Yet another track of the day: Wear A Long Frown

Track Of The Day: Just Get Me Through The Night

Album review of the day: Cucumber Castle (The Bee Gees)

Ah, the BEE GEES!

Or in the case of Cucumber Castle: the Bee Jeez! Or the Bea Geez! Or something besides THE BEE GEES! Robin isn't on this one, so The Bee Gees it isn't. Just look at Barry and Maurice on the cover. They look like they're about to take a group photo at the Renaissance Fair when Robin suddenly goes running off for the john and they're left standing there wondering why it's taking him so damn long! Turns out he had quite a revelation on the pot and split the scene with his own album to make (Robin's Reign) So, Maurice and Barry decided to take the damn picture anyway and get on with it just the two of them.

Was this a good idea? Do we miss Robin?

Of course we miss Robin. His nervous whine has always been a wonderful foil to Barry's stronger more masculine delivery. It's amazing how many key lines in mostly Barry carried songs were handed to Robin for sheer effect. So, yeah, it's a drag he isn't around, but who's really complaining when what we get is a truckload of truly awesome Barry leads. And I do mean awesome. No other singer (aside from Carl Wilson) can make the hairs strand up on the back of my neck quite like this guy. And I don't mean this in any homoerotic way. Or wait, maybe I do? Watching Barry's moves on the Gibb Brother's Top Of The Pops performance of "You Win Again" in 1988 is perhaps the most homoerotic thing I've ever seen. And this was OLD Barry. So, you can only imagine what a young, not quite so heavily bearded Barry can do to challenge one's sexuality circa 1969. If the first track on this platter doesn't wring a few tears, you might as well melt the puppy down to vinyl oar and use it to refinish your sofa or something. Barry sings about wishing he could keep him mind on anything else but you, and of course he can't. You listen to him wail about this problem and you wish you were there with him to lend some comfort. You know his beard will be scratchy and leave some marks, but you accept the circumstances fully. If this song doesn't kill you, they've got plenty more silver bullets to get the job done. By the time Barry's moaning about laying down and dying, you're screaming "No Barry! Please don't! Barbara Streisand will be even more insufferable without you"!.... This isn't to say there's not some goofy shit on this album as well. "The Lord" certainly qualifies, but it's catchy and fun all the same. "My Thing" is perhaps the creepiest song ever written about one's pet cat or goat or whatever the hell, but it remains a nifty left turn, and a chance to put your hankie away for a moment.

And what about Maurice?

His ragged but right musicianship is all over this album. Apparently the original Bee Gees band was on it's last legs here leaving Maurice to pretty much play everything but the drums. (Drummer Colin Peterson was fired and replaced during the recording) But who cares when Maurice has his mellotron cranked up and wobbling away to perfection?

Alas, the album was a complete bomb, struggling to gasp even a single breath on the charts while Robin scored a hit single ("Saved By The Bell") on his own.

Sooooooo, Robin's point was apparently well taken and he was back for the group's draggy next album "2 Years On". The Bee Gees wavered a bit for the next few years ("Trafalgar" being an exception) before coming back hard with 1975's "Main Course" and worldwide fame was to follow.

Cucumber Castle will forever remain an anomaly in the recorded annuls of Bee Gee awesomeness, but if you ever find yourself imagining a quiet night by the fire with you and Barry and a bottle of fine port: look no further!

Track Of The Day: Pop Dreams (A. Lay)

I play drums and do backing vocals on this one.

Aimee sings and plays guitar

Lisa plays bass

Album review of the day: The Greatest (Cat Power)

I have an admission to make: I really really can't stand 90's indie rock!

No one cares, but there.... I said it!

As steeped in it as I was at the time, 90's indie rock remains a dull, coal gray, and sexless little time period in the history of something that is usually a whole lot of fun.

Fun?????

Sure, it's safe to use that word now in 2011, but don't try blurting it out back in 1991 in the dank and stuffy basement where you and your Dicky worker-jacket wearing friends are angrily pasting together your little newsprint zine.

I'll never forget sitting in some awful burger joint in Lomita CA with my friend Tom and some fellow industrial band type guys, when a cartoon bubble suddenly goes up over Tom's head and he proudly proclaims "I think there should be a badge we make out, that says CERTIFIED! Like if you, like, have a band, or like, do a zine, you get to wear this patch." The other guys all nodded in smug agreement, and I was sitting there wondering how my dreams of rock n roll rebellion somehow landed me at a Hitler Youth rally.

