The 'Birds With Broken Wings' Vault

Welcome To The Vault

2008-12-31T00:00:00.000-08:00

All past content from the years
2007 through 2008 for
Birds With Broken Wings
can be found in the pages below.
Please browse freely, leave comments,
and kindly notify me of any broken links
by dropping an email in the corresponding
link located in the side panel.

I hope you'll find some things of interest within.

A Holiday Gift From Me To You

2008-12-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

NRBQ: The Early Quintet/Quartet Years
Friday, December 26, 2008

God knows we all can certainly use a little good cheer these days. We're living in vulgar times, and despite the promise of Barack Obama's impending inauguration, we've still got a long way to go before we dig ourselves out from under the rubble that surrounds us.

Now if you're a regular reader of this blog, you'll recall that it was roughly 12 months ago that I waxed poetic over the visceral power of NRBQ's music. For me, the 'Q' (as they are affectionately referred to) have always been the great equalizer; their joyous sound and off-the-hook stage shows contained just the right amount of irreverence and master musicianship to effectively put the world on hold for a few hours at a time, allowing me to recall a time when life didn't feel so damn complex and messy. Since the band has now regrettably called it quits after a long 37 year run, I must rely solely on their recorded output as my legal drug of choice for suppressing nervous tension in a scenario that might go something like:

"Dr. Howard! Dr. Fine! I'm a mess! Can you give me some sort of prescription for this holiday malaise?"

"Well, Miles, are you getting any exercise? Why don't we try that in combination with a Vitamin B12 shot and some NRBQ? Let's start out with 'Tiddlywinks.' I'll give you a script for it that you can fill at the record shop. And do call me if your symptoms worsen, but the 'Q' should do the trick. Now roll up your sleeve."

I thank modern technology and commerce for supplying me with the means, as NRBQ records have probably been worn out and replaced more than any other catalog in my collection besides Miles Davis, but most especially I thank Terry, Al, Joey, and Tommy, the core of the 'Q' for providing me with years of pleasure and dozens of songs that remain the strongest elixir that I've ever found to elevate my soul.

The New Rhythm And Blues 'Quintet'

In 1967, headquartered just a short commuters train ride upstate from Manhattan, the group began life as a 'Quintet,' revolving around the gritty guitar work of Steve Ferguson and the rollicking piano of Terry Adams. Ferguson's style was a fiery and rootsy one, distinct and unorthodox, a sound that remains highly unique even today. Adams on the other hand, drew his inspiration from the curious well of Jerry Lee Lewis and Thelonious Monk --- two unlikely bed partners --- but the blend proved both intoxicating and exciting, resulting in unexpected surprise and originality. In those years as later, the band's songwriting came from three divergent sources, Ferguson penned blues, shuffles, and rockabilly twang, while bassist, Joey Spampinato (then called Jody St. Nicholas) lent teen appeal and a pop sensibility to the band with his Beatlesque nuggets, filling them with ringing guitars and three part harmonies. The wild card was Adams, the de facto leader of the band whose songcraft simply runs amok. His songbook wavers from country blues to knockabout rock & roll, tender love ballads and paeans to childhood, to endearing one-offs and Monk informed jazz. And have I mentioned his and the bands affinity for the intergalactic/free jazz/dance music of Sun Ra? Rounded out by drummer, Tom Staley, and frontman/vocalist, Frank Gadler, those formative years for the 'Q' were a strange, eclectic brew; a proverbial smorgasbord of genres. Graced with three superb songwriters, five vocalists, and a set list that resembled a roadmap drawn by a blind man, the combination was at once brash, exuberant, and utterly refreshing.

The New Rhythm And Blues 'Quartet'

After two LP's ('NRBQ' and 'Boppin' The Blues,' the latter a shared bill with Carl Perkins), Ferguson dropped out of the band to be replaced by a monster of the guitar, 'Big' Al Anderson. Anderson is a huge hulk of a man with a constant scowl that makes one consider whether it might be prudent to avoid him if he's ever in a foul mood. But despite his bulk and intimidating grimace, Al is actually a gentle giant, "the glue that held the band together," according to Terry Adams. The five man line-up with Anderson remained in place through one more album ('Scraps') before Gadler eventually jumped ship to an indeterminate destiny that he may, or may not have regretted. After their fourth release ('Workshop,' originally to be called 'The Age of Aquariums'), drummer, Staley had also moved on to be replaced by the curly haired, fresh faced, Tom Ardolino. With that last change of personnel, the band officially changed the 'Q' in NRBQ to 'Quartet,' and new line-up of Joey, Terry, Al, and Tom, hit the road in an endless series of small club dates and concerts halls that took them from Altoona to Baton Rogue, Pensacola to Poughkeepsie, Richmond to Cotati, and nearly every town and stage in between. This 'classic' line-up prevailed for 20 odd years --- releasing roughly the same number of recordings --- coming to an end when Anderson left to pursue a successful songwriting career in Nashville, leaving his spot to Spaminato's brother, Tom who stayed until the bands ultimate breakup in 2004. Throughout those decades, NRBQ remained as true to themselves as any self respecting unit of musicians possibly could, never once wavering from their original vision. And through it all, they retained the every hallmark of what the 'Q' ultimately came to embody; world class musicianship, hard work, showmanship, good humor, eclecticism, exploration, great rock n' roll, and damn good fun!

The Recordings

The songs featured in 'Get A Grip!' are drawn from NRBQ's earliest releases on the Columbia and Kama Sutra labels. Additional material recorded during that same period is also included, though only issued a few years later after they had formed their own Red Rooster label. The years '67 through '71 were a developmental time for the band, young men gaining their footing and honing their stage show, slowly building a massive and eclectic body of work that would go on to become the foundation of their live sets throughout the next three decades. The personnel may be different in these songs with the frequent shift in band members, but the sound, spirit, diversity, and musicianship were in place from the very start. And of course, so was the joy that has fueled me for years. Long live NRBQ.

Get A Grip!

1.) Get A Grip
2.) New Tune
3.) Scraps
4.) Stomp
5.) Hymn #9
6.) Ain't It Alright
7.) Howard Johnson's Got His Hojo Workin'
8.) Magnet
9.) RC Cola And A Moon Pie
10.) Ratch-I-Tatch
11.) Just Close Your Eyes, Ruby
12.) Come On If You're Comin'
13.) Sourpuss
14.) Hey Little Brother
15.) Open All The Windows
16.) Start It All Over Again
17.) Don't Knock At My Door
18.) Tragic Magic
19.) Get That Gasoline Blues
20.) Do You Feel It
21.) Flat Foot Floozy
22.) C'mon Everybody
23.) Throw Out The Lifeline
24.) Chicken Hearted
25.) She's Got To Know
26.) You Got Me Goin'
27.) Accentuate The Positive
28.) Have You Heard

For more NRBQ, visit:

NRBQ: A Quick Fix For The Holiday Blues With The Extra Added Ability To Free Your Soul, And It's Just In Time For The New Year, Baby!

The source material for 'Get A Grip!' comes from the following recordings:
NRBQ (1969)/Boppin' The Blues (1970)/Scraps (1971)/Workshop (1972)

RC Cola & A Moon Pie (1986) and Stay With We : The Best Of NRBQ's Columbia Years (1993)

plus bonus tracks from various remastered CD's from the NRBQ catalog

Not Right Now. I'm Listening To Aretha

2008-12-19T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Power Of Aretha Franklin
Friday, December 19, 2008

It came over breakfast at Patella’s Diner. He was working on his second slice of buttered toast when the question left her lips. She delivered it ever so nonchalantly, as casual as the waitress topping off their coffee cups. "What do you think about getting a Christmas tree this year, babe? As long as we’re unpacking, I thought maybe we could get the decorations out, dress the place up a bit, and invite our new neighbors over for a small holiday party. It might be fun! What do you think?"

His wife’s surprising request caught him off guard, forcing him to swallow his mouthful of hot brew just a little too fast. "Aw, Christ! A Christmas tree?" he coughed, choking on the words he was loath to hear. "Just whadda' ya' have in mind?"

"Well I just thought that maybe this year would be a good time to do something different. It’s our first Christmas here.” There was an awkward silence where she had hoped for a promising reply. “You know that elderly lady who lives down the hallway?” she continued. “I was talking with her the other day. She's a very sweet woman you know, and so interesting too. Can you believe that she's lived in that unit for nearly 60 years? Gosh, she must have moved in when she was in her early 20's! That's so hard to imagine these days, someone staying put for so long, don’t you think? Anyway, she said she had some old lights she'd like to give us. I thought we could invite her over, along with some other people in the building. She seems so sweet, and lonely. Seeing a tree strung with her lights might brighten up her day, not to mention brightening our place too. It would be festive! Just something simple is all I have in mind, nothing fancy. I saw some nice looking Spruce trees down on that lot next to the Buy-Rite Market the other day, just the right size, and not too expensive either. Maybe we could go down and have a look after supper tonight."

He had already stopped listening after the antidote about the elderly neighbor. She knew that he abhorred the holidays. It was always the worst time of year for him, a stressful season, empty with all its forced joviality and glad-handing, impossible to live up to its promise. She knew better than to push the subject, but had hoped that with so many boxes left to unpack, the task might prove to be a bit easier and palatable to him. What she didn’t know was that he had already buried the holiday decorations deep in the rear of the storage closet; a calculated move intended precisely to avoid having to decorate. He hated it, but she thought perhaps this year just might be different. Continuing with assurance she cheerfully injected, “We’ve got plenty of time, after all Christmas is still a few weeks away. Besides, it’s not like you can spend your weekends watching football with your friends like before, we haven’t even gotten the cable hooked up yet!” She knew from experience that football was the convenient out he had used countless times before; stringing her along with promises of making good the following weekend until the holiday had virtually come and gone. Year after year the decorations never went up, and she would hear the words that she invariably came to expect, “I’m sorry, babe. Maybe next year.”

She knew there was little chance of seeing the trimmings again this year, but it had almost become a sort of game to her. Not one in which to force her husband into participating in something that he found objectionable, but rather like gambling on future’s; the prospect of whether one day, maybe this day, he might have a surprising change of heart. She certainly knew that he was not a cold nor cruel man. Quite the contrary, he was quite attentive to her needs and desires in every other way. Neither was he a bitter curmudgeon, angry at the world around him. Despite his contempt for the Christmas season, he had always found a way for them to celebrate the holiday in some simple non-traditional way. His avoidance of the holiday was rooted in his disdain for the orthodox trappings that had come to represent Christmas. What others blindly accepted as seasonal custom was simply an endeavor that he believed to be false, and one for which he was not prepared to indulge in, and perhaps never would be. She knew this, but this season she hoped would be the year he’d agree to a compromise. “Give me some time to think about it, dear,” came his lukewarm reply, and for the moment she was satisfied.

Like the good husband he was, he genuinely did give the idea some thought over the next few days. He wasn’t certain about the old lady, but he did agree that the apartment was in need of some extra light. He also understood that he couldn't always dash his wife’s heartfelt request for a little traditional holiday cheer. Perhaps she was right. Maybe this year was a good time for something different. After all, wasn't that the goal they had set out to achieve? Shake thing up a little, stir in some changes? One thing of which he was certain however, he would definitely not be talked into donning a pair of skates for a spin around Wollman Rink.

