypsy to get ma’ fortune tole

To see the Gypsy to get ma’ fortune tole

Cause I’m most wile ‘bout ma Jelly Roll

Gypsy done tole me, “Don’t you wear no black.”

Yes she done tole, “Don’t you wear no black,

Go back to St. Louis, you can win him back.”

Help me to Cairo, make St. Louis by ma-self

Git to Cairo, find ma ole friend Jeff.

Gwine to pin ma-self close to his side

If ah flag his train, I sho’ can ride

Chorus

A black-headed gal makes a freight train jump the track

Said a black-headed gal makes a freight train jump the track

But a long tall gal makes a preacher ball the Jack

Lawd, a blonde-headed woman makes a good man leave the town

I said a blonde-headed woman makes a good man leave the town

But a red-headed woman makes a boy slap his papa down

Verse

You ought to see dat stove-pipe brown of mine

Lak he owns di Di-mon Jos-eph line

He’ll make a cross-eyed o’-man go ston blin’

Blacker than midnight, teeth lak flags of truce

Blackest man in de whole St. Louis

Blacker de berry, sweeter am de juice

About a crap game, he knows a pow’ful lot

But when work-time comes, he’s on de dot.

Gwine to ask him for a cold ten-spot

What it takes to git it, he’s certainly got

Chorus

Oh ashes to ashes – and dust to dust

I said ashes to ashes – and dust to dust

If my blues don’t get you, my jazzing must

The subject matter is diverse - lost love, gambling, magic, trains, sex, alcohol, the boll weevil, death, women, men, the Mississippi river, Southern towns and cities, the telephone, the morning, the evening, the sun and most importantly of all, pride in being black. All of these are touched upon in these three songs forming virtually a blueprint for almost every blues to follow, and Handy deserves great credit for his perception of the essence of the form. Musically, Handy’s blues are more complex than the 12-bar, no chorus, archetype that was to eventually define the form, but the structure is clear. These are true blues songs.

Thus from the very beginning it is important to realize that the blues is not just about being blue. The form implies a melancholy and a lamentation, but is flexible enough to convey completely opposite sentiments. What it does do is to radiate meaning through the prism of the African-American experience, and that, with its history of slavery, bigotry and condescension, projects a unique colored spectrum.

I could go on to introduce a number of other early blues songs, but it would not change the message already so clearly broadcast in these three progenitors of the form. The style and substance of the blues song and ragtime song, although ostensibly drawn from the same African-American culture, could not be more different as I think has been clearly shown here. There is good reason why, for example, St. Louis Blues is as renowned today as it was then (although perhaps less well known than in its heyday), and there is good reason why All Coons Look Alike To Me is forgotten outside of the history books. The former song is an affirmation of humanity, the latter an awful artifact of a time when it was fashionable to deny people with different colored skins the respect due to them.

[1] Hasse, John Edward (ed.) Ragtime: Its History, Composers and Music Smithsonian Institute 1985

[2] Harney, Ben All Coons Look Alike To Me quoted in Ragtime: Its History, Composers and Music Smithsonian Institute 1985 p. 72

[3] Berlin, Edward in Ragtime: Its History, Composers and Music Smithsonian Institute 1985 p. 74.

[4] Cole & Johnson Bros. Under The Bamboo Tree from Fremont, Robert A. (ed.) Favorite Songs Of The Nineties Dover Publications 1973 pp.330-33

[5] e.g Henry Thomas – see the Blues Guitar project.

[6] Harney, Ben All Coons Look Alike To Me complete lyric at: http://www.thehackley.org/viewer/?nam=All+coons+look+alike+to+me&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;im1=1&imN=4&img=0001&ext=.jpg&url=http://www.thehackley.org//dplhacsm/display/dpl-hac-11125-

[7] Jefferson, G and Friedman, Leo Coon! Coon! Coon! quoted online at The Hackley Organization http://www.thehackley.org/viewer/?nam=Coon%21+coon%21+coon%21&im1=1&imN=4&img=0001&ext=.jpg&url=http://www.thehackley.org//dplhacsm/display/dpl-hac-11665-

[8] There is an online recording of this song, sung by Glen Orhlin, Mountain View, Arkansas on October 7, 1969, in the Max Hunter Folk Song Collection archive http://www.missouristate.edu/folksong/maxhunter/1020/

It is sung in the, flat, unexpressive manner of an Anglo-American folk song, creating a weird disconnect between the lyrics and the performance.

[9] Hasse, John Edward (ed.) Ragtime: Its History, Composers and Music Smithsonian Institute 1985 p. 9

[10] Cole & Johnson Bros. Under The Bamboo Tree from Fremont, Robert A. (ed.) Favorite Songs Of The Nineties Dover Publications 1973 pp. 330-333

[11] Field, A and Donovan, Walter The Aba Daba Honeymoon collected in The Saint Louis Blues And Other Hit Songs of 1914 Sandy Marrone ed. 1990 Dover Publications p. 1

[12] Hasse, John Edward (ed.) Ragtime: Its History, Composers and Music Smithsonian Institute 1985 p. 79

[13] Siewert, H and Perry, E. Gil The Coon Town Rag http://www.thehackley.org/viewer/?nam=That+coon+town+rag&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;im1=1&imN=5&img=0002&ext=.jpg&url=http://www.thehackley.org//dplhacsm/display/dpl-hac-11928-

[14] Berlin, Edward in Hasse, John Edward (ed.) Ragtime: Its History, Composers and Music Smithsonian Institute 1985 p. 77

[15] Handy, W.C. The Memphis Blues (1912) from Handy W.C. (ed.), Blues, An Anthology McMillan 1926,1949,1972 pp. 70-73

[16] Typically a woman of easy virtue or sexual prowess – or both – although in the context of this song it could equally well apply to a man. See Oliver, Paul The Meaning Of The Blues Collier Books 1963,1969 pp.144-145.

[17] Handy, W.C. St Louis Blues from Handy W.C. (ed.), Blues, An Anthology McMillan 1926,1949,1972

[18] Although the meaning is still somewhat ambiguous at this stage, jelly roll as a term for sexual intercourse became popular and much less ambiguous – particularly in the songs of Bessie Smith and other early blues singers. See Oliver, Paul The Meaning Of The Blues Collier Books 1963,1969 pp.146-147.

A one inch square box

2005-12-11T09:41:00.000-06:00

Followed a lead into my blog this morning that led back to Trumpet Army Opposite another of many blogs steeped in the minutiae of indie/underground/alternative - doesn't matter what you call it.

Why is it that I found this blog, as I find so many of the same type, relentlessly confining rather than expanding? Part of it has to do with the cliquishness of the writing and the self-contained nature. It takes me right back to my college days when I was surrounded by so-called music lovers of exactly the same bent, the type who know every detail of band xyz that had made, maybe, only one single that had sold 10 copies, but is clearly the greatest thing to ever come along. I began to realise that many music fans want to stay in a one inch square box, knowing every detail within, but treating the vast universe outside with scorn, ridicule and distrust.

Not a wholly unreasonable attitude, given the vast amounts of trash out there, but ultimately far too restrictive to allow growth. Even today, after 48 years, I feel I have barely scratched the surface of what's out there.

100th Window

2005-12-10T21:34:00.000-06:00

The trend towards musical synthesis in the 1980s reached its first truly groundbreaking plateau with Massive Attack's Blue Lines from the beginning of the 1990s. Soulful and seamless, this record influenced dance and pop throughout the decade to follow as well as spawning an entire sub-genre - trip-hop. Massive Attack were hardly prolific though, and 100th Window, released in 2003 was only their fourth album. Only one member of the original group remained, Robert del Naja, and the record was relatively coolly received with many criticizing it for its apparent similarity to 1998's Mezzanine.

But I remember a similar backlash against their second album, Protection. That album has only grown in stature over the years though, even allowing that it is not quite as good as Blue Lines, and I feel the same will happen with 100th Window.

100th Window is easily Massive Attack's most spacey recording, with a clear ambient aesthetic underpinning the material. The beats are much less insistent, and it seems clear to me that the influence of 1990s artists such as Aphex Twin has been taken on board. Some of the cuts are almost Pink Floydian (at their most spacey) or similar to Disintegration-era Cure, sharing the long introductions, harmonic stasis and drone effects. It's a very dark record, almost unremittingly gloomy, and even Sinead O'Connor's (perhaps not an ideal vocalist for this band) songs fail to break the mood. Nonetheless, despite the darkness, the feel is different from vintage Cure or Joy Division. For despite its apparent sparseness, the music is more inventive and richly colored - one of Massive Attack's greatest strengths and not lost here. The rhythms are complex and insistent; this is definitely a groove record despite a retreat from more overt dance influences. The record repays repeated listening and remains attractive.

No, it's not as stunning as Mezzanine was, but it's just as good as Protection, and it is definitely worth owning.

Soul Mining

2005-12-10T09:23:00.000-06:00

When the history of rock music finally begins to sort out the detritus of the bad from the good, it will become clear that the 1980s was just as rich a period for the art as the prior three decades. This is already happening - after all even the 1980s are a long time ago now. The decade is important in that it was the first to begin the true multi-faceted synthesis that has characterized the best rock ever since then. Rock began to lose its strict stratification as pioneering artists began to seamlessly integrate rock forms. Hardly surprising, considering most of then had grown up listening to the diverse forms of the music from the 1950s to the late 1970s, all of which are characterized by the relative facility by which they can be distinguished. Easy stuff to categorize "School Of Rock"-style on a blackboard.

This all changed in the 1980s. Although there were 'synthesizer' groups, 'guitar' groups, 'dance' artists, the divisions between them were blurring fast. Even bands with as distinctive as sound as U2, The Smiths or R.E.M., rapidly augmented their music with a host of external influences (in some cases more successfully than others) so that their latter output gained a complexity that was barely hinted at in their beginnings. One could say that this is the ultimate and most important result of the over-arching influence of The Beatles, but in the case of that band many of their latter genre-sampling experiments are not fully realised (I am referring primarily to the band's output from The Beatles to Abbey Road here - in many ways their earlier music is much more accomplished). It took until the 1980s for young musicians to fully and completely internalize the myriad influences such that their music has no trace whatsoever of artifice. (David Bowie is another example of an early integrative musician whose music still carries traces of conscious artifice, albeit with more success than that latter Beatles' recordings - it is striking how much difficulty Bowie had in sustaining high quality output during the 1980s, a time that, on its face, would seem most accepting of his earlier experimentation).