It was the 90's and cred was king. Even if no one had a shred of a clue what the word cred even meant or how to apply it to their creative pursuits. Hair metal was dead. And just like the superficial assholes who played that type of music, a new breed of superficial asshole came along and stripped away all the superficial elements that made hair metal HAIR METAL. Namely, the HAIR, the spandex, the v-neck guitars, and the operatic vocals. Whew, so, we got rid of all that crap, so what's left? Ah, we've got some groove, some power chords, a nice back-beat, time honored rock n roll subject matter and melody! Well, shit, we could really usher in a new and great age of kick-assery, couldn't we???? Well, hmmmm, I guess, no, it would be best to strip away even the groove, the back-beat, the melody, all that crap! .....

..... so what do we have left?

...... A bunch of superficial assholes.

..... Really, that's all?

.... Oh, a bunch of superficial assholes and some musical equipment.

.... Ah, a good enough place to get started, right?

Well, get started, they (WE, to be fair) did. And the rest is, thankfully, history. In the beginning, there really was a sense of community and common goal. Los Angeles was a wasteland of pay-to-play brutality, but a couple of bright little lights managed to illuminate. Places like Al's Bar in Long Beach and Spaceland or Jabberjaw in LA proper, became virtual bug lights to disillusioned and stateless musicians/kids everywhere. I used to love going to Jabberjaw on any given night where just about any odd assortment of people would be onstage creating random havoc. This was great for a while, but soon enough the cred bullshit and snobbery crept in and you either had to be signed to a label like Matador Records, or Bomp, or be a band that toured with a group from such a label. Total bullshit considering that every happening band was running around bragging that they would never in a million years sign to a major label. Ha! You had countless broke assholes who couldn't support a goldfish, let alone pay their rent (that is if they weren't living with their parents at 30) being happy and proud to deny themselves a buck or two or to see all their efforts amount to any level of success. Oh, wait, but Matador isn't a major label? Yeah, yeah, it's a subsidiary of Atlantic, but, shhhhhhhh!

That very same conversation could very easily veer off into some endless tirade of insult heaping at a band like Sonic Youth who had committed the cardinal sin of signing to Geffen Records (or rather DGC: David Geffen's vanity "cool" imprint) and maybe affording to finally stock up on a supply of extra guitar strings. C'mon, those guys (and gals) had been at it for years and had mouths too feed. They probably still owe whatever advance money Mr. Geffen tossed their way, but it was a much earned step up the ladder at the time. In fact, countless bands got major label deals in the wake of such stories, including a few who swore they could never find it in their hearts to do such a thing. (anyone remember Jawbreaker) Often, their own fans revolted (one again, anyone remember Jawbreaker) sending such bands into a neither here nor there wasteland. No longer indie and cool, and freshly dropped by their major label saviors..... I'll never forget Buzz from the Melvins musing about being at a guitar center watching all the guys strapping on guitars and shredding, and realizing that he was easily the worst guitarist in the room, yet probably the only one with a major label deal.... An insane time indeed.....

Spaceland was still a beacon in the night for some time after, but then Beck brought a leaf-blower onstage (a clip of which turned up in his "Loser" video) and suddenly, the place was too cool for school. (Beck, quite wisely moved on)

I was in a band who recorded for the Kill Rock Stars label, and I must admit, I've never had a more miserable time playing music. The shows were packed and sweaty, but there was nary a smile to be found. I remember playing the Hong Kong Cafe in Chinatown with Bikini Kill, and how the dead seriousness of the whole affair just depressed me to no end. That night, a group of old-school punk rockers came out of the woodwork and lit off some smoke bombs and smashed some windows before being run out in a hail of "scene" defending insults and genuine tears. It was a pathetic attempt at disruption but at least some real rock n roll had attempted an invasion. I couldn't help but wonder how many of the lunch-pail gripping buzz heads in attendance had momentary flashes of fleeing off into the night with these punks. I'm telling you, those guys most likely slithered away to much more fun.

So, somehow this all brings to a one Mrs. Chan Marshall, herself a Matador Records stalwart. Chan of the gorgeous skin tone and mesquite smoked voice, initially fit right in with this whole shebang. She'd show up with her hair in a tussle, obscuring her model looks, and breaking down on stage. I remember watching her collapsed in a heap at the front of some stage while the little girls in the pit petted her back like an overgrown and lazy cat. It was talked up as indie diva posturing, which might have been so, but anyone who actually listened to her music would be hard pressed to lend that sort of talk much credence. Chan was a mess and her music was really probably the only thing she had to grab a hold of. Then having to go out and please people with must have been something of a challenge, and she wasn't having much of it. Most people in her situation seemed to have become messes BECAUSE of the music and what bringing it to the people with whatever variety of success had wrought upon them. Chan hadn't even gotten half as far before collapsing in the doorway. But still she kept at it, releasing a string of good albums, that if, yeah, pandered in places to the groove-less/sexless times, showed enough sparks of brilliance to keep her fans hanging in there. And this isn't even considering her voice!