The weeks passed quickly, and not another word was said about a celebration by either of them. Christmas was now just 7 days away, and cautiously broaching the subject much like testing the temperature of the bath water, she approached him once again at the dinner table. "So have you come to a decision regarding our conversation about the tree?” she implored. “Time is running out you know?” “Yeah, I know, and yes, I have,” he replied, “but would you mind if we didn’t talk about this very moment? I'm dog-tired, babe.” Rubbing his forehead, he sighed heavily, “How about later? I have to decompress first. After we eat, I intend to pour myself a drink and wind down a bit with some music.” He had been working long hours recently and often came home exhausted. Retiring to the music room was common for him, and a pleasure that she certainly appreciated as well, as they both found comfort and solace in the immersion of books and music. “O.K.,” she said, nodding her head in empathy. “I love you.” “I love you too, babe. More than you know,” he whispered.

Later that evening as he prepared to relax with his music, he browsed through their collection for something soulful, something that held special meaning; spiritual music to guide and inspire him, easing the ache he felt in his heart. It had been a grueling day, the demands of a new position, along with another season of false promise weighing heavy on his mind, but he was determined to reach a decision on whether he was willing, or even capable of celebrating with an old fashioned holiday. He was concerned for his wife’s happiness, and perhaps this year truly was a good time for a compromise that could satisfy them both. To the casual observer, his behavior may have seemed trite and selfish, but this was a truly a dilemma for him, and it pained him. His wife understood this and would undoubtedly accept whatever the outcome would be, though she did honestly long for the kind of holiday that others shared. Finding his choice, he placed the record on the turntable, lowered the lights, sipped at his drink, and let the music wash over him. "Maybe it could be nice," he thought to himself, "after all, there's something to be said for having some spiced apple cider around the house. Or better yet, maybe some warm Brandy with cookies and cakes. The apartment warm and toasty, filled with the scent of pine, and lit by the glow of a fire. Yeah, we could put the tree in that corner with some ribbons and bows, and beneath the tree, some brightly wrapped packages in all shapes and sizes.” He let his mind wander free, certainly freer than it ever had before surrounding this topic. “We can sit by the fire sharing stories of Christmases past, and outside the window, maybe some caroler's singing songs of the season. Later, a few friends might drop by for a toast. We could make it a real holiday!” He was actually beginning to warm to the idea, and his wife would surely be pleased to hear the good news.

Just then, the record he was listening to began to skip, breaking the mood, as well as his reverie. He rose from his chair to re-position the needle past the damaged groove, and then returned to the cushioned comfort and his fantasy of a true Christmas celebration. “Now where was I?” he tried to recall. Attempting to re-establish the mood, he pondered the true meaning of the holiday. "Christmas is a spiritual re-experiencing of the birth of Christ as he miraculously appeared born in a manger," he thought to himself. "It was all natural and beautiful. No hospitals, no bright lights. A simple, pure act. Angels and Kings were there, and even a shining star. And to think that in this day and age, we can relive the entire religious meaning of it all. It's a nice thing. The Christmas carols, the ringing bells, the snowfall." Thinking back on holidays long past however, a very different kind of picture slowly began to emerge in his mind. Memories of shopping in crowded department stores, spending more than you could really afford, and why? Because it was expected. Wasn't that what Christmas boiled down to today? He remembered unannounced visits, friends and family dropping by in the name of holiday mirth with cheaply made fruitcakes and coconut macaroons, leaving puddles of melted snow by the doorway, and even bigger messes to be cleaned up after they've left. Everyone carrying on, laughing like the woes of yesterday had simply vanished into thin air. And though he knew that good cheer was a part of the design, it just never rang true enough to feel genuinely warm and sincere. And what about those caroler's, those damn caroler’s outside on the sidewalk, annoying and off key, and everyone finding it so charming. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea," he nervously thought. This troubling new scenario was rapidly replacing the previous, more accepting one. It glumly depicted the fretting over cards received from friends who were overlooked on the ‘send to’ list, the cat getting into the tinsel, puking it's guts all over the hardwood and possibly involving an expensive late night trip to the veterinarian emergency room. Further still, it detailed long lines at the Post Office, the excessive eating followed by months of dieting, the credit card bills and merchandise exchanges, the gift received that you had no use for, and the pine needles, 'My God, the pine needles! Sticking in the carpeting 'til springtime! Oh, man!” he thought, grabbing his drink and swallowing hard. “Christmas is really just a lot of unnecessary stress." “This isn’t gonna’ work,” he said stammered softly, but clearly aloud. “Shit! What am I gonna’ do now? I was almost there!”

Downing the remaining contents of his glass, he poured him self another drink. “I need some stronger medicine,” he thought. He went back to the record library to find that certain 'one-of-a-kind' recording that held real power, the power to move mountains. An artist with that certain touch and feeling, a sound that could stir the soul and heal the heart, something soulful, something deep, something utterly transforming. He looked long and hard until he came across what he felt just might be the perfect tonic. Beginning again, he lowered the tone arm, placing headphones over his ears this time to allow the music to work its magic. At that very moment, his wife entered the room prepared to conclude their talk about the tree, the lights, and the idea for a holiday gathering. His heart sank. Just twenty minutes prior he was prepared to tell her that he agreed with her 100%, that decorating the apartment seemed like a good thing to do this year. “So go ahead and invite some neighbors,” he had imagined himself saying. “Tomorrow we’ll pick out a tree, and then I’ll get started on wrestling with the trimmings.” But now his doubts had returned, and they came knocking with a vengeance. The music in his headphones filled his ears, but it had yet to fully cast its spell. Staring at his feet, he looked up at her hoping to buy himself just a little more time to reconsider and sheepishly said, “Not right now, babe. I’m listening to Aretha.” And in that brief moment, with those few words, she understood completely.

I'm Listening To Aretha

1) Wholly Holy
2) Don't Play That Song
3) Think
4) Save Me
5) Ain't No Way
6) I Wonder (Where Are You Tonight)
7) Nobody Knows The Way I Feel (This Morning)
8) Chain Of Fools
9) Since You've Been Gone
10) (I'd Rather Drink) Muddy Water
11) Without The One You Love
12) Trouble In Mind
13) Runnin' Out Of Fools
14) Do Right Woman, Do Right Man
15) Dr. Feelgood
16) Baby I Love You
17) Until You Come Back To Me
18) Only The Lonely
19) Maybe I'm A Fool
20) Don't You Know
21) At Last
22) So Soon
23) The Letter
24) Climbing Higher Mountains

The source material for 'I'm Listening To Aretha' comes from the following recordings:

Amazing Grace (1972)/The Legendary Queen Of Soul (1981)
30 Greatest Hits (1985)/Aretha Sings The Blues (1985)
and
Rare And Unreleased Recordings From The Golden Reign Of The Queen Of Soul (2007)

Jazzoetry II

2008-12-12T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Blood Of Poets II
Friday, December 12, 2008

Jazz poetry was not discovered by
Allen Ginserg or Jack Kerouac
let alone Kenneth Rexroth
Nor was it a literary invention of the
Beat(up) school, the New York school or
any other official institution of 20th
century AVANT-learning

It started if you really want to know
(and you damn well should) in a white
whorehouse in East St. Louis, Illinois
in August 1928 where a bunch of drunken
unemployed Negro poets were sitting around
trying to sound like LOUIS ARMSTRONG as a
rickety Victrola ground out 1,900 choruses
of "Tight Like That" in the early mourning
hours of Eddie Jefferson's 12th birthday

It was Eddie's father who told the other cats
present that they should all donate their individual
stanzas to little Eddie as a birthday gift as Jefferson, Sr.
didn't have no money as usual to buy his wide-eyed son that
silver-grey saxophone he'd seen in the window of a weary
looking pawnshop called LIGHTS OUT in the 'nigger section'
of town

The rest as they say is MYSTERY...

© Kofi Natambu

Jazzoetry III

1.) Succubus/Annette Peacock 2.) Orizaba 210 Blues/Jack Kerouac

3.) So Long/Jayne Cortez
4.) Oaktown Blues::Just Like That/Upsurge! JazzPoetry Ensemble
5.) California Highways Up & Down/Miles Mellough
6.) Dem Niggers Ain't Playin'/The Watts Prophets

7.) Leimert Park/Kamau Daaood
8.) Comment #1::Brother/Gil Scott-Heron 9.) Jazzoetry/The Last Poets
10.) Conversations (Instrumental)/Build An Ark
11.) Letter To John Clellon Holmes/Lee Renaldo w/Dana Colley reading Kerouac
12.) 9th & Hennepin/Tom Waits 13.) Soul Ain't: Soul Is/Sarah Webster Fabio
14.) Blues #1/Langston Hughes w/Charles Mingus

15.) American Sport/Annette Peacock
16.) Black Dada Nihilismus/Amiri Baraka w/The New York Art Quartet
17.) Priester::Rivers/Upsurge! Jazz Poetry Ensemble
18.) A Poker Game; Luck Inverts Itself; Four Swimmers

/Fernando Saunders w/Kip Hanrahan

Jazzoetry IV

1.) Thou Shalt Not Kill/Kenneth Rexroth
2.) Liberator Of The Spirit (For John Coltrane)/Kamau Daaood
3.) Bicentennial Blues/Gil Scott-Heron
4.) Syncopated Blues/Allen Dwight Callahan reading Langston Hughes
5.) There's A Difference Between A Black Man And A Nigger/The Watts Prophets
6.) All Athighed In Black/Eugene B. Redmond
7.) Juju For Ray Charles::Alchemy Of The Blues/Sarah Fabio Webster
8.) As I Opened The Window/Kenneth Patchen w/The Alan Neil Quartet
9.) Moscow In The Winter::Segovia In The Snow/Lawrence Ferlinghetti
10.) I Am New York City/Jayne Cortez
11.) Survival/Annette Peacock

For more Jazzoetry, visit the previous post, Chasing The Ghost Of Kerouac, Pts.1-3

Again my sincere thanks to Greg of Impulse! and Sounds From The Edge Of The Universe for sharing some great jazzoetry. To Reza, who is a contributor at Black Classical, Ish of Ile Oxumare, and lastly to James from Nothing Is v2.0. Also, check out Upsurge! JazzPoetry Ensemble from Oakland, CA, who in my estimation are among the new supreme bearers of the jazzoetry torch.

Special Note: There are four instrumental tracks spread across Jazzoetry I-IV. These are included for color, and to provide a little balance to the mix. However, you can utilize those tracks to try your own hand at creating jazz poetry. Simply write an original poem, or find an existing one that you feel matches the vibe of any of the four tracks, then practice reciting it aloud to the rhythm of the piece. Then, if you're feeling especially creative and ambitious, you can take that track, along with a microphone and audio editor (such as: Pro-Tools, Audacity, Sound Studio, Amadeus, Garageband, etc.) and record your own contribution to Jazzoetry. If you like what you've created, send your completed .mp3 file to me as a download link or an email attachment, c/o hays8662@mypacks.net. Those that I receive will be featured in a future Jazzoetry post. The deadline for submission is February 28, 2009.