The The, basically a vehicle for singer/songwriter Matt Johnson, emerged in 1986 with "Soul Mining" as an absolute master of this integrative style. All of the songs on that album are triumphs of amalgamation. Containing guitar, synthesizer and dance elements, and stylistic borrowings from pop, rock, soul, funk, country - in essence every popular form that was in currrency particularly from the 1960s to 1970s - the record is a true potpourri. But in no sense is their any feeling of borrowing; all these elements are integral to the music. Thus "Soul Mining" is an extraordinarily successful record that is a treat to listen to over and over again. Add to this Johnson's acid lyrical commentary on the decline of modern Britain into a culture of vapid materialism, and you have a record that is a true masterpiece.

It is instructive to compare "Soul Mining" with many of the more celebrated albums made during the first true synthetic flowering of rock, the period 1966-1969. Records such as "Sgt. Pepper", Love's "Forever Changes" The Kinks' "Something Else" and "The Who Sell Out" are all remarkably inventive and successful albums. But the feel of these records, even allowing for a similarly detached and cynical lyrical bias in the writing of John Lennon, Arthur Lee, Ray Davies and Pete Townshend, is quite different. The element of experimentation is foremost, generating wildly exciting and interesting but not necessarily well-integrated music. The experimentation is what stands out first, the songcraft follows.

In contrast, by the time of "Soul Mining", the element of experimentation is so seemlessly melded into the songcraft, that you don't even notice much of the extraordinary invention until you have fully assimilated the songs.

Show Boat

2005-12-08T21:49:00.000-06:00

The recent course I took on American Music required a number of projects - one of these was an appreciation I wrote of Kern and Hammerstein's musical Show Boat. Rather than let it gather dust, I will put it out here.

The 1927 production of Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein II’s Show Boat is often characterized as the beginning of the age of ‘serious’ Broadway musicals – shows that dealt with weighty subjects in a dramatic and forceful manner, free of either overt melodrama or its opposite. As such, it involved considerable risk on the part of the producers who chose to break with the lightweight dramatic tradition hitherto established as the successful commercial model of the American musical. Its success established the serious musical as a viable enterprise, even although many later exercises in the style failed, and many far less profound musicals continued to be successful. One can consider it as broadening the dramatic palette of the musical rather then effecting a sea-change but there is no doubt that the doors opened encouraged later musical masterworks such as Gershwin’s Porgy And Bess, the great Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals – Oklahoma, South Pacific, Carousel etc. and the Kurt Weill works, such as Lady In The Dark.

Edna Ferber was on her way to establishing herself as a successful author by the time she came to write Show Boat, and did so largely consequent to a fortunate conversation with the producer of her failed Broadway play, Old Man Minick. Winthrop Ames’s humorous suggestion that he would simply hire a showboat for his next production stimulated Ferber’s curiosity. This rapidly developed into a full-blown enthusiasm that led Ferber to interview any ex or current showboat performer she could find in New York and a visit to the showboat owners Beulah and Charles Hunter. By the summer of 1925, Ferber had accumulated enough background material to take herself off to the unlikely locale of coastal village in the French Pyrenees and write her second novel about life on the Mississippi[1] - a river she had never even seen![2]

She chose to cast the narrative through the eyes of three women, grandmother, mother and daughter who’s lives are shaped by the boat and the men who engaged with her, either deeply or in passing. The story does not follow a direct chronology, instead beginning with the birth of the daughter, Kim, named for (K)entucky, (I)llinois and (M)ississippi – and branching back and then forward in time. Undoubtedly, the main character of the book, and indeed the main plank upon which it is structured, is the Mississippi River itself, with its mostly steady and stately progress interrupted by flashes of high and even deadly drama as the river asserts its will above and beyond that of man. The human drama follows a similar pattern. Indeed there is relatively little dialogue in the book, and what there is pithy and highly dramatic. Characters are well, if not overtly deeply, drawn and provide strong contrasts in their outlooks, styles of living and eventual fate. This is not a novel of subtle distinctions, and thus does not require a good deal of work on the part of the reader to understand it. While this may prevent it from reaching the levels of the great novel, it provides a sturdy underpinning to anchor an accessible dramatic creation. Thus it is not hard to understand why Jerome Kern would regard Show Boat as eminently suitable as the source for a musical stage drama.

We can be thankful to John McGlinn[3] for a true appreciation of Show Boat the musical as originally performed, for he chose to record a version as close to the original 1927 performance version as was possible. Not an altogether easy task, as Show Boat, more than many musicals, was subject to cuts and revisions within a handful of years after its first performance, all of which altered the dramatic balance of the play. It took diligence and research to assemble the complete score, and it took some fortitude to record it as written, given the language used. Show Boat begins with the singing of that most reprehensible word – nigger – yet this is no coon song as we will see.

But first let’s outline the narrative as outlined by Edna Ferber’s book and then compare that with Oscar Hammerstein’s ‘book’ – the jargon used by writers of musicals for the libretto.

As mentioned above, we begin with Kim’s birth. Kim Ravenal, that is, thus ensuring that we know the central part Gaylord Ravenal will play in the story as soon as his name is mentioned. Kim is born on a boat in the midst of the Mississippi at its most dangerous, swelled with floodwater and with a rainstorm breaking overhead. We are in turn introduced to Kim’s near-spent mother, Magnolia, and her prim, efficient grandmother, Parthenia Hawks as she tends to her daughter. Her grandfather, Captain Andy Hawks follows, and finally we meet Gaylord Ravenal, ‘rain-soaked and mud-splattered’[4] following his snaring of a young inexperienced and ineffectual doctor’s assistant who is astonished to witness the midwife stimulate the Magnolia’s final expultorary push by filling the poor mother-to-be’s nose with snuff. The first chapter ends with Magnolia whispering to her husband, “Fooled them”, a reference not to those who expected a boy instead of a girl, but to the elements that had prematurely initiated her labor, and confined her to the boat. The elements, of course, including “The River”[5].

Thus from the very beginning, Ferber establishes the practically God-like properties of the Mississippi, a theme that runs throughout the book. She then abruptly breaks the narrative flow to cast back in time to Magnolia Hawks’ childhood, establishing the prim and proper character of her mother Parthenia, a character not-quite-so proper as to reject the advances of a lively and high-spirited suitor, Capt. Andy Hawks.

Much is made of Parthenia’s reluctance to engage with her husband’s other love-affair, his steamer, and only fitfully is she brought on board, ruffling feathers as she does so with her outright disapproval of the boatman’s life. Not so for the young Magnolia, who drinks in every aspect as she rides the river with her father. But the steamboat passenger business is starting to fail as the railroads more swiftly and conveniently convey their customers, and Capt. Andy is casting about for an alternative source of revenue. When a local showboat, The Cotton Blossom, comes up for sale he resolves to purchase her – without telling his river-averse spouse. A dream come true for Capt. Andy, who has spent his youth – a hitherto closed book to his wife – as a show boat actor.

“CAPT. ANDY HAWKS COTTON BLOSSOM FLOATING PALACE THEATRE[6]” now enters the tale, heedless to the near marriage-breaking protests of Parthenia. The boat – and through it the river – shatters the last of Parthnia’s landlubbing ways through the medium of two pretty young actresses, Julie Dozier and Elly Chipley. Their easy friendliness and proximity to her husband ensure that Parthenia comes on board for good.

The Cotton Blossom enters center stage in Chapter 4 of Show Boat and stays there until Chapter 13. It is here that we meet most of the characters that will become central to the musical. Early on, we are introduced to Julie Dozier’s husband Steve, cast in the role villain on the stage of the Cotton Blossom. Julie herself acts as a foil for Elly, who’s husband Schultzy plays a young man’s leading role. Along with Mr. And Mrs. Means (general business), Frank, the heavy, and Ralph, the handyman, they were all ‘like one big family’.[7] Not a happy family – Ferber makes it clear from the start that neither Capt. Andy nor anyone else was under any illusion that jealousies and dischords were absent.

Music was provided by George, playing the steam calliope as the boat approached an engagement at a riverside town or the piano during performance. Sounds that filled Magnolia’s ears. But she heard much more. Observing the African-American roustabouts, Magnolia learns songs such as “Down The Ohio”, quoted in the novel. She grows to adore Julie, as we learn of Julie’s attractiveness not only to her husband, but the men around and especially Pete, the engineer of the Cotton Blossom’s towboat, the Mollie Able. Pete plies Julie with unwanted gifts, some of which make their way to Queenie, the cook. Queenie and Jo, her husband, sing spirituals in the kitchen – more music that enters Magnolia’s blood. One, “I Got Shoes”, is reproduced, with music, in the text[8]. George teaches her to play the piano, but the real soul music comes from Queenie and Jo.

We meet Windy, the taciturn pilot, who is one of the few members of the crew indifferent to and capable of overcoming Parthenia’s endless efforts to ‘civilize’ the boat. A figure of implacable force, experience and stature, he embodies the river even as he masters it.

With the showboat’s muster finally fully established, Ferber abruptly breaks it up in Chapter VII, using one of the inhumane statutes that comprised the infamous “Jim Crow” laws as her weapon, and then recasts it to set up the central love affair of the novel. The showboat draws near to the fictitious town of Lemoyne[9], Mississippi, and Julie is taken mysteriously sick. Schultzy comes by to inform Julie that ‘Somebody’s stole your picture, frame and all, out of the layout in the lobby there[10]” and suggests it might be Pete, raising Steve’s ire. Once docked, Pete’s theft is confirmed by Windy, who has also seen Steve remove a similar photograph, and then announces that Pete and the town sheriff are heading up the levee.

This leads to the most striking scene in the entire novel. With both Julie and Steve in a state of high agitation, Steve takes out his pocket knife. The others, Capt. Andy included, watch in horror as he draws the blade across his wife’s hand and ingests her blood. Thereupon the sheriff arrives, and announces that he thinks that “there’s a miscegenation case on board[11]”.