..... and what a voice!

Has the generation in question produced even one other voice of such a stature? I mean, where are all the new Dusty Springfield's, or Evie Sands, or Roberta Flacks? Well, 90's indie rock certainly didn't provide any (nor has R&B of late). Chan was ALWAYS a fantastic singer, but it wasn't until 2006's The Greatest that she really seemed to accept her greatness as such. Her previous album (You Are Free) saw Chan bringing in guys like Dave Grohl for no good reason and doing donuts over the same old indie AstroTurf as before, only this time, with a back slapping rotation of superstar, cred-swollen, guest stars. It was all fine and good, as Chan still showed up and brought the goods, but it was damn well time to do something different.

.... So suddenly Mrs. Marshall is standing alone (guitar in hand) next to a tree somewhere for a static-shot DVD reading of some rambling songs, and shit, things are starting to get interesting!

Flash forward a couple years and Chan is encamped in the legendary Ardent Studios (Memphis Tennessee) leaving a trail of empty scotch bottles in her wake. She's ditched any trace of indie queen pretension (not that there ever really was much of that) and is working with a crack team of session luminaries and bringing the best material of her career to dazzling life. There are no cover songs this time and her voice is at it's most lived-in and human. She's singing about having lived in bars, some guy named Willie, horses galloping, looking for living proof, and if you can't glean any real idea of what these songs are about, you sure as fuck believe every word she sings. The Memphis session crew are in perfect harmony with the woman. They underplay perfectly (unique for such a large and experienced ensemble)and punctuate each foggy notion with grace and sincerity. The guy on trumpet will bring tears to your eyes. On a song like Willie, he plays only a few key notes. And plays these notes over and over as the simple melody drones along in comforting repetition. You have no goddamn idea what this is all about, but it tugs at your heart, with an eventual emotional arch being somehow wrought from the sheer physicality of the players. Chan seems to often lose herself in the sounds that envelope her and her songs. It's rare that such a great singer will leave so many spaces available for interpretation. It's a beautiful thing to behold and you know at once, the likes of which will never become commonplace.

I could go on and on, but you really must immerse yourself in this giant feather bed of sound on your own. Chan's become something of a professional cover artist in recent years, though her powers as a song interpreter are humbling to behold. Let's hope she gifts us again soon with another perfect offering of original material, to further prove my 90's indie rock nightmare scenario might indeed have a savior.

Album review of the day: Flick Of The Switch (AC/DC)

Why this album?

Because the little motherfucker ROCKS! That's why!

Just like the little motherfucker depicted on the cover about to pull down some monstrous power lever, the whole think just rocks your lights out.

And why am I calling it a little motherfucker as opposed to some giant monolithic motherfucker along the lines of Back In Black? Or the millions selling follow up For Those About To Rock? Hmmmmm, well, because in comparison it IS a little motherfucker, but a motherfucker nonetheless. It sold next to no copies, all things considered, and the band hasn't played a single track from it live since maybe 1985?

We all know the story of Back In Black. No need for a rehash. Most of us know For Those About To Rock suffered from inflated expectations and, though it sold like a bastard and hit the number one spot in the US chart, a lot of people felt it kind of rather sucked. I mean, "c'mon, man, I put on side one and didn't instantly hear Hells Bells part two? What is this shit?"

.... Anyhow.... by the time the boys rolled back into Compass Point studios to bang out their next billion seller, they'd ditched Mutt Lange and pretty much any commercial pretensions. All they really wanted to do was be left alone to plug in and rock. Brian Johnson was still in his vocal prime so they really needed to hurry up and simply DO IT!

People may proclaim (however affectionately) that AC/DC simply recorded the same album over and over. As true as this might possibly be, nothing in their catalog shakes the floor quite like this one. Sure it might not feature the band's best songs, or any hits at all (let's remember: AC/DC IS a hit singles band) but it leaves you bruised and grooving when you're done. Ah, yeah! AC/DC can really groove, can't they? And this might have been the biggest problem with For Those About To Rock. That was a much slower (some might say plodding), evil sounding record. And as good as it may have sounded, there was really nothing there to tear up your carpet to ala "Givin The Dog A Bone" or Gimme A Bullet To Bite On". But it did one thing for sure, and this is mainly thanks to Brian Johnson: it firmly established that AC/DC was never going to be some 70's relic and could stand tall and compete with/kick the asses of the current heavy metal screamers who were dominating the airwaves and the hormones of pot smoking, D&D playing teenagers everywhere.