The Blood Of Poets

2008-12-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

Jazzoetry

Friday, December 05, 2008

Adjusting his hat and

stepping into the spotlight

he spoke directly to the crowd
saying ---

What we have here

is a self compiled anthology of

poetry

and spoken word

all the way from Langston Hughes and the
Harlem Renaissance/1920's

to the existential tomes of the Beat at the dawn of the
nuclear age

through the socially/politically fueled rants of

angry young Blacks/adrift

in Nixon/Agnew white Amerika/and looking

to build a new Pan-African nation

up to today's contemporary poets

rappers and

musicians

carrying the torch of their predecessors

Now we

being individuals/you and I

have different ideas/about

Jazzoetry and

what it involves

So what is

Jazzoetry

and what does it need to make it

Jazz Poetry?

Well jazz/poetry can be a lot of things and

who knows what it really needs/other than

an opinion or

a viewpoint or

something that begs to be spoken

I can tell you this ---

Jazzoetry does not need a backdrop of

bongos or

rattles or

congas played by Black militant brothers

dressed in Dashikis on Harlem street corners

Nor does it need the sound of

steel brushes on taunt snare drums

whispering like the whoosh of wet radials on

rain-slicked city streets

It doesn't need

the snap of fingers or

the curl of smoke/from Chesterfield Kings

The clinking glasses

of barroom patrons or

the solemn reverence bestowed in bookstore readings

It also doesn't need

the accompaniment of a mournful tenor or

a tinkling piano played by sad eyed musicians

in smokey bars and downtown coffeehouses

But it does need soul

Although all those elements

are often present

the gist of Jazzoetry/lives

in the rhythm

and the color

and the imagery

and the sound

of the words

themselves

Poetry that incorporates

the syncopation

the feeling

and the phrasing of

jazz music

Poetry that mimics the improvisational quality of

jazz music

Modern/Jazz in particular

Of course

it's all subjective you know/because

you and I/we hear things

differently

You and I/we say things

differently

You and I/we feel things

differently

We are different/you and I

That's not to say that

one of us is with it and

the other one isn't

That one of us has it and

the other one doesn't/have a clue

It's/all/subjective

The artists in this mix

do have it

and they have soul

There's no question about it

They're poets

and musicians with stories to tell

and what they make is

Jazzoetry

Jazzoetry I

1.) The Afrikan In Winter/Positive Force
2.) Saint America/The Watts Prophets
3.) Running Through::Chinese Poem Song

/Warren Zevon w/Michael Wolff reading Kerouac
4.) The Hyphen Between African And American Is Wyoming Wide/Upsurge!
5.) Nia (Complete The Circle)/Ju-Ju
6.) Balm Of Gilead (For Billie Holiday & Lester Young)/Kamau Daaood
*7.) Dream::Panic::Sonny Boy::Little Sally/Camille Yarbrough
8.) Kupenda Nakuhitaji/Ade Olatunji
9.) A Lover Divides Time (To Hear How It Sounds) (Past, Present, Tense)

/Lisa Herman w/Kip Hanrahan

10.) America's New Trinity Of Love: Dean, Brando, Presley

/Richard Lewis reading Kerouac
11.) Travelin' Man (Instrumental)/Stanley Cowell

12.) Black Dog Following Me/Miles Mellough
13.) Jones Comin' Down/The Last Poets
14.) I've Know Rivers/Gary Bartz Ntu Troop
15.) Ode To Coit Tower/Gregory Corso

16.) Blues #25/Langston Hughes w/Charles Mingus

*In the .zip file, this is credited incorrectly to Nancy Dupree. It should be Camille Yarbrough.

Jazzoetry II

1.) Rise Vision Comin'/Hadi Madhubuti & Nation
2.) Trouble's Braids/Tom Waits
3.) H20gate Blues/Gil Scott-Heron
4.) Chromo/Saran Webster Fabio
5.) Proceed/The Roots w/Roy Ayers
6.) All Hid/Camille Yarbrough
7.) Cabenza de Gasca, The Gasser/Lord Buckley
8.) Dog/Bob Dorough reading Lawrence Ferlinghetti
9.) Sounds From The Village (Instrumental)/Phil Ranelin
10.) Mexican Loneliness/Matt Dillon

w/J. Altruda, J. Gonzalez & P. Calogero reading Kerouac

11.) Beautiful Black Woman/Amiri Baraka
12.) Tears::Bulletholes/Nancy Dupree
13.) Nocturnal Sunshine/Me'Shell NdegéOcello w/Herbie Hancock
14.) Lemon's Holy Blues/K. Curtis Lyle
15.) The Lion For Real/Alan Ginsberg
16.) Harlem Preacher/Kain

Next Week... Jazzoetry, Pts. III & IV

with
The New York Art Quartet w/Amiri Baraka/Annette Peacock
Jack Kerouac/Kenneth Rexroth/Allen Dwight Callahan
Build An Ark/Lawrence Ferlinghetti/Kenneth Patchen
Eugene B. Redman/Fernando Saunders and many others

For more Jazzoetry, visit the previous post, Chasing The Ghost Of Kerouac, Pts.1-3

My sincere thanks go out to a handful of remarkably dedicated bloggers, who by virtue of their passion for free thinking music have unearthed some extremely rare, but important out of print recordings. Included within 'The Blood Of Poets' are a few excerpts from these archaeological finds (Hadi Madhubuti, Nancy Dupree, K. Curtis Lyle, and most recently, Kain), and I'd like to express my gratitude to those individuals who graciously shared those titles for which I had the pleasure of hearing for the very first time.

Praise most especially goes to Greg of Impulse!, Sounds From The Edge Of The Universe, and Black Classical, the latter two of which feature many historical full length spoken word recordings. Praise also to Reza who is a contributor to Black Classical, but previously published the excellent, though now defunct, El Reza. Additionally, my thanks go to Ish of Ile Oxumare, and lastly to James of Nothing Is v2.0 who just recently introduced me to a bit of Jazzoetry that I'd never previously heard. Finally, I thank those who I may have inadvertently overlooked.

It's my hope that this compilation will encourage you to further explore the art of Jazzoetry. Especially worthy of your attention is Upsurge! JazzPoetry Ensemble out of Oakland, CA, who in my estimation are among the new supreme bearers of the jazz poetry torch. Find more about them here.

Special Note: There are four instrumental tracks spread across Jazzoetry I-IV. These are included for color, and to provide a little balance to the mix. However, you can utilize those tracks to try your own hand at creating jazz poetry. Simply write an original poem, or find an existing one that you feel matches the vibe of any of the four tracks, then practice reciting it aloud to the rhythm of the piece. Then, if you're feeling especially creative and ambitious, you can take that track, along with a microphone and audio editor (such as: Pro-Tools, Audacity, Sound Studio, Amadeus, Garageband, etc.) and record your own contribution to Jazzoetry. If you like what you've created, send your completed .mp3 file to me as a download link or an email attachment, c/o hays8662@mypacks.net. Those that I receive will be featured in a future Jazzoetry post. The deadline for submission is February 28, 2009.

7 x 6

2008-11-28T00:00:00.000-08:00

In The Long Form
Friday, November 28, 2008

No.#4 in a series

1.) Doctor Honoris Causa/Joe Zawinul
with Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, Earl Turbinton,
Woody Shaw, Miroslav Vitous, and Billy Hart
Taken from 'Zawinul'/Atlantic Records

Largely an electronic soundscape recording, but with more than a bit of musicality. The sound here was essentially the blueprint for Zawinul's Weather Report which would soon follow. Dig the atmosphere.

2.) I Only Have Eyes For You/Lester Bowie's Brass Fantasy
with Malachi Thompson, Bob Stewart, Graig Harris, Vincent Chancey,
Stanton Davis Jr., Bruce Purse and Phillip Wilson
Taken from 'I Only Have Eyes For You'/ECM Records

One of my favorite songs originally recorded by The Flamingos, perfect for late night listening. Bowie stretches out nicely on this arrangement, and it's equally as dreamy the original, but in a different sort of way. This rip contains just the right amount of vinyl pop and crackle to keep us from drifting too far into the ether, reminding us that it still is an R&B song after all.

3.) Iris Unveiled To Reveal Vibrations/Spirit Free
Personnel Unknown
Taken from 'Spirit Free'/Unknown (Private Pressing)

Don't know much about this recording, as I no longer own the original copy. I was introduced to this years ago by a friend, via a 2nd or 3rd generation cassette copy. Liking it, I eventually tracked down a used vinyl copy, transferred it to CD, and gave the LP to my friend as a thank you gift. We've since lost touch and now the details of the date remain a mystery. This track is actually two combined, thereby breaking my own self imposed rules for 'In The Long Form.' Considering this, we then have a total of 7 songs by 6 artists rather than the perceived 6 x 6. So kill me.

4.) The Land Of Spirit And Light, Pts. 1-3/Michael White
with Prince Lasha, Ed Kelley, Bob King, Cecil McBee and Kenneth Nash
Taken From 'The Land Of Spirit And Light'/Impulse Records

White recorded a handful of spiritual jazz records for the Impulse! label in the 1970's. He, along with band members Ed Kelly and Kenneth Nash (all having been Bay Area residents) were always welcomed guests at the KRE studios in Berkeley during that period. I'm bending the guidelines again with this one, as it's technically a suite comprised of three segments, although it's considered as one composition.

5.) There Are Other Worlds (They Have Not Told You Of)/Sun Ra
with the Sun Ra Arkestra
Taken from 'Lanquidity'/Evidence Records

The recording's title perfectly describes the sound and fell of this recording; a word play on languid and liquid, forming 'Lanquidity.' A reissue of a previously rare date that found Ra and his band nearly making slow groove dance music with guitar contributions by the mysterious Disco Kid. Of course Ra was an original, and anything filtered through his musical vision became uniquely his own. This track adheres more closely to the form that we've all
come to know and expect from him. Dancing in your head.

6.) First Light/Freddie Hubbard
with Herbie Hancock, Richard Wyands, George Benson,
Eric Gale, Ron Carter, Hubert Laws, Jack DeJohnette, Airto
and string arrangements by Don Sebesky
Taken from 'First Light'/CTI Records

Ending on a more upbeat note, this was Freddie's first foray into electric instrumentaton with startling and magical results. Of course the great band helped too. And there you are...

7 x 6 (In The Long Form)

More of the 'In The Long Form' series can be found in the past archives.

The All Seeing Eye

2008-11-21T00:00:00.000-08:00

Wayne Shorter As Composer
Friday, November 21, 2008

Over the last half century, saxophonist, Wayne Shorter has penned an impressive body of work that has established him as one the most preeminent composers within the jazz idiom. His evocative songwriting employs drama, atmosphere, and a surprising use of space and harmonic innovation, and within those songs, his expressive, probing solos carry with them a simple elegance and sense of economy that make his music at once sensuous, cerebral and extremely compelling.

With 'The All Seeing Eye,' I intend to showcase what I believe are some of Shorter's finest compositions dating from 1964 to the present day. The selections however will focus exclusively on his solo recordings, excluding material which was written for the likes of Art Blakey, Miles Davis and Weather Report, ensembles in which he participated either as a sideman (Blakey, Davis), or a co-leader (Weather Report). Some may take issue with this decision, as Shorter contributed many outstanding pieces to the repertoire of the aforementioned units, but he has revisited some of those songs within his own recordings, and a few (i.e.: 'Footprints,' 'Water Babies' and 'Orbits') are included here. Perhaps adding insult to injury, I have additionally chosen not to include any of Shorter's fully electric ensembles, effectively discounting several decades of his work, primarily his recordings from the 1980's and 90's (his 70's output with Weather Report notwithstanding). So how can this be considered a comprehensive overview? Well quite honestly it's not, but then comprehensiveness is not my objective.