“Case of Negro woman married to a white man. Criminal offense in this state, as you well know.” He then names Steve Baker and Julie Dozier. Steve responds with “You wouldn’t call a man a white man that’s got Negro blood in him, would you?”. The sheriff confirms this and Steve says he’s got more than a drop in him. When the implacable Windy confirms this, the sheriff is convinced and leaves without the couple, but effectively orders the boat to leave town. Capt. Andy does so, and lets Steve and Julie off at the next stop. Julie exits regaled with racist curses from Elly and wailing lamentations from Magnolia.

The story then jumps ahead a full five years, and this time it is Elly who is taking her leave, abandoning Schultzy for a gambler and an unlikely chance to play “Juliet”! Steve and Julie have been replaced by the aptly named Mr. And Mrs. Soaper, but Capt. Andy looks to his own family to fill Elly’s place. Fifteen-year old Magnolia’s years of careful observation pay off as, despite strenuous objections from Parthenia, she assumes Elly’s role. Her first performance causes quite a stir, as the nervous cast throw enough real emotion into the play to motivate an untutored member of the audience to draw his gun and come within a hair’s breath of shooting Frank, playing the villain. Only a swift change from evil to sweetness on Frank’s part soothes Magnolia’s erstwhile protector.

The boat moves on to New Orleans, and Schultzy, lured away by a letter telling of Elly’s hospitalization, has gone. But not without telling Capt. Andy that a man seen lounging on a landing had “said he’d acted and that was a life he’d like[12]”.

Thus we are finally introduced to Gaylord Ravenal, stony broke from gambling and ordered out of town by the police for a past unfortunate killing ‘in self-defence”[13]. Thus passage on a show boat is most desirable, and the assured Gaylord of “the Tennessee Ravenals” awes Capt. Andy into giving him Schltzy’s old acting position. Thereupon, Magnolia and Gaylord lay eyes on each other, and promptly fall in love.

A difficult position to sustain under Parthenia’s watchful and disapproving gaze. However, the passionate scenes in the plays they performed together gave them an outlet, and gave veracity to their performances. By simply expressing their love, they were becoming stars.

A return to New Orleans allows the now-solvent Gaylord to obtain his full sartorial potential, and the dazzling young man whisks Magnolia off the boat and onto the streets in beautiful carriage. Meanwhile Parthenia learns from a local about Gaylord’s unfortunate violent past, and expresses to her husband her outrage that her daughter ‘is out driving in an open carriage this minute with a murderer[14]”. What she does not expect is her husband to admit to a similar killing in his own youth, and she faints dead away.

Gaylord and Magnolia’s love affair inexorably advances. Gaylord, with the aid of parish church records, convincingly generating a past of distinction and society. He is a natural actor, completely capable of cowing a belligerent spectator. Still, on the boat, Parthenia holds puritanical sway over the lovers. But by Peducah, KY, Gaylord replenished through the card table, almost missing the performance, is able to – in the midst of a play – to propose to Magnolia between the lines of the script. With a ruse, she and he slip away and are married in church the very next day.

We now jump ahead again, into Kim memories, and first read of the death of her grandfather, Capt Andy. Then we resume with the post-nuptial history. Parthenia and Gaylord’s antagonism grows into hatred, a disdain not at all shared by Capt. Andy. During the winter after their marriage, Gaylord and Magnolia move to Chicago where Gaylord resumes his full-time gambling career. Magnolia learns to adjust to the ebb and flow of the family’s fortunes, and the unpredictable whereabouts of her husband. Pregnant, they return to the Cotton Blossom, Kim is born, and the Mississippi carelessly takes Capt. Andy.

Now we witness the beginning of the great rise of Parthenia Hawks, weathering the defection of Windy, the pilot, and the inevitable departure of her daughter, granddaughter and son-in-law. “Ruthless, unconquerable, headstrong, untamed, terrible” was the parting vision of Parthenia in her daughter’s eyes. “She’s the one, after all, who’s like the Mississippi”[15].

Back to Chicago, and in barely over a year Ravenal has lost Magnolia’s inheritance. The family veer from absurd extravagance to the penury, with Magnolia revealing a stoicism that keeps her bound to her husband. Kim, raised in ever varying conditions, is bathed, through her mother, with the same African-American music that fascinated her the little Magnolia. During the good times, her family take in Chicago’s multi-headed musical and dramatic life. Overshadowing their volatile life, Parthenia’s success taunts Magnolia. Magnolia’s pride prevents her from revealing the truth, or even asking for help during the lean times.

Kim grows and needs schooling. That requires a steady income, and it is this need that drives Magnolia to consider performing again. Gaylord laughs at her desire to return to the stage, and Magnolia’s impromptu performance of Negro spirituals at a drunken party of Gaylord’s friends reveals the incomprehension of an audience used to coon songs, even as it demonstrates to Gaylord the depth of Magnolia’s talent. Chastened, Magnolia abandons her plan.

Kim enters St. Agatha’s chapel school as Chicago itself lurches into a sense of civic responsibility. The infrastructure of free-wheeling gambling is slowly dismantling, and consequently Gaylord’s fortunes decline even further. They are at a nadir when Parthenia announces that she is coming to Chicago to see them. In desperation, Gaylord borrows money from a whorehouse madam, but Magnolia guesses the source and resolves to return the cash. She goes to Hattie Chilson’s house and receives a receipt from a woman she suddenly recognizes as Julie Dozier, clearly an employee of the institution. Horrified, she flees.

Now truly determined to earn some money on her own account, she resolves again to seek a singing role. This time she ends up at a Variety club, Jopper’s Varieties, towards the end of an audition session and manages, with the aid of a borrowed banjo, to perform “All God’s chillun got wings” and “Go Down Moses”. Spirituals these, again not the expected coon songs, but something about Magnolia and her African-American vocal infections impresses the younger of two impresarios, and she is told to return next week with right material. She goes home – only to find a letter from Gaylord on the mantelpiece and he is gone from her life forever.

At least he leaves $600 behind. With that, she buys a banjo and learns her new material.

We now rejoin Kim, many years later, giving an interview in her dressing room. We learn how Kim moved from the convent school onto the stage, to the New York National Theatre School, into her present position as a successful actress on Broadway. We learn that Magnolia is established on the stage and then the interview is interrupted by a telegram informing Kim that her grandmother, Parthenia, is dead.

Shortly after, Magnolia, unaware of this news, arrived with her son-in-law, Kim’s husband Ken. When the Magnolia hears of her mother’s death she resolves instantly to return to St. Louis and the Cotton Blossom. Magnolia’s return journey reawakens a host of old memories and sense of having never really left the river. Elly, now an old woman, greets as she alights from the train. We learn of Shultzy’s death twenty-two years past and meet Elly’s new man Clyde. Elly preens and prattles, but in the process Magnolia learns of her mother’s fatal stroke, and a flurry of familiar places, the great river and finally the Cotton Blossom itself appear – almost overwhelming Magnolia with a combined sense of grief and coming back home.

Magnolia stays. Kim, failing to understand the ties that hold her mother, writes and insists that her mother return to New York. We learn of the crucial differences between Kim’s art and her mothers – Kim’s learned and tutored, Magnolia’s absorbed naturally from her surroundings during her childhood and youth. In Magnolia we are led to believe there is true artistry, in Kim merely a supremely competent craftsmanship. A craftsmanship that extends into Kim’s marriage and her successful cultivation of the life of a Broadway star. Most of all there is no river in Kim’s soul.

Kim and Ken finally arrive, unexpectedly, three months later. Even more unexpectedly, Magnolia gifts them with the colossal sum of a half-a-million dollars, earned through Parthenia’s late blooming business acumen. Kim is elated, now she can produce the plays she really wants to. A perfunctory tour of the showboat follows, neither Kim nor Ken see the beauty there that will hold their mother and give her peace for the rest of her life. The couple leaves, Kim observing her mother standing on deck as having “something about her that’s eternal and unconquerable – like the River”[16]

A lengthy and convoluted tale that nonetheless maintains and sustains broad themes. How does the musical compare?

To begin with, it dispenses with a large proportion of the beginning of the book. The first scene shows us the Cotton Blossom and its towboat the Mollie Able. We have jumped directly into the center of the story, and are in the process of setting up the first main dramatic event, the exposure of Julie as a passing African-American. Onstage we have a chorus of African-American roustabouts moving cotton bales, plus a number of black women. Their opening song

Niggers all work on de Mississippi

Niggers all work while de white folks play -

Loadin’ up boats wid de bales of cotton,

Gittin’ no rest til de Judgement Day[17]

immediately establishes race as one of the central themes of the play. This is a protest song, more ironic than angry perhaps, but a protest nonetheless. In the singers hands, the word nigger has a sardonic tone, in Pete’s hands it is simply contemptuous as Pete demands of Queenie, “Where y’all get dat brooch you’re wearing?”[18]. She declines to answer. Onstage, Steve and Pete scowl at each other, while Windy, standing on the Cotton Blossom, observes it all.

A chorus of precious young white women enter, and cluster around a picture that Steve has just hung up. This is Julie, and the young women admire her beauty, even as the black girls parody their manner – in essence a cakewalk on their part. A handsome young man enters into a singing dialogue with the white girls, announcing Capt. Andy’s show and the handsomest man, Stephen Baker and beautiful Julie LaVerne as well. Simulataneously the black chorus return to their theme of the woes of the life, just the white chorus sing of laughter and thrills.

Thus in the very opening, Hammerstein has established the gulf between the races, the privilege accorded the white folks and denied the black, and a flavor of the contempt built into the very language that whites used about African-Americans. This is a very effective scene.

Parthenia (as her nickname Parthy) now enters, characterized rather as a shrew, and enters into an irritable dialogue with the phlegmatic Windy which serves primarily to introduce Magnolia (not yet named) as a young woman of eighteen years.