And speaking of Brian Johnson: I'm a huge huge Bon lover, but I have to admit, by Highway To Hell, he was beginning to give me the creeps. He seemed to have gone from a lovable, perverted uncle to a flat out scary rapist. On Highway To Hell he was singing about walking all over some chick and shoving steel out her back, and blood everywhere. It all rocked, of course, but the whole thing had a nervous edge that hadn't been there before... I'm not happy how history laid itself out, but when Brian came into the picture, the fun came back. At least for this 8 year old who rode his bike to the local Fed mart to purchase Back In Black: his very first record decided upon and bought all on his own.

Brian puts on a hell of a performance for this one. And his lyrics are pretty damn cool too. "Nervous Shakedown" made me really not want to end up in juvenile hall. My folks might have had the courtesy to at least send a thank you letter, but no!!

For a young kid, boy did this record make me fear what was in store for me as a teenager and an adult. Brian sings about picking up some girl who uses his body for abuse, leaving him to wake up alone and in pain the next morning. There are songs about the cops beating the shit out of everyone at some concert, throwing a party and having some asshole accidentally set your house on fire, a rebellious teenager losing control of his car, either being a male hustler or a hit man (not exactly sure), selling your soul to some awful romantic partner who keeps you shackled in chains and deep in the hole, a song about going around with a gun and being an all around asshole, and then ending up with some woman who's basically suicide but oh, so much fun!

Ah, if only the ensuing years had been half as eventful ;)

And what of the band? Damn, does Angus really shred on this one. Never has his guitar seemed quite so angry. And Malcome is really cranked up in the mix this time out. I tell you, the two guitar AC/DC attack is at it's all time peak here. Cliff Williams is still back there banging away on his (now headless) bass. And Phil is as steady and heavy as ever. Shame this was his last album with the band for quite some time. It seems Phil was having some big time problems with Malcome, drinking too much (even for a rock star) and seeing goblins coming out of the walls. Things came to a boil and he was put on a plane headed in opposite direction and to who knows where.... (ask him and Mark Evans: I guess you really don't cross the Young brothers) But he came back at the right time, and the story continues happily on to this day.

But back in 1983 they got some guy named Simon Wright and it just didn't feel the same. How come drummers who can play it simple, straight, and right ala Phil are the rarest breed and the most useful, yet not the ones anyone seems to admire or aspire to be? .... Anyhow, AC/DC soldiered on through a few lean years and a couple not so awesome albums. For Fly On The Wall, Brian's voice was shot and it sounds like they recorded the whole thing with him locked outside studio, screaming his voice dry trying to get someone's attention. Five minutes later some scumbag named Richard Ramirez went around singing their songs while murdering his way through the stifling hot summer of 1985, causing too many parents to toss their kids AC/DC records into the grinder. Of course they came roaring back in 1990 with some giant bald guy on drums and a couple huge hits. And from here on out the seemingly invincible AC/DC juggernaut became a happily accepted fact of life. However, Flick Of The Switch: this little bastard child of an album seems to have forever fallen into a crack.

Such is life :(

Track of the day: The Other Way

Because everything has two sides and you always have a choice. Good or bad, lightness or dark, left or right.

Album review of the day: Relayer (Yes)

Why am I reviewing this particular album? Well, I intended on reviewing Tales From Topographic Oceans, but I simply like this one better. And why? Because it fucking rocks, plain and simple. Whereas Tales From Topographic Oceans kinda sorta well, really just, simply...... doesn't. But I guess I can kinda sorta review both in one fell swoop..... So, here it goes.....

Tales is a rather well know/infamous album. It came out on the heels of the very successful Close To The Edge album and tour that followed. Yes were certainly happening. It had been a rocky few years up to this point, with a Yes member jumping (or being thrown, depending on who you ask) off the ship by the time each ensuing album was released. But they'd finally managed to meld into something solid. Keyboard deity Rick Wakeman had obliterated memory (somewhat unfairly) of the departed Tony Kaye while guitar sorcerer Steve Howe did the same with some other guy. Bill Bruford was back there on drums, pushing his instrument off into pretty much unknown territory rock-wise, and more into the realm of what someone like Tony Willams had been doing with Miles Davis. Chris Squire and Jon Anderson were on fire, and the whole thing really cooked. Jon's mystical flake-train leanings were given a solid kick in the ass by the dark tinged jazzy edge his band-mates thrust at whatever magic carpet he rode on.