Shorter served notice as a rare genius with composition early on in his career, and his songwriting has remained consistently superb throughout the years. What has varied more so is his playing, with a shift from tenor to soprano, and the development of a more economical style that often flirts with the melody rather than fully embracing it. Shorter's songwriting chops are evident enough no matter where one looks, so it then stands to reason that if you like what you hear in his solo work, you'll no doubt find equally satisfying examples within his contributions for others. It's my hope that this mix will encourage you to further explore his cannon (solo or otherwise) in your own self-guided quest for discovery.

Along with his harmonic sophistication, what makes Shorter's compositions so absorbing is how modal and free improvisation merge over a rhythmic looseness that never seems to lose its inherent sense of swing. Miles Davis once said of Shorter, “Wayne brought in a kind of curiosity about working with musical rules. If they didn’t work, then he broke them, but with a musical sense; he understood that freedom in music was the ability to know the rules in order to bend them to your satisfaction and taste. Wayne was always out there on his own plane, orbiting around his own planet. Everybody else in the band was walking down here on earth…”

An interesting example of Shorter's use of harmony occurs in 'Twelve More Bars To Go,' wherein he injects a harmony that sounds like a backward progression within the standard 12 bar form, thereby breaking the form and comically depicting an individual who is slightly shit-faced, staggering along three sheets to the wind, taking two steps back for every five steps forward. Melody also plays an important role in Shorter's compositions, as does the importance of space, but again, it's the harmonic finesse of his arrangements that often work to make his small groups sound like much larger ensembles.

In the late sixties, as a result of his involvement with Miles Davis' move toward electric instrumentation, Shorter switched from tenor to soprano sax, an instrument he found better suited to the electronic timbre of the bands sound. However in doing so, he also found a startling new voice for himself, expressiveness with economy; an approach no doubt gleaned from his years of sharing the stage with Davis who always managed to say 'more with less.’ Shorter then dropped the tenor entirely for several decades, effectively distancing himself from the 'Coltrane' comparisons that had previously dogged him once and for all. In recent years however, his music has moved back into the acoustic arena. Now having mastered both instruments, he utilizes the two seamlessly in his new material.

The last element of Shorter's songwriting that deserves mention is its spiritual quality. As a practicing Buddhist, Shorter possesses a unique inquisitiveness and focus, traits that obviously trickle down through his music. Even before embracing Buddhism, Shorter expressed himself saying, "You can't divorce music from life. I have a need to relate my music to the way in which I respond to life around me. I look forward to a day when we will come to a period of total enlightenment, a time in which we'll discover who we are and why we're here." In his 1965 recording, 'The All Seeing Eye,' Shorter moved into the mystic with a suite of music putting forth the contemplation of God pondering his creation, melding the mystical with the metaphysical, and taking Coltrane's meditative concepts almost into the realm of theological questioning. Shorter expounds further stating, "Life is so mysterious to me. I can't stop at any one thing and say, 'Oh, this is what it is.' It's always evolving, always becoming. That's the adventure, and imagination is a part of that adventure." For my money, so is the music of Wayne Shorter.

The All Seeing Eye (Set #1)

1) Night Dreamer
2) Dance Cadaverous
3) Speak No Evil
4) Wild Flower
5) Footprints
6) Yes And No
7) Twelve More Bars To Go
8) Lost
9) Go
10) Angola
11) The Big Push

The All Seeing Eye (Set #2)

1) The All Seeing Eye
2) Penelope
3) Toy Tune
4) Wind
5) Storm
6) Water Babies
7) De Pois Do Amor, O Vazio (After Love, Emptiness)
8) Moto Grosso Feio
9) Capricorn II

The source material for 'The All Seeing Eye' comes from the following recordings:
Night Dreamer (1964)/JuJu (1964)/Speak No Evil (1965)/The Soothsayer (1965)
Etcetera (1965)/The All Seeing Eye (1965)/Adam's Apple (1966)
Schizophrenia (1967)/Super Nova (1969)/Moto Grosso Feio (1970)
Odyssey of Iska (1970) and Alegria (2005)

Wayne Shorter plays tenor and soprano saxophone

Pachyderms On Matchstick Legs

2008-11-13T21:00:00.000-08:00

The Tough And Tender Music Of Jack Bruce
Friday, November 14, 2008

Although powerful, I don't consider Jack Bruce to be among my most favorite of bass players, but I do hold him in esteem as one of the more distinguished vocalists and songwriters of his generation. Having cut his teeth with a host of pre-British Invasion acts including Alexis Korner’s Blues Incorporated, The Graham Bond Organization, John Mayall’s Blues Breaker’s, and Manfred Mann, Bruce eventually broke into the mainstream in a big way with the wildly successful power trio, Cream, a story that needs not be further expounded upon here. Suffice to say, the former associations alone would be enough for many as a career resume highlight, but his affiliation with Clapton and Baker relegated him to unprecedented heights and squarely secured his place in the pantheon rock royalty with a legacy on which he could have easily retired. Yet the ever restless Bruce would continue to explore new avenues of possibility in the years that followed, all commendable, and many memorable.

After the meteoric rise (and demise) of the super group Cream, Bruce assembled a one-off collaboration with drummer, Mitch Mitchell and guitarist, Larry Coryell, while simultaneously striking out on solo projects in the few short years that followed which included his extraordinary recordings, 'Songs For A Tailor' and 'Harmony Row.' A surprisingly left of center jazz excursion also came within that time in the form of 'Things We Like,' an LP that paired him with John McLaughlin, Dick Heckstall-Smith and Jon Hiseman, showcasing his admiration for (and the influence of) bassist, Charles Mingus. In short order, his alliance with McLaughlin led to his joining Lifetime, a quartet of jazz musicians assembled by drummer, Tony Williams, McLaughlin, and organist, Larry Taylor which became one of the leading experimental jazz/rock fusion units of the day. I recall seeing that band in an early gig as an opening act for the Faces at Detroit’s Grande Ballroom, and while Lifetime certainly had the chops, their bombast was overwhelming and a bit tedious as I remember it, easily allowing Rod Stewart’s Faces to walk away with the more powerful, entertaining, and satisfying set of the night. Regardless, I’m glad to have witnessed the assembly of raw talent that graced the stage in that never to be repeated line-up.

Solo projects aside, power trios and guest appearances have played an ongoing role in Bruce's pursuits as he continued to embark on multiple band projects and collaborations. West, Bruce and Laing debuted with guitarist, Leslie West and drummer, Corky Laing, as did B.L.T., a unit with a clever, but unfortunate moniker comprised of Bruce, the aforementioned Laing and monster guitarist, Robin Trower. As a whole, I find the subsequent recordings by these ensembles to be largely unsatisfying, but then trios of any sort rarely have the amount of depth that I find necessary to sound full and complete. Perhaps they’re just not my cup of tea. Far more interesting were Bruce’s guest appearances with Frank Zappa ('Apostrophe'), Carla Bley ('Escalator Over The Hill'), Michael Mantler ('No Answer,' 'Many Have No Speech,' and others), Ellen McIllwaine ('Everybody Needs It'), and most especially with Kip Hanrahan ('Desire Develops An Edge,' 'Vertical’s Currency,' and many more). Other beneficiaries of his prowess include work with Donovan, Martha Velez, Charlie Watts, Alan Holdsworth, Cozy Powell, Charlie Mariano, and retro group, Rocket 88. Add to the list, Lou Reed, Soft Machine, Mose Allison, Aynsley Dunbar, Mick Taylor, The Golden Palominos, and more recently, Gov’t Mule. If that’s not enough, he’s additionally contributed to projects by poet, Paul Haines, composer, John Cage, and many others to numerous to mention. That said, there’s one more power group to speak of. After briefly reuniting with McLaughlin in his Mahavishnu Orchestra, Bruce hooked up with drummer, Billy Cobham and keyboardist, David Sancious for yet another jazz/rock fusion outing. Are you starting to get the picture? Not one to rest on his laurels, Bruce is a busy man; a multi-instrumentalist with broad ranging, divergent interests, and a talent that’s in demand by musicians from all paths of creation.

Other than his long lasting collaboration with lyricist, Pete Brown, Bruce’s participation with Kip Hanrahan has been among his most enduring and rewarding. He began simply as a contributor in the percussionists rotating cast of players, but the results proved so enriching for both men that they continued on as collaborators, resulting in some of the most impressive music of Bruce's career. In fact, many of those pieces are among the highlights in the music set offered below.

Bruce’s command of the bass, in combination with his characteristic voice and penchant for minor keys with jazz flourishes, makes the timbre of his songs sound outwardly heavy. However, his compositions are actually built over delicate foundations that belie the perceived weight of their impact, the element that makes his material so compelling. His association with Hanrahan helped bring that delicacy to the forefront, exposing the softer, more vulnerable side of his song craft --- the inner workings, if you will --- embellished by the sensuous, polyrhythmic undercurrent that Hanrahan supplied.

The material included in ‘Pachyderms On Matchstick Legs’ comes primarily from select solo recordings in Bruce’s discography, as well as a few of his lower profile contributions to Cream, and of course a bevy from the aforementioned works with Kip Hanrahan. If you like what you hear, I might also suggest seeking out ‘Monkjack,’ a stripped down duet recording featuring himself on piano and Bernie Worrell at the organ. Like Thelonious Monk was prone to do, Bruce periodically revisits his material to breath new life into them, utilizing variables in the arrangements, making old warhorses sound almost new again.

The centerpiece of this set revolves around three of Jack’s songs, ‘Without A Word,’ ‘Progress,’ and ‘Directions Home.’ Each on their own is intensely passionate, but when placed in the order in which you’ll hear them, they become staggeringly epic in their majesty and power. This trilogy encapsulates all of Bruce's strengths in one fell swoop --- his facility as a multi-instrumentalist, his mastery of the bass, the unique quality of his voice, and of course the superb songcraft --- additionally providing a demonstration of it's range and emotional depth. Certainly, it might be easily said that I simply relate to the subject matter and am therefore too close to be objective, but honestly, I believe that these three songs showcase more than any other the true beauty and command of Bruce’s writing.

Pachyderms On Matchstick Legs (Set #1)

1) Never Tell Your Mother She's Out Of Tune
2) Deserted Cities Of The Heart
(w/Cream)
3) Theme For An Imaginary Western
4) Rope Ladder To The Moon
5) A Small Map Of Heaven
(w/Kip Hanrahan)
6) Smiles And Grins
(w/Kip Hanrahan)
7) Two Heartedly, To The Other Side
(w/Kip Hanrahan)
8) Chances Are Good (Baden's Distance)
(w/Kip Hanrahan)
9) Doin' That Scrapyard Thing
(w/Cream)
10) Without A Word
11) Progress
12) Directions Home
(w/Kip Hanrahan)

Pachyderms On Matchstick Legs (Set #2)

1) Dancing On Air
(w/Kip Hanrahan)
2) Swlabr
(w/Cream)
3) Boston Ball Game 1967
4) The Consul At Sunset
5) Make Love 2
(w/Kip Hanrahan)
6) Victoria Sage
7) Born To Be Blue
8) Can You Follow
9) He The Richmond
10) Weird Of Hermiston
11) As You Said
(w/Cream)
12) Folk Song
13) Uh Oh

The source material for 'Pachyderms On Matchstick Legs' comes from the following recordings:
Songs For A Tailor (1969)/Things We Like (1970)
Harmony Row (1971)/Vertical's Currency (1985)/Willpower (1989)
The Very Best Of Cream (1995)/Shadows On The Air (2001)
More Jack Than God (2003)
Jack Bruce plays bass guitar, double bass, cello, piano, organ, and harmonica.