Capt. Andy enters and engages with the crowd. He introduces the showboat stars in turn, Elly, Frank Schultz – a fusion of Schultzy and Frank characters, Julie and Steve. Parthy reprimands Capt. Andy for giving ‘away his show for nothing”, but Andy encourages his cast to give a short dance. After that, the crowd congregates around the stars, Julie and Steve, and Pete returns to berate Julie for giving his gift to her to a nigger. Seeing this, the jealous Steve accosts Pete and punches him. An intentional drama that Capt. Andy swiftly finesses, “The boys jest showed you a scene from one of our bills…” and declares “…Jest one big happy family”![19] And singing resumes and the crowd leaves in high spirits.

At this juncture Gaylord is seen on stage, looking away from the audience. Andy fires Pete, and Parthy, who has taken against Julie, scolds Andy again for protecting Julie and announces that Julie is to no longer give piano lessons to and stay away from her daughter. Julie protests, declaring that could not stay on the Cotton Blossom without seeing Nola – using Magnolia’s nickname. Andy is fearful that Julie will leave, and Ellie steps in to offer herself, but is dismissed by the Captain. Parthy, after chasing Ellie way, then lectures her husband about his lack of attention to his daughter’s upbringing. Capt. Andy waits until Parthy has gone before speaking his reply out loud, but when egged on by Elly, declines to tackle Parthy immediately. He wants no more trouble – “Jest one big happy family – bah!”[20] he declares sarcastically.

Our attention now turns to Gaylord, who after demonstrating his gentlemanly manners to Ellie, engages the town sheriff in conversation to be reminded that he needs to be out of town in twenty-four hours. Gaylord muses in song “..where’s that mate for me?”[21], and Magnolia appears on the boat deck.

Falling in love on first sight, Magnolia tells Gaylord of her acting ambition, and they ‘just suppose that we’ve fallen in love at first sight”[22] leading into the duet “Only Make Believe”. The reverie is broken up by Sheriff Vallon who pulls Gaylord away to have a talk with the judge (not marriage in this case…).

Magnolia bubbles to Joe, Queenie’s husband, about the handsome Gaylord, and looks to find Julie to tell her all. Joe muses that “Better ask de ole river what he thinks…”[23] and sings “Ole Man River”, effectively establishing the implacable river as a central player.

Scene Two, Act One, finds Magnolia in Queenie’s kitchen, looking for Julie. The women talk of love, how it isn’t so easy to stop and Julie sings of Steve, “Can’t help lovin’ dat man of mine”[24]. Queenie is surprised to hear Julie sing this - “…ah didn’t ever hear anybody but colored folks sing that song”[25], giving us the first clue as to Julie African-American ancestry. Joe enters, declaring that is his favorite song, and Julie, Queenie, Joe and small chorus reprise the song.

Scene Three occurs outside a riverfront gambling saloon. Pete, seeking his revenge, has shown Sheriff Vallon a picture of Julie, a black woman married to a white man and against the law. Ellie emerges and sings to her admirers that life on the stage ‘ain’t ever what a girl supposes”[26]. Then we learn from a conversation with a gambler just why Gayord has to leave town – he killed a man, but got off with a self-defense plea. Gaylord enters in clear good spirits, singing “If I am losing today, I will take my loss and pay. For I know that in time my luck will turn, it’s bound to turn”[27].

We return to the Cotton Blossom for Scene 4, where Queenie and the African-American chorus are sweeping the theatre hall, singing the prescient blues-inflected “Mis’ry’s comin’ aroun’”[28]. Julie implores the chorus to “Stop that rotten song”, cueing the rise of the curtain, and Andy, Steve and Rubberface’s appearance. They begin the rehearsal, but Julie is clearly upset. Ellie is late, and while waiting for her Magnolia reminds the group that she knows the plays inside and out. “You stick to the pianner”, commands Parthy, as Ellie arrives. Ellie goes over to Steve and whispers to him. He is shaken, and during the rehearsal whispers his news to Julie, who is struck with horror. She declares “No – no. I can’t play tonight. Don’t ask me!”[29].

Windy enters and tells everyone that Pete earlier stole a picture of Julie from the levee display and was at this moment on his way to the boat with the sheriff.

To the horror of the assembled cast, Steve then pulls his knife and cuts Julie’s finger. He sucks the blood shortly before Sheriff Vallon comes on board to declare that he “understands there is miscegenation case on board.”[30]

The scene that follows is derived almost wholly from the book as described above, and Steve, with “a drop of nigger blood in him”[31], and Julie are able to escape the charge but are forced to leave. This leaves Capt. Andy with two large holes in his cast. Over Parthy’s objections, Magnolia steps up to take Julie’s place. Gaylord, looking for passage out of town, impresses Capt. Andy and takes on the job of actor. The scene ends with the departure of Steve and Julie. Magnolia declares her undying friendship for Julie and moves to leave the boat with her, but is held back. Slightly by her father’s words, but mostly by the sight of Gaylord, her future acting partner. Joe, seeing the great changes, sings “Ole Man River”.

Scene Five begins with a boy and girl chorus extolling the virtues of Magnolia Hawks and Gaylord Ravenal as they wait by the boat box office. Frank mistakenly thinks part of the praise is for him, but is soon put right, much to his chagrin. Now two backwoodsmen enter, buy tickets with Confederate currency, and declare that they and their guns will be at tonight’s show. Frank and Ellie sing of their uncertain love, “I Might Fall Back On You”[32].

Capt. Andy notes that no one is buying tickets for the colored seats on the balcony, and Queenie, pointing out the Captain that he doesn’t know how to attract black folk, pulls in a full house herself.

Scene Six, again drawn from the novel, shows us the same two backwoodsman, overly involved in the action, on the verge of shooting Frank the villain. He spots them in time, and changes his character in a twinkling to the pacific. With the play ruined, Capt. And steps in and does a bravura one-man show to act out the remaining story, with Frank returning at the end to dance.

Scene Seven brings Magnolia and Gaylord back together again on the upper deck. Gaylord proposes and she accepts as they sing ‘You Are Love”[33].

The finale of Act One takes in Gaylord and Magnolia’s marriage, a grand affair advertised by Captain Andy to the entire town of Natchez. The festivities are interrupted by Parthy carrying the new that Gaylord is a murderer, only to be told that her husband too killed a man. Parthy faints and the scene ends with the chorus singing “Can’t help loving dat man of mine”.

Act Two, Scene One, takes us away from the Cotton Blossom to the Chicago of the 1893 World’s Fair. The city is being shown at its brightest and best here, albeit with a tinge of irony. The scene opens with a series of barkers trumpeting the various wonders to be seen, which resemble a circus freakshow more than a monument to civilization’s progress. Magnolia, Parthy and Capt. Andy are waiting for Gaylord. Parthy presses Magnolia trying to find out just where Gaylord gets his money, but Magnolia remains mum. Eventually Gaylord arrives, flush with winnings, to treat them all. Gaylord and Magnolia happily sing “Why Do I Love You”[34]. The scene ends with another pointed commentary on race relations as a group of supposed African tribesmen sing over a pounding jungle beat “Dyunga hungy ungy gunga, hungy ung gunga go” only to reveal later that instead of being “In Dahomey”[35] their true home is Avenue A, New York, and they all speak English very well! Prominent banjo in parts of this song give it a minstrel feel, of which this is clearly a parody both lyrically and musically (particularly of the ‘jungle’-type ragtime song).

Scene Two reveals the other side of life with Gaylord. A now prosperous Frank and Ellie are being shown a room by a landlady, who tell them the tale of the inconsistent former tenants who move between this room and a posher residence. Only now, they are really penniless and need to go. One of the tenants enters, and it is Magnolia. She attempts to cover her circumstances by telling Frank and Ellie that she stays here to help out the landlady. Magnolia shows Frank and Ellie a photograph of the eight-year old Kim, and makes out that Gaylord is doing well. However, a letter from Gaylord arrives, and a frightened Magnolia asks Ellie to read it. Gaylord is leaving, enclosing $200 to cover Kim’s convent schooling. With the truth of their circumstances revealed, Magnolia tells Elllie and Frank the whole story. Frank suggests that Magnolia should take up a singing position, and they leave the distraught Magnolia.

Gaylord takes his farewell of his daughter Kim in Scene 3, singing to her at the convent school the comforting melody of “Make Believe”[36], even if it is quite clear that the song’s meaning is bankrupt.

Julie returns in Scene Four, by now a worn and alcoholic woman. She is at a rehearsal hall at the Trocadero trying out a new song, We learn from Jim, the manager, that Steve deserted her. Jim is about to close the audition, when Frank suggests Magnolia be given a chance. Borrowing a guitar, she sings “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man”[37]. Julie recognizing the song and the singer, throws Julie a kiss and then leaves for a binge session, her job now open for Magnolia to take. Jim is impressed by Magnolia’s voice, but it takes an up-tempo “ragged” version of the song to convince him that she is the one.

Scene Five finds Capt. Andy and Parthenia back in Chicago, looking for Magnolia and Gaylord. As it is New Year’s Eve, Andy slips out leaving his wife to an early bed, and, picking up three young women on the way, heads off to the Trocadero.

Thus Capt. Andy is present at his daughter’s debut performance. This is just as well as, in Scene Six, we see Magnolia nervously trying to placate an audience fond of Julie. As she timidly begins a performance of “After The Ball”[38], Capt. Andy steps in and exhorts her to smile. Doing so, her confidence returns and she gives a show stopping performance. Beforehand, Frank has informed Andy of Gaylord’s desertion giving the Captain even more incentive to ensure his daughter’s success. It’s notable here that Kern and Hammerstein use an established and well-known song to authenticate the scene, rather than compose a period-style piece of their own.

We jump ahead all the way to 1927 for Scene Seven. Sitting in front of a sign proclaiming “ Lindbergh Arrives In Mexico City”, Joe and Queenie, now much older, reprise the autumnal “Ole Man River” and sing the jazzy and spring-like “Hey Feller”[39] respectively.

And from the Natchez shoreline to the Cotton Blossom for Scene Eight. Magnolia is singing “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man”, but on the radio. Listening are Capt. Andy and Gaylord, who met fortuitously elsewhere. Andy has telegrammed Magnolia to join them, and gives Gaylord the good advice to return to the stage and give up the life of a gambling ‘gentleman’.