So, in typical Yes fashion, it couldn't last. Bill Bruford decided to celebrate all this good fortune by quitting the band and joining King Crimson. He wanted to keep developing and pushing the drum kit. Changing the way it was viewed and applied. Good idea, I suppose, but a bit sad when you listen to his post Yes work and nothing really jumps out at you like what he did on Fragile/Close To The Edge. He also went on to pioneer the use of really awful sounding electronic drums. Rejoining Jon Anderson Steve Howe and Rick Wakeman much later on a tour where he tried his best to make the whole thing sound like complete shit. But alas, we're still dealing with 1973 here and Yes had another album to make.

Jon and Steve apparently had a much different routine than most rock stars in the early 70's. Instead of wall to wall drinking/drugging/debauchery, these guys much preferred quiet nights mediating in their hotel room and reading from the Autobiography Of A Yogi. From this whole scene sprang the idea for a sprawling album project. And sprawling it would indeed be. The album was to contain a mere four "songs" each spread over an entire side of vinyl. Good idea, huh? Well, sure! You only have four songs to glue together, so you'd better pull from the pile of good ones laying around. Uh, wait, you don't have any good ones laying around? Oh, you don't have ANY? OK, I guess you ought to get up from your incense spewing alter and get working on that!

So, work on it they did and the whole thing came steaming into the shops wrapped in a truly splendid Roger Dean gate-fold package. And I do mean splendid! Just looking at the thing makes you feel like you've just watched some epic fantasy film. Roger really knocked it out of the park this time. You're looking at some sort of Mayan temple thing out in the middle of some nighttime vista. Then you look on the back and the vista continues only now there are fish swimming around in the..... Wait! What the fuck? Fish? Swimming around in the, what? In the air? Well, there's no point in even wondering because the whole thing is gorgeous. Just gorgeous!

Then you open the gate-fold and turn it over. This, my friends, is where the trouble begins. You're suddenly looking at a rather bland and crammed bunch of lyrics, ramblings, and tiny little indistinct pictures depicting vague earthly landscapes. You've got an odd mumbling paragraph from Jon describing the impetus for the creation of the album..... or something, and then a Bible's worth of barely legible/comprehensible lyrics. So, with a sudden jab of increasing trepidation, you pull out the first gleaming slab of black vinyl (with a nifty Roger Deal label design) and administer the needle.

Hmmmm, where to begin with this one? I tell you what, I certainly won't start by bashing Alan White like so many Bruford worshipers do. The man's responsible for my all time favorite drum track (Lennon's Instant Karma) so if all he did on this album was whack two wet spaghetti noodles together, he'd still deserve nothing but respect. But never fear, Mr. White does much much more..... As the story, so often blathered, goes: Bruford was a peerless innovator. A jazz wunderkind who would much rather have his eyes gouged out by a pair of splintered drum sticks than play a straight beat, while Alan White was merely a plodding "rock guy"... It may be true that Alan indeed was more of a rock guy. But, um, when was this a bad thing? I guess you could say the same of Bonham, Ginger Baker, Ringo, or really anyone. Bill played to show off, (a wonderful thing in his case) while Alan plays for the feel, for the pocket, for the song. And I tell you, they're damned lucky they had a guy playing for the song this time out. Especially considering they didn't really have any. And for a plodding rock guy, the drumming, quite frankly, is the most memorable thing about the whole album. Most of Alan's work here is plainly weird. First off, he's placed way back in the mix as opposed to Bill who played so damn lightly they had to crank him up to the front. This is something of a shock if you've just finished listening to Close To The Edge. But once you've gotten used to the different feel, it pays off handsomely. Sure, there are a few more basic, hi-hat-based drum patterns than you're used to, but it feels good and when things get weird, so does Alan. On "The Ancient" (side three or something) Mr. White plays neither plodding rock nor Bruford style jazz/prog/wank, rather it sounds like he raided an auto graveyard (something he actually DID on Relayer) and bolted together some Frankenstein monster of a percussion get-up and proceeded to pummel the thing to death with a pair of tree trunks. For the final track "Ritual" he's mercilessly beating the shit out of his toms toms and the moment is so infections, the other guys drop their instruments and join him on assorted percussion (well, not until after Chris Squire sneaks in an awesome bass solo). It's a thunderous moment (a real show stopper live) and you're suddenly grinning from ear to ear remembering "Yeah, a little bit of muscle on the drums can be a whole lot of fun"

Nuff said about Tales From Topographic Oceans.... I love the album dearly, but it's far from lovable.