The Time Of No Reply

2008-11-06T21:00:00.000-08:00

The Bittersweet Romance Of Nick Drake
Friday, November 07, 2008

What more could possibly be said about Nick Drake's short life that hasn’t already been stated a thousand times over? By most measurements, Drake was considered a well-kept secret during the last 3 decades of the 1900’s, yet today with a quick Google search, one can find an astonishing 5,000,000 entries devoted to the man, a remarkable testament to the romance of his legacy. Yet if you divide that figure by 500, you’ll arrive roughly at the number of people who were aware of Drake and his ethereal music during his lifetime. Pondering this as I have many times before, I arrive at the same emotional crossroad that has stymied me time and again --- although gratified that his music has finally taken its rightful place in history, bestowing it the regard it has always warranted --- in my heart of hearts I can’t help but feel sad for the Nick whose mortal soul longed so dearly for that recognition and acceptance.

I first came to hear Nick’s music through a sampler offered by Island Records years ago for a whopping 99p pound sterling. Most of the material featured on the recording was pleasant, some forgettable, but in Drake’s magnificent ‘Northern Sky,’ I was instantly struck by the song’s haunting beauty, a sound that burned itself deep into my psyche. It came of course from the velvet sensuality of his voice, the delicate fingerpicking of his playing, and the unexpected tunings of his guitar. But most especially, it lay in the heavy-hearted ache of his words. The whole of his art possessed me for days on end until I finally tracked down a copy of ‘Five Leaves Left,' his debut recording. Once in my possession, the LP rarely left my turntable. I listened to it repeatedly in rapt attention, hypnotized by the exquisite fragility of his songwriting. The loneliness of Nick’s songs contained an ephemeral quality that made them all that much sadder and bittersweet, and how could the source of such vulnerable beauty have long to live for this world? Sadly, it was a facet that became more pronounced with his subsequent recordings, and one that sorrowfully came eventually to pass.

At the time, little was known of Drake here in the States. Radio was completely indifferent to him, his delicate music overshadowed by the harder edged rock that ruled the times. A chance encounter with someone who had heard his name was remarkable in and of itself, but meeting someone who had actually heard his songs was like meeting a member of a secret society, an astonishing serendipity that immediately placed both parties on equal footing. Then like today, hearing his music was at once a bewitching and consequential experience. In those years, it often seemed that the timbre of Drake’s songcraft was so precious, so fragile, and so holy, they could never stand a chance for survival under the heavy-handed scrutiny of mass consumption. Like a finely aged wine, ‘Fives Leaves Left,’ ‘Bryter Lyter,' and ‘Pink Moon’ held a uniquely rich, spiritual characteristic that was best reserved for sharing only with those cultivated enough to fully appreciate it’s transcendent magic. I was a member of that society as elitist as it sounds, and although I gladly introduced his music to those with which I felt a kinship, admittedly I doled it out in measured portions. But Nick’s songs are like that, so personal and tender in their elocution that it's like being privy to confidential diary entries. Sacred they seemed to us, and how could one then so blithely bandy them about as though they were mere yard sale flyer's? Compounding that feeling was the veil of mystery that surrounded the reclusive artist, begging one to wonder whether the sad author of these confessions could have actually been of this mortal coil.

When thinking about Nick, I sometimes arrive at another crossroad, one that I find equally perplexing, if not even troubling. Could that so hallowed of reverence that we held for Drake’s music have actually served to work against him? If we had simply spread the gospel of his artistry to all, rather than treating it as beyond price, might Nick still be here among us today? In my most dispirited times, I think yes, possibly so. But when I truly consider Nick’s disposition, I think the answer is decidedly no. Drake was a tortured soul, a man out of time, highly sensitive and prone to depression and heartache. His anima was not designed for the cruelty of our world. Some people are simply born with a deep-rooted loneliness that can never be squelched, and I believe that Nick was one of them. Like the rare ephemeral flower that can only exist for a few brief glorious moments, Nick too could not have had long to live for this world. Obviously, others recognized this as well. Just look at how so many photos of Nick portray him as the brooding loner, the busy, fast paced world speeding by as he stands apart, alone in his solitude. Drake's songs themselves abound in references to the fleeting nature of life, and even more so, to his own. "Safe in the womb of an everlasting night, you find the darkness can give the brightest light/safe in your place deep in the earth, that’s when they’ll know what you’re really worth” are chilling words, penned by Drake in his sadly prophetic 'Fruit Tree.' Of course, I’ll never really know the answer, and one might suggest that I stand accused, but I contend there is a major difference between the values of yesterday and today, and therein lays the crux. Then, contemporary music in particular was the currency of a generation, and Drake’s contribution was that of precious metal and rare gems. Today, contemporary music is omni-present, legal tender in any arena from blogs like this one to online podcasts. It's available to us through all manner of acquisition from instant gratification downloads to the purchase of magazines and cups of coffee. It's carried with us via laptops, cell phones and portable mp3 players. And it's utilized in corporate presentations, presidential campaign rallies, and yes, even television commercials like the one where many were first were exposed to Nick Drake. The value of music becomes deflated through this saturation, and was this the exchange rate that something as stirring and emotive as ‘River Man’ deserved?

This time of year as the autumn sun casts long shadows, I instinctively turn to Drake’s music as his songs have always evoked this season of transformation. The last days of October are washed with a golden light that filters through the trees, their vibrant leaves rustling in a last dying gasp of splendor. Slowly, the branches, along with the waning warmth of the sun surrender to the chill winds and bleak, somber skies of the long winter months to come. This is the music of Nick Drake, his essence, the embodiment of that melancholy transition from the promise of summer to the cold, dark, windswept landscape of winter. Apply this as a metaphor for the internal workings of ‘a man out of time,’ and you’ve come to the singular most striking richness of Drake’s song, as well as an informed understanding of his psyche.

Of course today, most anyone who appreciates quality music is not only familiar with Nick’s name, but also with his music, and I’ve come to believe that his newfound popularity is not such a bad thing after all. The years between then and now have proven in fact that at least his music could stand the harshness of time and exposure to the light. The only thing shattered by his wide recognition is that secret society, and now Drake belongs to the world, taking his rightful place in history as the creator of some of the most exquisite beauty in our lifetime. I still lament that Nick never lived to bask in the glow of his belated adoration, but his timeless music remains behind for us all to appreciate in spellbound reverence. Through it, Nick does live on in a way he could have never imagined in his lifetime, and I wish that he could know this. But somehow, someway, I hope that his beautiful soul has finally found the blessed release for which it had always longed, and if my contentions regarding his mortality are wrong, I hope too that he will be forgiving.

The Time Of No Reply

1) Time Of No Reply
2) Black-Eyed Dog
3) Three Hours (Alternate)
4) Clothes Of Sand
5) Voice From The Mountain
6) Magic (Alternate)
7) River Man
8) Way To Blue
9) Introduction
10) Hazey Jane II
11) At The Chime Of A City Clock
12) Northern Sky
13) Pink Moon
14) Place To Be
15) Horn
16) Things Behind The Sun
17) The Thoughts Of Mary Jane
18) One Of These Things First
19) Hazey Jane I
20) Cello Song
21) Saturday Sun
22) Ghost (Early Morning)
23) Bryter Layter

An Open Letter To Nick From Gabrielle Drake

The source material for 'The Time Of No Reply' comes from the following recordings:
Five Leaves Left (1969)/Bryter Layter (1970)/Pink Moon (1972)
Time Of No Reply (1986)/Made To Love Magic (2004)
and Second Grace (Unknown)

'An Open Letter To Nick'
comes courtesy of Bryter Music, the offical website for the estate of Nick Drake

Taking A Bite Of The Apple

2008-10-31T00:00:00.002-07:00

New York City, NY
Friday, October 31, 2008

3,000 miles is the distance across the continent that is the United States of America when measured from the Golden Gate of San Francisco, California to the Brooklyn Bridge of New York City, New York. Route 66, or 'The Mother Road' as it was often called in its day was an expansive anaconda of two lane highway that ran directly through the heart of the country, a route that nearly ran those 3000 miles, connecting the East and West coasts of our country from sea to shining sea. The historic blacktop was the sole connecting link between Chicago and Los Angeles, serving to string together the many small towns of Burma Shave that lined it's ragged course like so many beads on a asphalt necklace. 'The Main Street of America' acted too as the weary path most travelled by those sorrowful souls fleeing the Dust Bowl of the Great Plains in the 1930's to California's Central Valley and the bitter grapes of wrath. Lamentably, the highway was decommissioned in 1985, replaced by high speed superhighways that today shuttle drivers to their destinations without ever truly feeling the pulse of the heartland, entirely bypassing those remaining small towns that border them, and sadly the people living within them as well.

It's still possible however to travel the back roads, or 'Blue Highways' of 21st century America with strategic, or perhaps better said, creative planning. These secondary roadways allow the traveller to experience what Kerouac described as "all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, all the people dreaming in the immensity of it." Motoring across this gargantuan plate of drifting terra firma on those 'back' roads, one can witness some of Earth's most magnificent examples of natural beauty and splendor, enough to satisfy even the most insatiable of wanderlust that still lingers in the DNA of man. And one can also meet those very citizens that Kerouac eluded to, the common working Joe's of middle America; uncomplicated people with simple lifestyles and unassuming dreams. While travelling amidst the first of these two elements, the modern day pilgrim can't help but marvel at the majesty of the land we live in. We are truly blessed to live in this wondrous and sprawling canvas of riches, not only for the very earth that lay beneath our feet, but also for the wealth of ideas, resources, and opportunities it affords us. As for the second, it rapidly becomes apparent how the everyman of both urban and rural America is increasingly finding himself with a smaller share of the commonwealth, struggling fruitlessly to retain the freedom, hope, and promise that the very foundation of our nation was built upon. The confidence of the people who live within our borders, as well as those who live outside who have traditionally looked to us as the measurement for a working democracy is in dire need of restoration. In a few short days, we'll be offered the one of the singular most important opportunities to steer our nation back toward a nobler path, a path that no longer places policy, profit or special interests above people and prosperity for all. We as a nation need to embrace a change that will not benefit only the privileged few, but rather the lives of the greater common man, putting us back on the road to reclaiming those hopes, promises and freedoms that should by virtue of our Constitution belong to each and every man, woman, and child in this land of spoils.

The New Deal

It's hopefully a season of change and with that in mind, Birds With Broken Wings has moved to a new address. The exchange has been on my mind for some time now and it's not without its risks, leaving me no more certain of what the future holds than most of you. Burdened by disillusionment brought on by 8 years of a dangerously inept administration, in combination with the recent failings of our banking system, not to mention events in my own personal life, music blogging lately seems somehow trite and superfluous to me. But when I consider the importance of music and the significant role it has played in my life with its ability to challenge, to inspire and to heal, I then realize that continuing on is a cathartic release both for myself, and perhaps you the reader as well. It's my hope that this move will serve to blow a brisk Northerly wind into the proceedings here at BWBW, but only time will tell.