The finale of the musical brings everyone together. We see Kim and Parthy at first, and Kim sings her grandmother a hit song from her successful Broadway show. Frank and Ellie turn up, quite coincidently, and then the reunion between Magnolia and Gaylord. Parthy unexpectedly gives them words of encouragement, the nervous couple makes up and kisses. The scene ends with Joe and chorus reprising once more, “Ole Man River”.[40]

The happy ending is perhaps the most significant departure from the spirit of the novel. As we can see, Hammerstein was loathe to kill off any of the characters introduced by Edna Ferber. It is most likely that he was bowing to theatrical convention at this point, but although it weakens the story of the main characters considerably by introducing less credible elements, it does not destroy the musical. Hammerstein clearly sees the racial element of the story as the paramount issue, and the love affair is convenient because it provides the audience with an expected and understandable plot mechanism, as well a solid dramatic vehicle for love song. The implicit irony of songs such as “Make Believe” with its underlying message that everything will be alright if you believe it will be alright is sufficiently underscored by the collapse of the Ravenal fortunes in Act II, the abandonment of Kim and Magnolia. So the eventual rehabilitation of Gaylord, put right with a few wise words from Capt. Andy, is perfectly acceptable in a land of endless second chances. And who knows where the story would go from there anywhere.

What Hammerstein loses, though, by ensuring the survival of his characters, is any and all sense of the Mississippi – “Ole Man River” – as a vehicle of capricious destruction. The musical sentimentalizes the river to an almost unbearable extent, and in doing so, goes right against the spirit of Edna Ferber’s writing. By eliminating death, the characters acquire an artificial immortality that again weakens the overall drama. Julie’s downfall into alcoholism, although tragic, is nothing compared with the novel’s portrayal of her as prostitute. Indeed Chicago emerges very well from the play. There is no sense of the dark undersurface that Ferber describes at length. Again, conventional morals and accepted practice for the 1920s musical probably drove this sanitization, but it again weakens the drama.

Where Show Boat the musical really scores on the dramatic front is with its stark portrayal of race. It does not outshine the novel in this respect, and it is telling that the miscegenation scene is taken almost verbatim from the book into the musical, but it does give the story a very solid dose of grim reality. It is striking how Hammerstein uses the African-American chorus as essentially a Greek chorus, providing clear commentary on the proceedings, whereas the white choruses sing of the not-quite-real. “Make Believe” is the central song of the lovers, but it might just as well be a comment on the entire entertainment industry which has ceaselessly peddled dreams as a salve for the populace.

The elevation of Queenie and Jo(e), essentially minor characters in the book, to a far more central role in the musical in some ways goes further than Ferber in giving humanity to the African-American. These are not caricature roles; they are wise, if uneducated, people capable of seeing and feeling more than some of the white folk around them. This comes at some expense. The strongest character in Ferber’s novel, Parthenia, is reduced to a much more two dimensional level in the musical. Indeed, the strongly feminist quality of Ferber’s approach is abandoned by Hammerstein. There is an implicit assumption that the men in the play, be it Capt. Andy or the wayward Gaylord, are the real center despite all of Magnolia’s achievements. This is most forcibly demonstrated by Act Two, Scene Six where Magnolia needs her father’s shouted encouragement to continue singing. With Andy long dead in the novel, Magnolia’s triumph is all of her own making. We lose too, much of the power of the novel that is generated by the interplay of the three central female characters. Lost, too, is the vital point of artistry developed by experience versus craftsmanship developed by education.

But let’s be fair to Hammerstein. Considering he had to create a dramatically coherent stage production with sufficient room for a lot of songs, he does a very effective job of presenting at least some of Edna Ferber’s themes. Show Boat fully deserves the reputation it has gained since that first production and remains an artistic highlight of American music. It’s a truly wonderful work.

[1] Ferber, Edna Show Boat

[2] See Kreuger, Miles Show Boat The Story of a Classic American Musical Oxford University Press 1977 for a concise history of the production.

[3] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Oscar Show Boat conducted and directed by John McGlinn with the London Sinfonietta, The Ambrosian Chorus, Fredericke von Stade, Jerry Hadley and cast.

[4] Ferber, Edna Show Boat Doubleday, Dorian & Co., New York 1943 p.19.

[5] ibid pp.23-24.

[6] Ferber, Edna Show Boat Doubleday, Dorian & Co., New York 1943 p.67

[7] ibid p.92

[8] ibid p. 123

[9] No doubt based on the French explorer and first colonist of Mississippi, Pierre LeMoyne Sieur d'Iberville.

[10] Ferber, Edna Show Boat Doubleday, Dorian & Co., New York 1943 p. 136

[11] Ferber, Edna Show Boat Doubleday, Dorian & Co., New York 1943 p. 144

[12] ibid p. 175

[13] ibid p. 176

[14] ibid p. 203

[15] Ferber, Edna Show Boat Doubleday, Dorian & Co., New York 1943 p. 264

[16] Ferber, Edna Show Boat Doubleday, Dorian & Co., New York 1943 p. 398

[17] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Oscar Niggers all work on de Mississippi from Show Boat conducted and directed by John McGlinn with the London Sinfonietta.

[18] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Show Boat Libretto reproduced in booklet from Show Boat conducted and directed by John McGlinn with the London Sinfonietta EMI (BMG Music) D 224779 p. 55

[19] ibid p. 60

[20] ibid p. 62

[21] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Where The Mate For Me? from Show Boat Libretto reproduced in booklet from Show Boat conducted and directed by John McGlinn with the London Sinfonietta EMI (BMG Music) D 224779 p. 63

[22] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Make Believe from Show Boat ibid p. 65

[23] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Ole Man River from Show Boat ibid p. 66

[24] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man from Show Boat ibid p. 67

[25] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Show Boat Libretto reproduced in booklet from Show Boat conducted and directed by John McGlinn with the London Sinfonietta EMI (BMG Music) D 224779 p. 69

[26] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Life On The Wicked Stage from Show Boat ibid pp. 71-72

[27] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Till Good Luck Comes My Way from Show Boat ibid p. 72

[28] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Mis’ry’s comin’ aroun from Show Boat ibid p. 73

[29] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Show Boat Libretto reproduced in booklet from Show Boat conducted and directed by John McGlinn with the London Sinfonietta EMI (BMG Music) D 224779 pp. 75-77.

[30] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Show Boat Libretto reproduced in booklet from Show Boat conducted and directed by John McGlinn with the London Sinfonietta EMI (BMG Music) D 224779 p. 78

[31] ibid p. 79

[32] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, I Might Fall Back On You from Show Boat ibid p. 87

[33] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, You Are Love from Show Boat ibid p. 73

[34] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Why Do I Love You? from Show Boat Libretto reproduced in booklet from Show Boat conducted and directed by John McGlinn with the London Sinfonietta EMI (BMG Music) D 224779 p. 97

[35] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, In Dahomey from Show Boat ibid p. 99

[36] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Make Believe from Show Boat ibid p. 102

[37] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Can’t Help Lovin’ dat man from Show Boat ibid p. 104

[38] Harris, Charles K. After The Ball from Show Boat ibid p. 107-108

[39] Kern, Jerome and Hammerstein II, Ole Man River and Hey Feller from Show Boat Libretto reproduced in booklet from Show Boat conducted and directed by John McGlinn with the London Sinfonietta EMI (BMG Music) D 224779 pp. 108-109

[40] ibid p. 111

Grammys anounced!...Yawn...

2005-12-08T10:15:00.000-06:00

So why does the predictable and boring business media show called the Grammys get all the news? Easy - it's designed for the news. Nothing more than a marketing gimmick to celebrate mainstream music stars, it still has a very unfortunate effect of conflating sales achievements with artistic quality. Designed to appeal to those who believe that a best-selling record must be a good record, and who buy accordingly, the awards are simply positive feedback generators. But artistic worth is not a factor - there will be some good records that win Grammys and some bad.

Best to ignore them altogether and follow your own muse.

The Sea

2005-12-07T21:04:00.000-06:00

One of the most heartening things about the development of rock/pop music in the 1990s was the appearance of music that effortlessly sampled, integrated and recycled popular music recorded since the beginning of the recording process. Perhaps the most adept practitioner of this craft is Beck, but there are many others and one of my favorites is Morcheeba.

Not that I would classify Morcheeba as a truly great band - there is a sense that they play more for comfort than originality - but nonetheless their most fully realized songs are captivating.

Much of the allure belongs to lead singer Skye Edwards, a sultry singer in the style of Sade (but not as accomplished) who nonetheless stamps Morcheeba's music with a reflective mode verging on the nostalgic and melancholy. The nostalgia aspect is considerably amplified by the band's neo-1960s/70s grooves, textures and instrumentation. But each song contains a stylistic mix that would be unusual in those past decades that successfully lends individuality to even to most derivative performance.

My favorite song of theirs (at the moment) is the opening cut of "Big Calm" CD. This is The Sea, a lyrically trite (verging on the banal) ode to the restorative effects of being at the seaside. But this does not matter, as the arrangement is sublime, complete with Chic-era strings, Miles Davis keyboard ripples, Hendrix/60-70s soul wah-wah guitar, and a gentle shuffle beat (rich in percussion) underneath it all. I think it is the Chic strings that really do it for me - harmonically very simple and direct (and we really can go all the way back to The Beatles for the shedding of the lush romantic string orchestra that characterised almost all pop music beforehand). A very tasty wah-wah guitar solo ends the track, placing it nearly (but not quite) back in the late 1960s, and the strings divide and play Paul Buckmaster-style (think Bowie's Space Oddity) figures before the fade.

Derivative, yes, but still hits me in all the right places.

Perfect Kiss

2005-12-07T15:50:00.000-06:00

Now that I am cut loose from a set plan of listening, I find myself hurtling right back into the 1980s. This morning I played The The's "Infected" three times, and just now New Order's Blue Monday and Perfect Kiss from the "Substance" singles collection.