Onto Relayer.....

So, guess what?

Who quit the band now, you might ask?

Hmmmm, looks like it was the hard drinking carnivore in the cape who once had an order of ribs delivered onstage to the horror of his vegetarian band mates. Yup, Mr. Wakeman had packed up his keyboards and (in possibly the worlds largest U-Haul) drove off with them into the sunset.... At least for the time being.

Enter Patrick Moraz. Some Spanish guy with a few less keyboards and a huge leaning toward jazz noodling. Ah, him and Bruford would have gotten along famously. Wait, they in fact DID record together. But more on that, and Mr. Moraz later....

Relayer fucking rocks! Yeah, I'm repeating myself, but it begs repeating. Relayer gets everything right that Tales seemed to have gotten wrong. This time they had a mere three songs to write, only one taking up an entire side of vinyl. However, this time they really rolled up their sleeves and got down to business. All three tracks are stone cold classics. The opener "The Gates Of Delirium" really IS an epic movie in and of itself!

You wanna know what bass and drums are all about???

Well, put John and Keith aside for a moment and check these guys out. All the silly Bruford comparisons must have pissed Alan White off royally. Here he's completely off his gourd. His touch is both muscular but light. You listen to this and you swear the guy must have four arms and five legs. There's a steady violent thrust to his playing, while at the same time, his fingertips are dancing around the whole thing punctuating the various nuances that threaten to be swept up in the swirl. This might have made for a murky mess if Chris Squire hadn't been up to the task. But up for it he damn well was. The bass locks firm with the drums while snaking around the whole thing, egging the rhythm on and pushing it further and further into the stratosphere. At some point, the whole track gets so violent you worry if your dinky speakers can handle it, but then it simmers down to a calm and Jon comes in with possibly his finest vocal/lyrical work. What began as a frantic battle of sounds/instruments, segues into a gorgeous ballad of survival and perseverance.

Flip the record over (after you peel yourself off the floor) and here comes "Sound Chaser" Ah, they must have exhausted themselves with side one, you might assume. And perhaps you sit back awaiting something along the lines of "And You And I" to follow. But wait, here comes some weird jazz babble on the keyboards and damn it if Alan isn't still pissed off. He's suddenly back flailing away on his tom-toms and thrown-off snare going around and around and back and then around again, making sure each poor drum gets equal punishment. Then he settles into some perplexing rhythm that really makes no sense and makes you feel a bit uneasy, so you sit there waiting for Jon, Chris, and Steve to come put him and Patrick on a time-out. But no! They all come rampaging in and it all goes completely insane until Alan seemingly falls over, Chris knocks out his power cable, and Steve fails to notice. He just stands here flailing all over the place on his poor guitar, mercilessly running freakish scales and really, kinda, hurting the damn thing. He finally takes a breath and comes back to his senses and Jon steps up to somehow put the feeling into words. It's a lovely moment of calm and Jon sounds just fantastic, but Alan suddenly wakes up and thinks maybe he's at the back of an orchestra pit and proceeds to turn his floor tom into a kettle drum before realizing he's indeed in Yes and still in the middle of Sound Chaser. Just before he goes insane once again, Chris adjusts his tights, plugs his bass back in and calamity ensues. Jon tries to keep up but soon collapses into a wordless and aggressive series of whacked out chants. The whole thing skyrockets into space and explodes.

Pure unfettered brilliance! The reason music exists in the first place.

Yes, there's one more song "To Be Over" and it's a beauty. But you kind of sit through it in tatters, your senses slowly returning. And by the gorgeous fade, you're more than likely heading off into a deep sleep filled with ash gray dreams of granite castles and coiled snakes.

Something of a country tune: At The Dark End Of The Bar

Maybe not so much of a country song, but it covers time worn genre subject matter: getting plastered in a bar wondering why no one really wants to talk to you, and realizing that you're just another sad, depressing guy at the far end of the bar where the lights don't quite reach.

Album review of the day: Keepin The Summer Alive (The Beach Boys)

So, it's February! Perfect time to review a record called Keepin The Summer Alive, right? Well, actually, yeah! After all the album cover does depict our favorite Hawthorne natives indeed keepin the summer alive from inside a glass dome thingy amid a frigid winter landscape. If you know anything about the Beach Boys story, the volumes this silly cover art speaks are almost too obvious to mention, but were apparently lost on all involved.