Meanwhile, in measuring the temperament between Northern California and Manhattan Island, one hardly needs a thermometer. The juxtaposition is certainly not as dramatic as say, Poughkeepsie to Paris, but it's epic nonetheless. The undercurrent of electricity that runs like a river through the city replaces the ocean mist and sage kissed wind that sways the Sequoias, becoming the hum of a thousand live wires within it's walls. The crashing waves of the Pacific transmute into the swell of city traffic on busy boulevards, and the canyons of the High Sierras transform into steel and concrete testaments to the willpower of the human mind. From the streets below, as from the valley floor, the walls of these coulees rise tall, majestic, and awe-inspiring, and for the moment I stand transfixed, humbled and nearly insignificant in the presence of a different kind of power and grace.

About The Music

This mix is intended as an aural impression of New York City. It's a difficult task and one I might never fully achieve as New York represents so many things for contemplation on such grand a scale. I will point out however that most of the music surrounds the 'hard bop' jazz of the East Coast school, and that alto saxophonist, Jackie McLean makes several appearances here (once as a leader, twice as a sideman), as does trumpeter, Lee Morgan. McLean has always embodied New York for me. Like the city's harbor, his jagged tone surprises in unexpected ways, like when he plays flat where he might have gone sharp. When I met Jackie some years ago, I said to him, "Have you ever heard of IT? Well you are IT, man! That proverbial light bulb moment where it all goes in, scattered and fragmented, but it comes out the other side solidified as pure white light. That 'Ah, ha!' slap to the forehead when all the pieces finally fit together and you step back to see the picture falling into focus! You are IT!" He then looked at me warily as though I were a dangerous cult leader of some sort and shot me a bewildered expression as if to say, "And so what drug are you on, Junior?' Today in retrospect, I can't say that I blame him, and if my memory serves, it was either some very good pot, or a very large bowl of Cocoa Crispies mixed with Sugar Frosted Flakes. Beyond that digression, I'll also add that within the set are excerpts from a mini-suite of my own composition, utilizing Apple's 'Garageband' software; a music creating tool that is limited as a stand-alone application (it's simply a library of loops after all), but when augmented with real instruments becomes somewhat more expansive. This is my first experiment with the program. I've been sitting on it for quite some time and now that I've finally assembled something, just what am I supposed to do with the end results? Shop them around to labels? Audition as an opening act for The Whites Stripes? Hardly. Likely, I'd just entertain (or bore) friends and family with a recital. So as stripped down as they all sound, compadre, you might actually be surprised by the amount of layering and man-hours that went into their assembly. Although easily the weakest segment in the mix (and feel free to delete them if need be, they'll be no hard feelings), the bulk of the pieces were constructed with samples largely taken right out of the box (with some with additional live instrumentation), while others (and I'm sure you'll be able to discern which ones) are so heavily sampled with excepts from commercial CD's and LP's that I can hardly take an ounce of credit for their creation. The latter simply involve mixing, matching, and building upon what's already been written by someone else. In fact, I've undoubtedly violated some copyright somewhere, and I apologize to the original authors for this, but I can assure them with certitude that I will never stand to profit from my reconstruction.

With 'Flight #83,' I was going for something in the neighborhood of Lonnie Liston Smith or that kinda' thing, but eventually ended up somewhere closer to the intersection of Smith and Ahmad Jamal Blvd. It's the first one I did, and the only one where I consciously set out to emulate a sound. 'Taxi Ride' simply is a tension builder, leading into the assault that is 'Welcome To New York.' 'Meeting with René' meanwhile seems to be informed by Calixico, who have absolutely nothing to do with NYC, but it's an perfect example of how the limitations of the software's loops can sometimes dictate the direction of the piece. 'Darkness' on the other hand pays homage to Norman Whitfield and a tip of the hat to the Blaxplotation genre. It generously samples a selection that I slowed down in tempo, then built upon with additional samples from numerous sources. Reminding me of something that The Golden Palominos might have done is 'It'll Only Bring Me Down' with a sample included that most of you will no doubt recognize. Finally comes 'A Stroll...' which my wife says reminds her a bit of Elton John, to which I replied, "I'm sure I wouldn't know anything about that!" If she is right however, I can only hope that it's something from his superior 'Tumbleweed Connection' era. Note: Listen closely to the airport public address announcements that link 'Flight...' and 'Taxi Ride...' and you're likely to hear one of the most unusual (and authentic) messages you're likely to encounter. House pets, unintentional slamming doors, ringing telephones, and blenders can also be heard throughout. Wow! Now there's excitement for you!

A Bite Of The Apple (Set #1)

1.) The Soothsayer/Wayne Shorter
2.) Who Killed Cock Robin?/Freddie Redd
3.) Coming On The Hudson/Thelonious Monk
4.) Bop City/Ben Sidran
5.) Big City Traffic Jam/John Simon
6.) I've Got A Woman/Al Kooper
7.) Dialogue/Travis Bickel
8.) Tippin' The Scales/Jackie McLean
9.) Lazy Bird/John Coltrane
10.) Three Seconds/Oliver Nelson
11.) Theme From 'Taxi Driver'/Bernard Herrmann

A Bite Of The Apple (Set #2)

1.) Last Goodbye/Jeff Buckley
2.) (Excerpts From) The Manhattan Suite: Flight #83/Miles Mellough
3.) Taxi Ride Through The Holland Tunnel/Miles Mellough
4.) Welcome To New York/Miles Mellough
5.) Meeting With René/Miles Mellough
6.) Darkness Falls Over New Amsterdam/Miles Mellough
7.) It'll Only Bring Me Down/Miles Mellough
8.) Tuesday Afternoon: A Stroll Through The Old Neighborhood/Miles Mellough
9.) 310 Blues/Ralph Moore
10.) Short Count/Lee Morgan
11.) Suite/Hank Mobley

a.) Thinking Of Home b.) The Flight c.) Home At Last

12.) When It Rains/Brad Mehldau

One Year Later (More Q&A With The Author of Birds With Broken Wings)

2008-09-05T10:30:00.000-07:00

Q: So after exactly one year of publishing Birds With Broken Wings, what is your take on the success of the site today?

BWBW: Well, it’s been a challenge, a second job almost. Putting together what I hope is a literate and intelligent weekly journal entry involves a bit more time than I might had first hoped. Although I enjoy writing, it takes a while to construct a comprehensive piece while balancing my other hobbies, interests, and responsibilities. Cobbling together a custom mix for each entry is also time consuming, although I do enjoy it. But the process is not at all like radio where you just put it out in real time. There are a lot more steps, you know? Select the tunes, record them, edit them, adjust the differences in volume from track to track, transfer them, convert the format, label them, tag them, upload them. Man, I don't know how other bloggers do it! Some post entries on a daily basis, while others maintain several blogs concurrently. What are they? Retired? Unemployed? Independently wealthy? Collecting Disability Insurance? Superhuman? What? I don't know where they find the time! Maybe they only sleep 3 hours a night, you think? I'll tell you, if there's a simpler way to do this, I wish someone would let me know what it is. Perhaps they're just married to their computers. I've never fallen for machines though, regardless of how intelligent, attractive, or sexy they might be. I'd rather have flesh and blood with those qualities.

There are some great blogs out there though, several of which I've listed to the right, and presently there are 2 or 3 guys who are just doing some outstanding things --- Simon at 'Never Enough Rhodes,' El Goog at 'El Goog Ja,' Ish at 'Ile Oxumare.' El Reza too! These guys have got some real passion and dedication. I believe I've got roughly 80% of the passion, but only about 2% of the drive, sadly.

As for success of Birds With Broken Wings? Well, I'm not certain how successful it really is. I am encouraged by the response I’ve received, but it hasn't exactly been overwhelming. It's been very positive however, I'll have to say that, and I do value every comment I get. Subscriptions have grown a bit, but I think that's just because my wife got all her relatives on board. Man, she's got a million of 'em. But the site has been very slow in finding its audience. I get a couple thousand visits a week. Approximately. That may sound like a lot, but when you take into consideration just how many of those hits are actually people looking for information on how to mend a bird's broken wing, it sort of negates the number. The blog aggregator, Totally Fuzzy however has been particularly helpful in publicizing my work. They, along with the others who have picked me up have been an invaluable resource.
Beyond that, I must say that I’ve meet some very interesting people on-line, and have made some new friendships along the way. I’ve also re-established contact with others who over time have drifted out of my orbit.
Q: Has the response dictated in any way the direction you’ve taken?
BWBW: No, not really. Initially, I thought that it would. Like when I first began, I consciously went looking for an audience, but I've only just recently decided that rather than to court a readership, or worse yet pander to one, to instead just to do it for myself, to please myself. Of course I do hope that others will find something in it for themselves as well. You know, I'd like to believe that if you stay true to your heart, everything will sooner or later fall into place and the readers will eventually come. It's never actually worked for me, but it always seemed to work for Miles Davis. Of course Miles was also consistently two or three steps ahead of the curve, and he was also very cool.

Q: Have there been any entries that particularly resonated?
BWBW: Well, I’d hoped that the short stories I’ve published would have garnered more feedback, but maybe they’re just not that good. The entries that seem most popular are those in which the music mix focuses exclusively on one artist only. It confirms my long held theory that most visitors are looking mainly to fill gaps in their record collection. Downloaders will accept a personalized mix of a singular artist's music, but tend to shun eclectic mixes that feature a variety of people or genres (like this week's). I have to admit though, I was kind of disappointed that the recent Doug Sahm piece didn't get more attention. Man, I loved that guy and I'd really like others to share the same enthusiasm for him as I've always held. He was the real deal, like Thelonious Monk, only white, a guitarist, a Texan, and a man of many, many words. So come to think of it, they were nothing alike. But seriously, what I really mean is that they were both originals and true to themselves. I don't think Sahm's an acquired taste, but the two of them like BWBW were pretty eclectic and hard to pin down, so you have to approach his music with open ears and a bit of acceptance. But you know what? My file host problems may have stunted the interest on that one as well. It's too bad.

I guess there was one entry that generated a bit of controversy, and that was the Jaco Pastorius recollection. For some reason, a few people walked away with the impression that it was a defamatory piece, you know, like how could I have conceivably told a master musician to go take a hike? Those readers didn’t seem to fully grasp the situation I was faced with --- professional responsibility vs. one man’s deteriorating mental stability --- and insist on defending his actions as being above reproach by virtue of his status. Maybe it could have been handled differently, but under the circumstances, I did what I thought was needed to be done, good or bad with no lingering regrets.

Q: What, if anything, have you gained from publishing your site?