The latter song, particularly in its 12" mix, is as about as perfect a techno-dance track as you are ever going to hear, complete with two intros, each completely effective, a beautifully melodic verse/chorus structure atop an entrancingly busy rhythm track that is completely hypnotic - how many trance afficiandos of the 1990s know that the whole basis of their style is contained in this song? The break following the initial verses sends gorgeous tingles along the spine with the aid of an ethereal synthesizer accompaniment over a less-dense (but just as busy) rhythm with frog-like effects, before the song returns to the overt disco beat and a symphonic instrumental swell that repeats the verse/chorus structure in truly overwhelming style.

Unsurpassed.

All over now...no

2005-12-06T11:17:00.000-06:00

Finally compiled and submitted the last of my written work for the Plymouth Rock music course, and it's a relief to have it done. Now I have to spend some months following up on my own some of the many threads that the course enticingly showed me - American music is a vast subject! Much bigger than I originally thought and it was so nice to get a grand overview (even though I can already see holes!)

But right now, it's just a pleasure to sit back and reflect on what I have learned.

Life Studies

2005-12-01T18:38:00.000-06:00

As the course on American music winds to a close, and I work on the variety of different projects that complete the requirement, I chose to relax late one evening by listening to a new CD of an unfamiliar work, Life Studies by Nicolas Maw.[1]

This is set of eight movements for small string orchestra, numbers four and six combining two of the studies (IV/V) and (VII/VIII), so that there are eight studies in total. Maw has paid careful attention to the sonic balance of his composition, treating the orchestra as in essence a double septet (five violins, one viola, one violin in each) with a shared double bass acting as a bridge between them. Thus there is plenty of scope for interplay between the two groupings, and Maw makes extensive use of this.

These are harmonically very rich, often atonal, rhythmically vital works. They draw heavily from the sound worlds of Berg and Bartok, with Berg’s Lyric Suite (particularly the three movement version for string orchestra) as perhaps the most clear influence. But although parts of this work sound like variations on the Berg piece, it remains perfectly individual partly due to the interplay between the septet groupings that goes beyond what we hear in Berg’s piece (that was originally conceived for string quartet). But Maw makes much more use of glissandi and microtonal intervals than is found with Berg. This is particularly evident in the first movement, where slides and glissandi dominate the texture. The second study sounds like nothing less than variations on the Lyric Suite, with textures drawn right out of the string works of Berg, Schoenberg and Bartok. The third movement brings back the glissandi and surging rhythms, much more Bartokian here, with a similar approach in the 4^th study. However, just when you are feeling confident that you are on familiar ground, Maw introduces a touch in Study V that places the work squarely into the late 20^th century.

This is a solo for double bass, plucked not bowed, and a passage that would not sound in the least bit out of place in a Charles Mingus or Charlie Haden jazz composition. Only the interplay of the bass with the rest of the strings instead of the expected horns, piano and drums puts this study into the ‘classical’ camp.

After this rather remarkable interlude that serves to give the double bass its voice, we return to more conventional string orchestral textures, a meditative romantic study followed by a surging, rhythmically busy, piece where the double bass, played arco now, occasionally rises up to make itself heard once more. The final study is a blend of the relatively bare textures of the proceeding movement with richer harmonies, and occasionally antiphonal interplay between pizzicato and arco groupings. It ends with those rich descending chords that so characterize the finales of Berg’s works in particular before confounding your expectations of a decline into silence with a loud and long-held static chord.

This is a thoroughly Abstract piece in the Partchian sense. Yet, after reading and listening to Partch, I found myself searching the music for elements that resembled speech. Maw’s pitch palette certainly extends beyond the conventional 12-tones here, and, as Susan Bradshaw writes in the liner notes, Maw appears in this work ‘to investigate the degree to which chords can be enriched without actually passing over into the domain of undifferentiated textural noise[2].”But there is nothing directly resembling the word here, nor, if words were set to this music, would you get anything approaching the textural empathy with the voice that you find in Partch’s own works.

But, despite it all, I still search these sounds to find a text built into them.

And there is the greatest personal legacy of looking at the theories and music of Harry Partch. It has opened the door to yet another way to examining music, just as Cage and Lucier have done.

This is probably as good a place as any to review just what this American course has taught me. Firstly, it has demonstrated the sheer breadth of music in the United States – a breadth that is daunting to contemplate. In truth, in many ways American music is world music, as one expect from a land formed by immigration from all over the globe. It represents an initial, accelerated type of world music. Initial, because no where else was there the type of cross-cultural exposure that characterized the American experience right up until the mid-20^th century when transcontinental communication finally established the beginnings of truly global exchange. And accelerated because many of the technological innovations that fostered such cross-cultural exchanges were first developed and made available on a large scale in the United States. Not just the obvious technologies of sound recording, reproduction, and transmission but the other innovations such as efficient mass transportation that allowed different groups of people to travel throughout the U.S.A., placing different cultures slap bang together from block to block in the growing towns and cities.

But American music is also more than world music in the sense that those very same cross-cultural exchanges established a unique series of forms, most importantly the result of European and African musical integration, that bore little relation to anything outside of the country. At least at first. For, unlike in Europe and Africa in the centuries prior to the 20^th where it was possible, largely because people did not move around that much, to preserve discrete and relatively insulated musical styles for generations, that same social, cultural and technological fluidity that allowed such a cross-fertilization within the United States was rapidly exported to a changing world where it was embraced with enthusiasm.

Life Studies itself is a good example of this. Composed by a British composer steeped in the modernist traditions of central Europe, we find, right in the middle, that extraordinary Afro-American-influenced double bass solo.

Part of the worldwide love of American musical forms must relate to people seeing elements of their own cultures in this musical gumbo. And such elements form an easy access point for further integration and modification. Thus by the 1960s, music began to lose its strict nationalist or regional characteristics in all but the most doggedly isolated areas. America itself became open to a new flood of foreign vernacular music with clear American roots. This is the process that is still happening today, more so than ever. As we in the midst of this process, and because we are losing familiar aesthetic landmarks (such as the easy classification of music using stylistic qualities related to local origin), it is very hard to get a handle on the relative worth or importance of all this new music. This is exactly as it should be. Future generations will see clearly what we cannot, but it also means that as listeners we need to work harder and look more deeply into the vast diversity of current music and trust more to our own judgment than to perceived wisdom.

[1] Maw, Nicholas Life Studies performed by The Academy of St. Martin-In-The-Fields, cond. Neville Marriner Continuum CCD 1030

[2] Bradshaw, Susan; Liner notes from Continuum CCD 1030. p. 4

A Palavra Forte

2005-12-01T16:04:00.000-06:00

About 15 years ago I was lucky enough to spend a couple of weeks in Brazil, one week in Rio, another traveling inland. Many of the sights, tastes and smells of that country remain as strong memories, but something more tangible came out that trip. While watching TV, and not understanding a word, a music video came on briefly featuring a pretty woman singer and a beguiling acoustic guitar driven melody. I saw it only once, and did not get the name, but only a very fleeting glimpse of the album cover from which it came.

Later on during that trip I spent some time in a record store (and who knows what treasures I passed up through ignorance). But I did find that same CD, and bought it.

It was an album called Tudo e Permitado by a band called Kid Abelha. I had never heard of them. The first track was indeed - I believe, for I cannot be totally sure - the same as the song I heard on the music video. It became one of my favorite songs of all time, and has remained so, even though I am not sure just what "A Palavra Forte" means, nor indeed any of the lyrics.

None of this matters. The melody, sung by the beguiling Paula Toller, is among the most beautiful and well-realised popular song tunes that I have heard, or am ever likely to hear. Recognizably conventional within the stylistic restraints of a pop song, but unique nonetheless.

The chance events that led me this song are so tenuous and unlikely that I tend to gasp every time I play it. Just a few minutes out of syncronization, and I would have never heard it (or what I thought was it) and I would have never grasped just enough visual information to lead me to the record.

In one respect I was fortunate. Kid Abelha, although essentially unknown in the United States, is one of the most popular and celebrated pop bands in Brazil so actually finding the record in a record store was not that improbable.

But it really make me wonder - how many other completely fabulous pieces of music pass me by, unheard? It scarcely bears thinking about.

New Gold Dream

2005-11-26T21:00:00.000-06:00

Just back from a Thanksgiving trip to Chicago, where, between the socializing and eating, I spent a lot of time going through the lessons and commentary from William Billings' The Continental Harmony. Deep and insightful stuff, and away from all of this, I feel it is necessary to reengage with the familiar. So I play Simple Minds' New Gold Dream, still a favorite from those still innovative days on the early 1980s when so many bands where seeking to reintegrate the vigor of the punk revolution with the technical innovations of the 1960s and 1970s.

New Gold Dream is one of those heady synthesizer-drenched creations that seem to define that particular time, drawing very heavily from Roxy Music (who were undergoing a career renaissance of their own at the time), but with help from Jim Kerr's overactive vocals, the very densely layered mix plus a set of strongly melodic and funk-based songs, this record really has stood the test of time. My favorite tune remains the sublime title cut, with its driving bubbling synthesizer rhythm and beautifully placed synthesizer and guitar embelishments.

The track played like a wash of warm water from some underappreciated part of my past, refreshing and regrounding me. Sometimes you need to do this.

The Wayward

2005-11-26T20:54:00.000-06:00

No matter how much you read and read about music, you gain no real understanding of it without listening. Just how forcefully that truth applies is demonstrated most clearly by actually listening to Harry Partch’s music, as opposed to reading about it or, indeed, reading Partch’s own Genesis Of A Music[1].

The Wayward[2] consists of four settings of scraps of stories, letters, fragments of speech and exclamations all derived from observations Partch himself made during his Depression-era nomadic hobo life. The first piece, Barstow, consists of “Eight Hitchiker Inscriptions from a Highway Railing at Barstow, California”. The second, San Francisco, is “A Setting of the Cries of Two Newsboys on a Foggy Night in the Twenties”. The third, The Letter, is “A Depression Message from a Hobo Friend”. The fourth, and by far the longest piece, is U.S. Highball, “A Musical Account Of a Transcontinental Hobo Trip”.