It was 1980 and this was the second Beach Boys album for the CBS/Caribou label. Their previous platter: the LA (Light Album) had been something of late/mid period highpoint. Brian was in and out of the mental hospital and good ole Bruce Johnston had been brought back into the fold (after a 6 year sabbatical) to Produce. Dennis was in top form, as was Carl, and the two of them, along with Bruce, crafted some superb mature tracks. Dennis and Carl blending beautifully, and Bruce basically taking over for Brian in the high harmony department. Al Jardine scored big with his Lady Lynda (a massive hit in the UK) and Mike crammed some phonetic Japanese into a gorgeous little tune called Sumahama. Brian and Carl dusted off a gorgeous track called Good Timin, and Dennis provided a rocking bass vocal for Brian's fun take on Shortnin Bread. All in all the album was terrific. The only misstep might have been the towering 11+ minute disco remake/re-model of Wild Honey's "Here Comes The Night" Well, the term misstep basically applies if one has a built in aversion to anything disco. Otherwise, the track's burbling synths, stomping beat, and smashing group vocals are pure audio cotton candy. Sticky sweet, and oh so tasty! I mean, please, if disco was OK for Kiss, The Stones, and Lou Reed, why can't the Beach Boys take a crack at it. Put yourself in Bruce's shoes. It's 1979, sure disco is on the wane, but it's still there, you're producing an album, your friend Curt Boettcher has an idea which might have sounded silly. But wait, you've got Carl Wilson to do the lead, the Beach Boys for full group harmony and a damn catchy tune that was never a hit and is locked away in time on a dusty little album that no one remembers (in 1979 at least). So, fuck all if you're not going to give it a shot.

Alas, the record sold poorly, CBS/Caribou was pissed, and here The Beach Boys were owing yet another album.

What to do?

If you happen to be Brian Wilson: not a hell of a lot. At this point I really don't think he cared to have anything to do with The Beach Boys other than to allow the royalty checks to keep pouring in. And who can blame him? He'd already achieved plenty and was content to stay at home rather than be dragged from stadium to stadium with the inflated Beach Boys juggernaut. Of course Mike Love wanted to keep cranking out the hits with Brian, and who can blame him either? There is a film clip from around this time of the two men sitting at a piano as Brian pounds out a chord sequence, Mike spits out vocal melody and the two arrive at a song concept. It's an infectious moment. Sure, Mike is bald, Brian is gruff, bearded, puffy, and greasy, but goddamn if these guys don't make it look easy. Say what you will about Mike, (educated opinion or not) but the guy most certainly has an ear for melody. Catchy melody at that. He and Brian forged a unique and quite special creative chemistry. All those days and nights together as kids/teenagers singing Everly Brothers songs wasn't for nothing. Brian's melancholy whine and Mike's arrogant tenor perfectly compliment each other and bring out their individual strengths, while somehow encompassing the full range of adolescent (or rather human) heartache and longing. It's a magical thing indeed. And if you want to use Kokomo as a weapon to somehow invalidate Mike across the board: please remember that song was a number one hit and you and all your friends would be proud to have written it.

So there!

So, here we are in 1980, The Beach Boys have suffered yet another poor selling album! What's the solution? Well, there is no solution other than to keep on keepin on, by keepin the summer alive! Carl goes off with Randy Bachman to write a couple killer tunes, Brian/Mike bang out some winners, while Al goes and writes lovingly about those dry, smog choked, Santa Ana Winds. Dennis? Yeah, where is Dennis? Good question. Well, actually not a very good question because Dennis really wasn't anywhere. His beloved Brother studio/safe haven was gone, his drinking/drugging buddy Carl was all cleaned up, and he was basically adrift, ever so rapidly inching his way down toward the water he loved. Water that would shortly claim him.

Aside from a depressing lack of Dennis, the album, however is a sheer delight. Carl and BTO man's title track rocks along at a fine clip. Carl never ceases to amaze me. He could croon along, ala God Only Knows, like THE teen angel incarnate, and then flip some switch and grunt and growl with the best of them. "Oh Darlin" is a lovely tune even though it drags on a bit and repeats the chorus a mind numbingly insane amount of times. But who's complaining when you have Carl squeezing out the lead vocal like maple syrup on a stack of steaming hotcakes?

Then you have the Brian/Mike triad of Goin On/Sunshine/Some Of Your Love! Sure, none of these songs will get us out of Afghanistan or rid the globe of hunger, but they will make you feel like you've just scarfed down the worlds biggest ice cream cone. Goin On, for instance, is a thing of pure beauty. A gorgeous spire of sound that winds around itself again and again, forever spiraling up and up toward the heavens! Pure magic!