BWBW: (Long pause) Well, I've been reminded to not give too much of myself, too readily and too swiftly. You learn quickly that in any profession or industry like radio --- an industry that blatantly puts you out in front of the public --- that you've got to guard certain aspects of yourself. People interpret information in different ways, and use it in different ways. And sometimes it can work against you. Blogging I've realized is no different. It doesn't feel public, because it's done from the privacy of your own living room, or where ever you choose to work. But you forget, or I sometimes forgot, that your words have the potential to reach millions of eyes throughout the world. It's actually a bigger public forum than any other that I've ever participated in, and that can open you up all sorts of vulnerabilities. It's a great tool for marketing yourself, but inherently, it can also be hazardous to one's privacy.
Q: Is that why don’t you work in radio anymore?
BWBW: No, not at all. Radio just isn’t as interesting as it once was for me. As far back as the late 1970’s on a cross country trip, I heard the same formats from region to region --- same songs, same approach, same contests --- the only thing different were the announcers names and the call letters. It became homogenized. Nothing new, nothing different --- like finding a McDonald’s or a Starbucks in every town today --- no regional personality, no individualism. Cookie cutter programming. That was the future of commercial radio, and it’s continued unabated. Not even satellite radio has changed anything that much. They do offer some interesting programming, but you've got to pay for the privilege to access it. I've actually heard nothing but great things about Dylan's show, but somehow this new trend of offering established celebrities an exclusive radio show just rubs me wrong. Sure, as in the case of Dylan, it might be fascinating to glimpse the muse that has shaped the man we've all come to know, but I personally prefer to keep the minds and hearts of those I admire an enigma. Sometimes the more you learn about a person, the less interesting they become. I doubt this would be true of Dylan, but I don't think I want those I revere to be that accessible. Now when I look at the trend from a professional standpoint, well Christ, they've already got a successful career! Do they really need to be offered a second or third, regardless of how interesting they may be? I mean, I see this all the time, like Scarlet Johannson recently recording an album on a major label with musical support from David Bowie no less! If her name weren't a commodity, would a record label have given her the opportunity? No. It's a indicator of where the music industry is at, which is fairly vapid, and in her case, it's a vanity project. And it's not even a very good one at that! It's all a form of nepotism and it should be an insult to every working musician who struggles week in and week out trying to eek out a living. Well that's the way I feel about rock star DJ's. It offends me. But I realize that it's also an on-going part of our society's insatiable and frankly obscene preoccupation with fame and celebrity. This drift in radio largely is just pandering to that, and believe me, they're doing it strictly for the numbers. Don't let them fool into thinking that a few hours each week with Jon Bon Jovi or someone is gonna' enrich your life in ways you never imagined. They just want your time, your money, and your Arbitron rating. And personally, I also think the participants should feel ashamed for stoking that machinery.

I remember once, a Program Director from a new radio station called me while I was on the air, and said he liked my style and would I consider sending an air check for consideration. What did I have to lose? I did, and what I got back was a mimeographed checklist of potential reasons cataloging why I didn’t fit the station’s needs. The reason checked was ‘style inappropriate.’ Well what was that all about? First you say you like me, then you say you don't? After listening to the station, I found that the playlists were pre-generated, complete with pre-scripted front and back announcements coming in and out of music sets. That’s just pushing buttons. The timbre and sound of each of the DJ’s was identical, formulated to create an overall and non-intrusive mood --- a collective personality, rather than individual personality --- and why would I want to do that!? If I hadn’t already tasted ‘free form’ programming, and if my ego actually depended on being ‘out there on the airwaves’ regardless, it may have been a golden opportunity. But as it was, it held no interest for me. Besides, after really listening to me, the Program Director obviously realized that I was not a good fit after all. And he was right. But I thought the impersonal, mimeographed response was a bit low class however, and indicative of the station’s vibe. Anyway, with the former thread in mind, you know who hosts their morning show today? Whoopi Goldberg, only a white bread version. It might be the lamest thing I've ever heard.
There’s always non-commercial radio of course, but you can’t make a living with that. Birds With Broken Wings has become my non-commercial outlet, and meanwhile, I’ve moved on to other career pursuits.
Q: Like what?
BWBW: Well, for a while I considered golf pro, astronaut, pirate, and fashion consultant, in that order. Being out all day at Pebble Beach couldn’t be so bad. I don't know jack about the game, but I figure I could learn it. But man, it’s the slacks, and the Banlon shirts! I just couldn’t roll with that. As for deep space? Well it now scares the hell out of me, especially after seeing ‘Alien.’ Although hanging out with Sigourny Weaver as she walked around in a sweaty tank top over white cotton panties might make it a little easier to handle. The flame thrower is a sexy accessory item too, but it could be a dangerous combination, you know what I mean? As for pirate? Well, I never really wanted to actually pillage and plunder, just carry myself like a pirate. You know, the swagger and everything? As long as I were in character, I could say most anything I wanted and no one would take offense. Their reaction would be like, "What an odd, but colorful man." But that whole Johnny Depp/Jack Sparrow/Keith Richards thing kind of blew it for me. It's a pretty hard act to top. Besides, if I didn't actually pillage and plunder, how would I make a living out of it? And then of course there was my one certain fashion prediction. I was convinced that the ‘Amish’ look was going to be big one day but it's yet to pan out, so I guess I won't be getting any calls anytime soon.

Q: So what’s next?
BWBW: Well, I’ll continue with BWBW until it no longer fills a personal need for me. After that, who knows? I've thought about starting my own radio station, but man, that’s a lot of work, and I’m not really that ambitious. My life is not planned. Almost everything that has ever happened to me has been purely happenstance --- being in the right places sometimes, and the wrong places other times --- I’ve never really ever set out specifically to do something, or be something. I suppose I should start thinking about it more seriously though. After all, I’m not getting any younger. If I don’t figure something out soon, I might end up being one of those guys you see standing on a street corner, banging a tambourine with spittle dripping down his chin playin' for small change.

Q: Miles, one last question in the tradition of the old teen magazines. What color would you say most exemplifies you?

BWBW: Uh, recently I'd have to say brown, 'cause quite honestly, most days I just feel like shit.

'One Year Later'

The Mix That Nobody Especially Wants

(But Only Cheat Themselves By Ignoring)
It's Really Good, And It's Free!

1 & 2) The Rascals

Medley: Little Dove/Visit To Mother Nature Land

(with Alice Coltrane and Hubert Laws)

3) Joni Mitchell/Don Juan's Reckless Daughter

(with Jaco Pastorius)

4) Doug Sahm/In The Dark

(with The Sir Douglas Quintet)

5) Terry Reid/Highway 61 Revisited
(with his band)

6) Nick Drake/Joey
(with his guitar)

7) Brian Wilson/I Went To Sleep

(with The Beach Boys)

8) Dr. John, The Night Tripper/Mama Roux
(with his band)

9) Eric Idle/The Rutland Isles
(by himself)

10) The Headhunters/6/8-7/8

(with Billy Childs)

11) Donald Byrd/Estavanico

(with a cast of hundreds)

12, 13 & 14) Santana

Medley: Going Home/Love, Devotion And Surrender/Samba De Sausalito

(with Leon Thomas, Wendy Haas, and Armando Peraza)

15) Willie Nelson/I Never Cared For You

(with Emmylou Harris)

16) Lucinda Williams/Everything Has Changed
(with her band and that voice)

17) Tom Waits/Candy Apple Red

(with Jack Sheldon)

18) Thelonious Monk/Locomotive

(with Charlie Rouse)

To download, click here.

God Bless Ray Davies

2008-08-29T10:30:00.000-07:00

Just to be frustratingly maddening (where others may say simply a prick), I've decided to revamp God Save The Kinks into a more concise and personal set list called God Bless Ray Davies. While revisiting GSTK, Pts.1&2, (as well as the now never-to-be-published Pt.3, all of which were actually assembled over a year ago), I realized that perhaps I was trying too hard to fit in absolutely everything that I felt represented Davies craft, actually diminishing the very power of the material I'd originally hoped to substantiate. To do that would be a sin for which I could never forgive myself. It probably all makes no difference to you whatsoever, but having license to redesign my past work by virtue of being my own editor and publisher in a virtual medium, I decided to exercise my authority to reconstruct GSTK.

My love for Davies music should be evident by now, but rather than attempt to showcase phases of his career, the subject matter of his musical portraits, or even attempting to present a well balanced compilation, these songs are very simply my singular favorites from his vast songbook. Some are repeats, others new (which are marked with an asterisk) like the romping 'Berkley Mews,' and the rollicking 'Victoria.' You'll also find the hilarious 'All Of My Friends Were There,' a rare acoustic version of 'Dedicated Follower Of Fashion,' and the wonderful 'David Watts' among others. And of course I could never forgive myself, nor could I ever be forgiven if I didn't include Davies sublime masterpiece once again, his gorgeous 'Waterloo Sunset.' These are the songs that make me the happiest, and the ones that make me thankful that my years have run parallel with the lifetime of Ray Davies and his music. The takeaway lesson for me: K.I.S.S. The takeaway for you? What I believe are some damn fine tunes.

1) Sunny Afternoon

2) End Of The Season
3) Until Death Do Us Part
4) Look A Little On The Sunnyside*
5) Lavander Hill
6) Rosemary Rose
7) Misty Water
8) Holiday
9) Waterloo Sunset
10) When I Turn Off The Living Room Light
11) Did You See His Name?*
12) 9 To 5*
13) I Need You
14) You Really Got Me
15) Berkley Mews*
16) Where Did My Spring Go?
17) Dedicated Follower Of Fashion (Acoustic)*
18) Little Miss Queen Of Darkness
19) David Watts*
20) All Of My Friends Were There*
21) Oklahoma U.S.A.
22) Wonderboy
23) Where Did All The Good Times Go?
24) The Village Green Preservation Society
25) Acute Schizophrenia Paranoia Blues
26) Victoria*
27) The Way Love Used To Be
28) Pictures In The Sand
29) Alcohol
30) 20th Century Man

To download, click here.

God Save The Kinks, Pt.2

2008-08-22T10:30:00.000-07:00

'Muswell Hillbillies' back-to-the-roots formula was all the vogue when it was released in 1971. Although the National steel guitar and Salvation Army horns nicely complimented Ray Davies themes, they were still a bit jarring to long time fans who first heard slashing guitars in The Kinks early recordings, and then grew to love the delicate harpsichords and lilting melodies in the releases that followed. Contributing to what seemed a surprising turnabout to the casual fan was the fact that the LP's previously singled out last week went largely unheard by American audiences. With the band unable to tour these shores, radio airplay of their recordings during that period fell by the wayside as well. It's a shame, because those recordings I believe, firmly stand among Ray Davies finest moments, and the transition from dandies to organic gardeners was almost a quite natural one. Now that the band was finally able to return to American stages, those casual fans only remembered the raw, sloppy proto-punk of 'All Day And All Of The Night' and 'I Need You' played by angry young mop tops dressed for a fox hunt in maroon velvet. The Kinks were now 'down home,' blue jeaned, and bewhiskered. And to make matters worse, the band seemingly never bothered to even rehearse before embarking on their trip across the pond in 4 years. The new Kinks were something entirely different. Something different was also beginning to appear in Davies songwriting as the band entered into this new phase. With subsequent releases like 'Everybody's In Showbiz,' and 'Preservation, Acts 1&2,' his astute observation and charming wit turned increasingly bitter, soured and dulled no doubt by the fact that now, the band was actually living the rock and roll warrior life with endless touring schedules. The isolation that had so previously sparked Davies imagination and creativity was replaced with early morning radio interviews, midday magazine interviews, late afternoon sound checks, a quick and unsatisfying meal before showtime, then on to the stage only to repeat it all the following day.