All these pieces are for bass and baritone or baritone alone. The instrumentation is entirely of Partch’s creation – the chromelodeon I, kithara, diamond, bass and bamboo marimbas, cloud chamber bowls and other instruments feature in one or more of the pieces. For U.S. Highball, Partch built the bloboy, a bellows, auto horn and organ pipe contraption designed to replicate – very effectively - the horn sound of a train. Scaled to Partch’s 43-tone per octave series, these intruments produce a wonderfully rich palette of sound. A palette that sounds far closer to an Eastern percussive orchestration – such as the Javanese Gamelin orchstra – than any conventional Western small orchestra. Still some of the instrumental passages, such as the cello glissandi in San Francisco, are eerily reminiscent of other 20^th century works that play with glissandi, texture and tone color even as they adhere to the conventional 12-tones to the octave. In this particular case Ravel’s L’enfant et les Sortileges comes to mind.

But it is in the hearing that all that Partch means by Corporeality comes finally down to earth. Partch’s music surrounds, highlights, transitions, describes and embellishes the words, but the words all always right up front, quite clear even when Partch plays with the pitch and intonation. Art music this may be, but it is closer to a rough hewn country blues performance than any Schubert song. The only work I have heard before that remotely approaches this way of performing is Schoenberg’s Pierrot Lunaire with its sprechgesang – speech song – but that work lacks the immediacy and apparent lack of artifice you find with The Wayward. Still, it’s small wonder that Partch highlights Pierrot as one of the few Corporeal works in modern classical music in Genesis Of A Music.

Here, too, I can sense Montiverdi’s madrigals and elements of the Renaissance style that Partch regards as one highpoint of Corporeality in the classical music tradition. Now it is quite clear what Partch means. It is absolutely clear that to complement his words in the richest possible manner, Partch’s microtonal scale and instrumentation is entirely apt.

Listening to The Wayward clarifies Partch most wonderfully. Perhaps I should have started with this, but I put it off deliberately. I sought instead to track Partch’s thinking as he came to grips with music, and it’s been an enlightening journey.

[1] Partch, Harry Genesis Of A Music New York, Da Capo Press, 1974

[2] Partch, Harry The Wayward performed by Newband , Wergo CD WER 6638 2

A Corporeal Classicist or The Trouble With Harry

2005-10-30T20:52:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, because I am not the world’s quickest thinker, it takes a long time for me to get a meaningful grip on a conundrum. Over the past two months I have been thinking about Harry Partch’s division of music into the Corporeal and the Abstract, and sometimes it makes a lot of sense and sometimes not so much. It troubled me constantly and I could not put my finger on just why.

This morning, while painting the spare room, I put on a CD of C.P.E. Bach’s late symphones (WQ 183 and WQ 182). These are masterfully emotive constructions yet, despite a lot of dramatic key changes, are fully within the rhythmic and harmonic classical musical tradition of the latter 18^th century. There is much here that will appear in the music of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven. Abstract music, yes.

But, to me, also wholly and completely Corporeal. This music speaks. Yet, would Partch (who did not even consider C.P.E. Bach in Genesis Of A New Music) place this in the Abstract or the Corporeal? I had a sense that he would put it into the Abstract, with Corporeal leanings. Then I began to think about what Partch was actually working with when he developed his theory. In the late 1940s there were not a lot of recordings of classical (compared to today) and its doubtful if there were any of C.P.E. Bach’s music. At that time C.P.E. was probably even more neglected than his father before J.S. Bach’s great 19^th century rediscovery. So Partch would be evolving his opinions from a limited number of recordings, radio broadcast and public performances. Much of his concepts would also derive from printed scores.

The C.P.E. Bach symphonies I listened to today were performed by the Kammerorchester “Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach” conducted by Hartmut Haenchen and recorded in 1986. They recorded in the newly reemphasized ‘authentic performing practice’ style that aims to recreate, as much as is possible (with C.P.E, who wrote extensively on performing practice, this much easier than with other composers) a performance as it would be heard in the late 18^th century.

This is very different beast from performance practice in the 1940s. Orchestras in those days stressed professionalism of performance (i.e. adhering strictly to the score) that could lead to an almost sterile rendition of a living, breathing masterpiece. Not to mention that the symphony orchestra of the day was radically different from that of the 18^th century, being larger and using instruments that had evolved significantly away from their earlier precursors. Anyone who thought that this was classical music is almost inevitably going to regard it, in terms of human expression, as woefully inferior to the folk and popular forms that Partch happily labels as Corporeal. And I suspect that a performance in the 1940s of C.P.E. Bach’s symphonies would handily box them into the Abstract.

But that’s not how I hear it. Instead, I hear a wonderfully vibrant, rhythmically charged, harmonically challenging yet completely satisfying, and melodically emotive series of Corporeal masterworks. With this, I think I have finally fingered why Partch’s definitions have been unsatisfactory for me, as well as understanding more closely exactly where he stood.

Overwhelmed

2005-10-12T10:21:00.000-05:00

I’ve been introduced over the past two weeks to a flood of early recorded music of all kinds, much of it completely unfamiliar, and frankly I have been overwhelmed by it all. When most of this music was recorded the maximum exposure any record buyer would have from any disc would be two sides of about 3 and half minutes of music. Now it is possible to buy collections of literally hundreds of songs – often the entire lifetime’s output – by almost all artists of note whose recordings have been preserved.

In itself, this is a fascinating phenomenon. There is clearly a commercially viable market for this old time music, indicating that many listeners are choosing to explore the roots of today’s popular music. Why they might be doing this is open to conjecture, but I suspect the paramount reason is that this is simply good music. Music that appeals directly to the emotions and is free of the calculating artifice that mars much commercial music. Not that calculated artifice is a new concept – bad music has always been recorded, but because it tends towards the ephemeral it is usually forgotten. It is always pertinent to remember that what we listen to when we examine the recorded music of the past is the distillate, the cream of what was made. Thus we lose the original context musically as well as historically. In fact we lose the musical context doubly. Not only do we not hear the bad and forgotten music of the time, but also we have heard masses of newer music, some of it influenced by those old classic songs and performances. Indeed we often hear the same songs performed by more contemporary artists.

All this conspires to filter the music of the past through the sensibilities of the present. Even the technology we use, presenting these scratchy old recordings in a clear form free from further degradation, insulates us from that time.

So what remains? Well, what remains is the music. Blind Lemon Jefferson, Blind Willie Johnson, Henry Thomas, The Carter Family, Jelly Roll Morton & His Red Hot Peppers. These are just some of the artists that I have been listening to over the past weeks. Their music is gripping and involving. As I said before, it is overwhelming in its concentrated quality. It’s going to take a long time to tease out the individual threads presented by this magnificent quilt of American roots music of the early 20th century.

The Blues

2005-09-22T21:34:00.000-05:00

Listening tonight to the blues and work songs in the film “The Land Where The Blues Began” (made by Alan Lomax in the late 1970s) set me thinking of Harry Partch all over again!

The constant style running through these songs was conversation between instrument and singer. Even the steady thud of the woodchopper’s axe seemed to say its own story. Some of the instruments, like the homemade fretless diddly-bow guitars, seem to belong in Partch’s own instrument family. The playing styles, bending, percussive and glissando speak to a pitch series far closer to Partch’s 43 note scale than conventional 12-note music. The prominence of the voice as instrument as well as words was also striking.

This was undoubtedly yet more Corporeal music that hews very close to Partch’s vision, even if it is relatively limited in range. Not in emotional impact though. This was as powerful as Roscoe Holcomb, and even more mournful.

See here for how to make a diddly-bow!

Howard Hanson

2005-09-19T19:01:00.000-05:00

Now listening to Howard Hanson’s 1^st Symphony, the well-named “Nordic”, for in atmosphere and style it resembles much of Sibelius’s writing. Which is no bad thing, for Sibelius is as good a symphonic model as any and he also happens to be one of my favorite composers. Richard Whitehouse, in his notes to this wonderful performance by the Nashville Symphony Orchestra under Kenneth Schermerhorn[1], also alludes to similarities with Arnold Bax’s work. This seems perfectly natural considering Bax, like many English composers of the time, was also influenced by Sibelius.

Despite the clear influence of Sibelius, Hanson has his own voice. It seems most evident through an edgy and intense rhythmic thrust, the characteristic that seems most typically American here. There are also folk music-like elements in the melodies, nothing that unusual at the time (1922) as many symphonic composers were doing much the same, but there is a slight American tinge to these even if they are not as clearly delineated as others (such as Copland or Thomson) would make them. Hanson makes full use of the size and dynamic range of a Late Romantic-period orchestra, indeed in much the way that Arnold Bax (who drew heavily on Celtic folk melody) does with his seven symphonies and many tone poems. This is big music. A very enjoyable symphony, and if it does lean closely on the North European model, is that necessarily a bad thing? Abstract music once again, Corporeal only in the implied sense of a dramatic program (a characteristic of many Late-Romantic symphonies).

Once again, this is a Naxos recording – more kudos to them.

[1] Hanson, Howard Orchestral Works Vol. 1 Nashville Symphony Orchestra cond. Schermerhorn Naxos 8.559072

More Roy Harris

2005-09-19T18:59:00.000-05:00

So why has it taken me half a lifetime to hear anything by Roy Harris except the 3^rd Symphony? It’s an interesting question, explained partly by the rarity of recordings of the rest of Harris’ repertoire, and partly by the fact that Symphony No. 3 is so complete within itself that I feel that there is no need to hear anything else.

Used to feel, that is. Now that Naxos (a CD label that has surely done more to promote classical music that any other, both through its aggressively low pricing and its concentration on good performances of as much music as possible) has put out a CD[1] of Harris’s 7^th and 9^th Symphonies, plus a memorial piece for John Kennedy, I have had a chance to listen to more.

And guess what - they are just as attractive as the 3^rd! All the elements of Harris’s compositional style are there; the rich melody and melodic development, the swift passage of melodic fragments from one instrument or instrumental grouping to others, the rhythmic vitality, the weight and seriousness of purpose. The harmonic shifts that are so characteristic of this composer, based upon the inherent tension between the major and minor triads and his use of distantly related simple chords are there in spades. (See Kingman pp. 371-376 for a very nice analysis-for-dummies of the 3^rd Symphony and Harris’s style.)[2]

No other composer writes in quite this way, and to hear Harris manipulate fresh and interesting material with these symphonies is a real treat. Hopefully Naxos will get around to recording his entire symphonic output (a new recording of the 3^rd and 8^th symphonies is in the way). The current recording was made with the National Symphony Orchestra of Ukraine of all places, and it is surely ironic that these vital American symphonies are getting a splendid and enthusiastic workout from the not-long-ago foes of the Cold War.