And what about Bruce? Did he just Produce this time? Why, no! Mr. Johnston also contributes his own brand of sticky sweet syrupy goo in the form of the album closing track Endless Harmony: a somewhat premature career capper/back slapping nostalgia fest for The Beach Boys that, in truth, comes across as something more of a tombstone. He sings of "striped shirt freedom" and boys who "make their mommas cry" while in the next breath blessing America: land of the free! From there he gathers the boys (or at least who he could get in the room at one time) around the mic for one of their magical vocal moments. Their voices locking in a series of wordless movements until a single voice takes the floor and rises into space, pausing a moment, perhaps looking down at the glimmering Southern California coastline, before plummeting back to earth, landing in a warm bed of Beach Boy harmony.

Ah, if only the real story had ended that way.

Track of the day: Gundarvika

This little song was written for a long lost friend.

And my runner up for greatest love song ever written? Barbara by Dennis Wilson

So, this song is called "Barbara"

I'm not named Barbara, and frankly, I don't even know a single Barbara! Therefore, how could I possibly relate to such a song? Well, that's an obviously silly and facile question, right? So, my point?? Hmmmmm, I suppose it must have something to do with the simply transcendent power of music (or really any art form when done well) in and of itself regardless of subject matter, chops, skill, finesse, or complete lack of. I mean, God Only Knows and Please Let Me Wonder are both really saying the same thing, aren't they? The former is highly (and rightfully) regarded as an all time classic of pop music, and the latter is really not regarded at all other than as a somewhat bright spot amid the Beach Boys "fun in the sun" phase, and a positive step in the direction of Pet Sounds as all those scholarly music tomes will tell you!

Ah, hindsight!!

So then there's Dennis Wilson. For many people, the wrong Wilson. He certainly wasn't genius Brian or angel voiced Carl. Hell, he wasn't even Mike Love. So, what was he? Well, he was most certainly a genuine surfer and the main attraction ladies-wise in the Beach Boys ranks. He was also a womanizer, drug addict, alcoholic, several times married, who died tragically young at 39 from drowning. That part is all neatly accepted history. But for anyone who's cared to do their homework, Dennis was quite possibly the most emotionally in-tune of the Wilson bothers/Beach Boys. He had a great voice, right up there with Brian and Carl, but the abuse he heaped upon his vocal chords served to roughen it very early on. This limited his vocal range (technically at least) but somehow managed to increased his emotional scope. Brian and Carl (well, at least Carl) and Al Jardine could sing rings around Dennis, but none could ever hope to achieve the simple emotionality he put across. Dennis' voice made you feel comforted and loved even if you knew the man himself was in a spiral.

"Barbara" this quiet ode to his then wife, is supposedly just a demo he hoped would be given a full orchestral/Beach Boys production along the lines of his two tracks from the Carl And The Passions album. But it's hard to imagine the song working any better under such circumstances. It's about Barbara, for sure. But it could really be about anyone. Though I suspect, even for Dennis, it was really about the feeling that motivated his fingers across the keys of his piano. That fleeting, but visible light just out of his reach, but one that would hover close, so he could feel it, smell, it, taste it, know it.

Dennis was the real deal in a sense that we've hardly seen, and it's hard to imagine what could have been when what was seems so inevitable.

A Buddy Holly cover: not so appropriate for V-Day ;)

Greatest love song ever? "Please Let Me Wonder" (the beach boys)

So, in an additional Valentine's Day honor, here's my pick for the greatest love song ever written.

"Now here we are together
This would've been worth waiting forever
I always knew it'd feel this way

And please forgive my shaking
Can't you tell my heart is breaking?
Can't make myself say what I planned to say

Baby
Please let me wonder
If I've been the one you love
Please let me wonder
If I'm who you're dreaming of
Please let me wonder, love

I built all my goals around you
That some day my love would surround you
You'll never know what we've been through

For so long I thought about it
And now I just can't live without it
This beautiful image I have of you

Baby
Please let me wonder
If I've been the one you love
Please let me wonder
If I'm who you're dreaming of
Please let me wonder, love

Please let me wonder
If I've been the one you love
Please let me wonder
If I'm who you're dreaming of
Please let me wonder, love

I love you"

Hmmmm, I dunno about you, but those lyrics pretty much sum up my entire romantic life thus far.

Nuff said.

And another track: Slut

Valentines Day album review: Genesis: Duke!

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Track Of The Day: Raincoat Blues

Welcome

It's Valentines Day so I decided to gift myself with a home for my music and music related ramblings.