It took a little while for the 3^rd Symphony to grow on me, and as I listen again to these new recordings, I feel the same process at work. For all the instant attractiveness of Harris’s melodies, it is the way he develops those melodies that really grabs you. This is Abstract music in the Partch scale, but, like the 3^rd, just a hint of a dramatic & an implied program (particularly in the 9^th where the three movements are entitled “We The People…”, “…to form a more perfect Union” and “…to promote the general welfare” respectively) to give it a touch of the Corporeal.

“…to promote the general welfare” – how quickly that gets forgotten.

[1] Harris, Roy Symphonies Nos. 7 and 9 National Symphony Orchestra of Ukraine cond. Kuchar Naxos 8.559050

[2] Kingman, Daniel American Music: A Panorama 2^nd Ed. Thomson Schirmer 2003

The Steets Of Laredo

2005-09-17T10:18:00.000-05:00

I first listened properly to this song thanks to John Cale, who has a propensity for taking a well-known song and applying a near-malevolent twist to it. Perhaps his most successful, and certainly well-known reconstruction, in this vein is Elvis Presley drama Heartbreak Hotel which exists in two recorded versions[1].

But my favorite reworking is the gloom-laden version of The Streets Of Laredo that John Cale recorded on his Honi Soit[2] album in 1981. This a stark and bleak recording, with prominent drum beat and Cale’s on-the-verge-of-dementia voice right up front, and it is hard not to consider that this performance led Nick Cave (at that time thrashing away with The Birthday Party) along the pathway to his solo career as modern balladeer.

I had the opportunity to reconsider this song thanks to the collection “Back In The Saddle Again[3]”, a double CD set of cowboy ballads spanning the 1920s to the 1980s that I picked up as part of the background listening for my current music course.

Here we have the song performed as an accompanied ballad by John G. Prude, and is a good example of a naturalized ballad. It derives from the old British broadside (i.e. printed) ballad “The Unfortunate Rake”[4], but changes the words to place the story in an American context. Note that this is not a native ballad, i.e. a story that derives directly from American folk history.[5]

Interestingly, Mr. Prude lives up to his name by changing to the cause of the poor young cowboy’s demise to a shoot-out at a gambling house. The subject of the original ballad dies as a result of venereal disease (syphilis most likely) contracted via a much less respectable sin. John Cale restores an ambiguity to the cowboy’s demise, adding considerably to the ballad’s innate menace. Mr. Prude’s version, at a much faster tempo, and concerned perhaps rather more with sustaining the melody than the drama of the tale is a good example of an old and authentic version that does not necessarily triumph artistically over later recreations. Thoroughly Corporeal though.

[1] John Cale, Heartbreak Hotel on June 1, 1974 Island Masters 842552and Slow Dazzle Island CD 846069

[2] John Cale Honi Soit A&M 64849

[3] Various Artists Back In The Saddle Again New World Records 80314-2

[4] Ibid. p. 12

[5] See Kingman American Music: A Panorama 2^nd Ed. Thompson Schirmer pp.7-12

From the sublime to the ridiculous?

2005-09-16T20:32:00.000-05:00

It's hard to listen to the CD compilation, The Early Minstrel Show,[1] without wanting to cringe, yet the music is so infectious and the sound (fiddle, banjo, tambourine and bones) is so attractive that it is quite disarming.

Disarming, perhaps, if you are white like me. For the music is in large measure nothing more (and nothing less) than Anglo-American folk music transferred to this unusual instrumental combination, and is as attractive as any conventional folk music in that style. But the songs are so laden with stereotype, so insistent on referring to African slaves or freemen through the exclusive filter of their color (“nigger”, “darkie”, “colored”, “yellow”), and so reluctant to assign qualities that rise higher than those one might attribute to a pet or farm animal, that is painful to listen to them.

Even the songs that actually attempt to highlight the inhumanity of slavery, such as the potentially touching Lucy Neal where the loving pair are separated by the hard-hearted slave dealer never really dignify the black man with the humanity that whites so freely assume they possess in excess.

No wonder musicologist and musician Robert Winans states in the CD notes that ‘the minstrel show helped create or reinforce negative stereotypes of blacks that have plagued American society ever since[2].” (Stereotypes that were alarmingly trotted out once again as African-American survivors of the New Orleans floods ‘looted’ shops for desperately needed water and food.)

The set begins with Dan Emmett’s De Boatmen’s Dance, as catchy a tune as one could wish for, and one of the least distressing songs lyrically. The instrumentals are all fun, jigs and reels transposed to the wonderfully colorful instrumental combination, and one of the solo banjo pieces, Dan Emmett’s Pea Patch Jig, shows an African influence in its use of syncopation. A precursor to ragtime from around 1850. The songs use racist stereotypes for amusement, and it is not hard to see why they would be very popular in a fundamentally racist society.

So do our changed attitudes today negate any worth whatsoever in this music? On one level, yes. It is simply impossible to listen to this music without applying the constant caveat that this is historical, of its time and place. But there is no reason why the lyrics could be changed and the same entrancing melodies and instruments be applied to music apt for our time. It certainly sounds a lot more fun than much of what passes for popular music today. And, yes, this is splendidly Corporeal.

[1] Vincent Tufo, Percy Danforth, Matthew Heumann, Robert Winans, David Van Veersblick, Peter DiSante, and Roger Smith The Early Minstrel Show New World Records 80338-2

[2] Ibid p. 2

Haydn's Piano Sonata in E Flat Major, No. 62 (Hob.XVI_52)

2005-09-16T18:21:00.000-05:00

From the earthiest of Corporeal American folk music to a sublime European artistic statement of the Enlightenment comes Franz Joseph Haydn’s Keyboard Sonata in E flat major. Composed for the pianist Therese Jansen, and intended (initially) for the ears of England’s upper classes, this is music miles away in purpose and composition from the simple folk melodies of the rural working man.

Listening to it today, beautifully performed by John McCabe[1] and completely out that original context, it comes across as music of the highest order of composition and supremely emotive and moving as well. Personally, it is my favorite work of the Classical era, finer to my ears than any work by Mozart or the early Beethoven. This is Partch’s Abstract music, and when I hear it I almost think that there is no need for Corporeal music at all! But I know that I would overdose on a diet of nothing but this, and a dip, for example, into Gypsum Davy (Jean Ritchie wonderful performance of The Gypsy Davy) would be the necessary restorative.

This sonata is followed on the same CD by Haydn’s Variations in F minor (Hob.XVII_6), a work that I hold in about the same esteem in relation to the compositional style of variation as I do the Sonata in E flat major to the sonata form. It does not aspire to the epic length and complexity of Bach’s preceding Goldberg Variations or the Beethoven Diabelli Variations that would follow, but it is perfect within its more constrained proportions. Working in Haydn’s favor is an extraordinarily moving and unrestrained (in contrast to the rest of the work) outburst towards the end of his work that seems to lift the piece into another world. As this dies away, and the measured manner of the rest of the work returns, it is hard not to consider that you have been on a great journey to return to the stability and comfort of your own home. And all of this is accomplished in about a minute and a half!

[1] Franz Joseph Haydn The Piano Sonatas, John McCabe, piano. London 443785

Roscoe Holcomb

2005-09-16T14:42:00.000-05:00

Last night I watched and heard the Appalachian amateur folk-singer, Roscoe Holcomb, performing courtesy of John Cohen's documentary film "The High Lonesome Sound". As shown in that early 1960s movie, Holcomb is a lean and gaunt man of brooding intensity, and his urgent guitar (some of which I hear in the guitar style of Bob Dylan) plus his extraordinarily powerful vocals produce a riveting and unique sound.

A unique sound I was sure I had heard before. But where?

And then I remembered. He performs on the soundtrack of Michaelangelo Antonioni's "Zabriskie Point", the film Antonioni made after "Blow Up". Another powerful movie, if not in the same class as "Blow Up", that I saw years ago and left many images, sounds and scenes in my mind. Another little tie-in between my varying interests - I love these! The film was also the first place where I heard what remains my favorite Rolling Stones' song You Got The Silver (one of Keith Richards' very few vocals with the band). That one never made it to the soundtrack album but is available on Let It Bleed, thank goodness.

Our Prayer

2005-09-15T21:58:00.000-05:00

Perhaps because I made it home on my bicycle without being drenched, or perhaps because I’ve been listening to American folk-religious music for much of the evening, I've just played The Beach Boys song, Our Prayer[1]. This also happens to be the opening song on Brian Wilson’s Smile[2], finally being put in its proper place. Either way, it’s a quiet, beautiful and contemplative a cappella piece far removed in mood from the fervent religious music that I heard earlier. This was the truly Corporeal (Partch would embrace this music with enthusiasm) earthy folk-spiritual music of the Kentucky Hills and Southern Bible Belt, be it fervent revivalism or enthusiastic shape-note singing. But the sound of The Beach Boys, albeit cleaned up and smoothed out, is clearly there in those throwbacks to an earlier period of American musical history.

Considering vocal harmony music was essentially the sole music of the earliest colonists, the use of it by Brian Wilson on Smile – a record that really does strive for a panoramic overview of all American music - seems most apt. Curiously enough, another record stemming from the heady rock experiments of the 1960s that strives (with even wider range) for a similar panoramic effect, namely Van Dyke Parks Song Cycle[3], begins with a bluegrass version of The Gypsy Davy! Another ancient stream. Note that Van Dyke Parks was also the lyricist for Smile. He must be a very interesting man.

[1] The Beach Boys Our Prayer from Friends/20/20 Capitol CD 31638

[2] Brian Wilson Smile Nonesuch 79846

[3] Van Dyke Parks Song Cycle Warner Bros 2-25856