Ray Davies attempted to satisfy his theatrical aspirations by fashioning 'rock operas' long after the genre had died out. The three above-mentioned recordings although successful, came with overblown stage shows and overwrought arrangements that "made 'Quadrophenia' look like an exercise in restraint."* Gone was Davies compassion for the common man, replaced by whining, self pity, and contempt for the poor quality of road food. Ah, to be a rock star. "Look what I have to go through to entertain my adoring audience." Admittedly, playing civic auditoriums and hockey rinks can't be the most conducive environment for making music, but it was now the age of 'arena rock,' and The Kinks were deep in the trenches; platoon commanders in the rock and roll army.

God Save The Kinks, Pt.2

1) Where Have All The Gone Times Gone?
2) A Well Respected Man
3) Until Death Us Do Part
4) Holloway Jail
5) Australia
6) Something Better Beginning
7) Set Me Free
8) Rosemary Rose
9) God's Children
10) I'm Not Like Everybody Else
11) Stop Your Sobbing
12) Wonderboy
13) Starstruck
14) Two Sisters
15) Rainy Day In June
16) You Really Got Me
17) Complicated Life
18) Lavender Hill
19) Rosy Won't You Please Come Home?
20) Too Much On My Mind
21) Drivin'
22) Situation Vacant
23) Mountain Woman
24) Dedicated Follower Of Fashion
25) Moments
26) Who'll Be The Next In Line?
27) Waterloo Sunset
28) Tired Of Waiting
29) People Take Pictures Of Each Others
30) Dreams

To download, click here.

*Courtesy of J. Kordosh

God Save The Kinks, Pt.1

2008-08-15T10:30:00.000-07:00

Rounding out the month of August and into early September, I'll be showcasing the song craft of Ray Davies and the music of The Kinks. Select tracks from their extensive, though spotty catalog will be presented over three installments with a focus on Davies keen wit and astute portrayal of the common man. The selections I've compiled are not intended to be considered a definitive Kinks collection as there will be holes large enough to drive a semi-truck through. They'll merely reflect my own personal favorites from the mind and pen of songwriter, Ray Davies. Additionally, they will not be presented in any organized fashion ie: chronological, top 100, etcetera. The only real criteria applied is my liking for the song and arranged in a flow that sounds good to my ear, and hopefully to yours as well.

Artists who embrace change and growth will end up fashioning careers that are marked in several distinct phases, some good, others bad. The Kinks were no exception to this rule. From their early beginnings as a ruckus beat group, their first recordings were steeped in American blues which slid easily into the gritty rock and roll of early hits like, 'You Really Got Me' and 'Where Have All The Good Times Gone?' Releasing no less than 4 LP's in 1965 alone should give one an idea of the temporal nature of those early sides, recordings that resulted in a kind of raw excitement both on and off stage. That excitement also served to banish them from American shores for several years, a subject which the band likely would sooner forget. This may have been a blessing in disguise however, as the belligerent guitar work and sneering vocals (and who could forget the red velvet hunting garb?) that accompanied these dates quickly gave way to the more mature, experimental, and quasi-psychedelic recordings of 'Face To Face,' 'Something Else,' and 'The Village Green Preservation Society.' Perhaps it was precisely because they were not spending their time endlessly traversing the highways of America that The Kinks were able to reinvent themselves so completely and gracefully. Additionally, it was also during this period that Ray Davies' songwriting genius became increasingly apparent, as his compositions reached new heights by virtue of his ability to linger in his own thoughts for more than a few hours at a time. And for a time, what noble thoughts they were. Always wary of emotional entanglement, and prone to observing people from afar, this became an opportunity for Davies to craft meaningful music from the results of his societal study and that of his own inner world --- a world in which he longed for an England that had ceased to exist --- and in the process he became rock music's "most loyal advocate of the little working people who are marooned by virtue of humble birth on the dead end streets, and whose existence the architects of the great middle-class refuse to own up to."* As The Kink's principle songwriter, Ray Davies became the socially conscious champion of England's simple, ordinary, and forgotten people while creating some of the strongest and most memorable music of his career. With an acute insight to human nature and a wit like that of a "bastard child of Oscar Wilde,"* Davies wrote with incisive perception, biting humor and profound humanism. Demonstrating his love for the British music hall form, his compositions began to echo the sound of working class pubs as he crafted wonderful character sketches of the English 'everyman.' Always the satirist, he also took occasional aim at the empty lives of the idly rich with merciless results. These familiar themes continued into The Kinks next phase of recordings beginning with, 'Arthur ...Or The Decline Of The British Empire,' through 'Lola vs. Powerman and The Moneygoround,' and his back-to-the-roots, 'Muswell Hillbillies.' But before discussing those, we'll begin with the first set of the series, God Save The Kinks.

Again, as a heads up for those expecting to find something resembling a Kinks career boxed set, the majority of the selections featured in the God Save The Kinks series are taken primarily from the releases pictured below, although a few others predate these titles. These nine recordings I believe, represent the golden years for Ray Davies and The Kinks.

God Save The Kinks, Pt.1

1) Acute Schizophrenia Paranoia Blues
2) Apeman
3) Animals In The Zoo
4) When I Turn Off The Living Room Light
5) The Village Green Preservation Society
6) Do You Remember Walter?
7) Days
8) Oklahoma U.S.A.
9) Shangri-La
10) Pictures In The Sand
11) Dandy
12) Lola
13) 20th Century Man
14) The Way Love Used To Be
15) Alcohol
16) Holiday
17) Sitting By The Riverside
18) I'm On An Island
19) Mr. Songbird
20) End Of The Season
21) No Return
22) Village Green
23) Afternoon Tea
24) Where Did My Spring Go?
25) Misty Water
26) Little Miss Queen Of Darkness
27) Picture Book
28) Kentucky Moon
29) Sunny Afternoon
30) Funny Face

To download, click here.

*Courtesy of Kinks Kronikler, John Mendelssohn.

6 X 6 (In The Long Form)

2008-08-08T10:00:00.000-07:00

No.#3 in a series

1) Xibaba/Donald Byrd

with Jerry Dodgion, Frank Foster, Lew Tabackin. Pepper Adams, Bill Campbell,
Hermeto Pascoal, Duke Pearson, Wally Richardson, Ron Carter, Micky Roker & Airto Moreira
Taken from 'Electric Byrd'/Blue Note Records

Donald's foray into fusion, with a much more organic result than some of his contemporaries,
largely due to the earthiness brought to it by percussionist, Airto Moreira.

2) Slightly All The Time/Soft Machine
with Mike Ratledge, Hugh Hopper, Robert Wyatt,
Nick Evans, Elton Dean, Lyn Dobson & Rab Spall
Taken from 'Third'/Columbia Records

Soft Machine hit their stride with the release of Three, then Robert Wyatt left and the band

became something altogether different. Though possibly the most poorly engineered LP

in the history of recording, it was eventually remastered, improving it only slightly,

but revealing a bit more of the musicianship involved.
The creativity and imagination however were already there from the beginning.

3) You'll Know When You Get There/Herbie Hancock
with Bennie Maupin, Julian Priester, Eddie Henderson,
Buster Williams & Billy Hart
Taken from 'Mwandishi'/Warner Brothers Records

A largely atmospheric piece from The Herbie Hancock Sextet, alternatively referred to as
the 'Mwandishi' band. One of my favorites from that period of his outstanding career.

4) Return To Forever/Chick Corea
with Joe Farrell, Stanley Clarke, Flora Purim & Airto Moreira
Taken from 'Return To Forever'/ECM Records

As with Xibaba, it is the thrust of percussionist Airto Moreira that propels this song
and helps in keeping it interesting from beginning to end.

5) De Pois Do Amor, O Vazio (After Love, Emptiness)/Wayne Shorter
with Dave Friedman, Gene Bertoncini, Ron Carter, Cecil McBee,
Billy Hart, Al Mouzon & Frank Cuomo
Taken from 'Odyssey Of Iska'/Blue Note Records

A wonderfully evocative song, aiding by a strong arrangement,
again with masterful drumming ending the piece like the rattling of bones.

6) Before The Dawn/Patrice Rushen
with Hubert Laws, George Bohannon, Oscar Brashear,
Lee Ritenour, Charles Meeks, Leon Chancler & Kenneth Nash
Taken from 'Before The Dawn'/Prestige Records

All of age 19 or something at the time of this recording, Patrice wore her Herbie Hancock influence

on her sleeve, but who could blame her. After all, he had chops, flare, skill,

and the greatest band of the day.
If you were a young jazz musician looking to emulate somebody in 1974,

I couldn't think of a better place to start than with Herbie.
Patrice however demonstrated some flare of her own with strong compositions

and not so shabby a band of her own.

To download, click here.

The Last Genuine Texas Groover (Doug Sham)

2008-08-01T12:15:00.000-07:00

There is no other musician as synonymous with the Lone Star state as the late Doug Sham, the last genuine Texas groover, and man, they just don't make 'em like Doug anymore. He was the real deal, as American as baseball and as Texan as the Alamo. A flamboyant personality and powerful musical force to be reckoned with, and when we lost him, we also lost a big chunk of true blue American music.

Born and raised in the tri-cultural society of San Antonio, Sahm's hometown was the only major Texas city during the 1940's and 50's where whites were the minority. To his benefit however, growing up alongside his Chicano and African-American neighbors helped shape the soulful, all embracing, and musically diverse man that he grew to be. As a boy, Sahm lived nearby two of the city's most prominent rhythm and blues nightspots, The Eastwood Country Club and The Ebony Lounge. It was there where he gained exposure to the likes of Bobby 'Blue' Bland, T-Bone Walker, James Brown, and other R&B greats who passed through while playing the Southern circuit. Meanwhile across town in the largely Mexican neighborhoods, Sahm found clubs like the The Tiffany Lounge where he heard the strains of Norteño, Mariachi, and other Mexican forms from the city's many Latino masters. Yet before receiving all this new musical education, 'Little' Doug Sahm had already appeared alongside stars like Faron Young, Webb Pierce, and even Hank Williams on Country Western stages throughout Texas singing, playing fiddle and steel guitar. He also was a featured regular on radio's Louisiana Hayride. The culmination of these varied experiences early in his life, along with the added benefit of coming of age during the very heady 1960's, led to the birth of The Genuine Texas Groover.

In '64 at the bequest of record producer, Huey P. Meaux, Sahm assembled a band of musicians to mimic the new sounds that were washing up on American shores from the U.K. The group was comprised of the precocious Texan, several Chicanos, and one Indian, but Meaux gave them the unlikely, though decidedly English sounding name of 'The Sir Douglas Quintet.' In a promotional tactic much like managers from the other side of the pond frequently dreamed up, Meaux attempted to fool the record buying public into thinking the group were actually members of that fabled music invasion. Publicity photos found the band members hidden in dark shadows in order to conceal their true ethnic and cultural identities. But after their first single, 'She's About A Mover' became a bona fide hit, their cover was forever blown. Besides, how could anyone have truly believed that this Texas hybrid music could have came from the minds and experiences of pasty Brits? The song after all was basically a Cajun Two-Step with a Farfisa organ substituting for an accordion, and all played with the ragged, unrefined sound of a suburban teenage garage band.

After an arrest in 1966 for possession of marijuana, Sahm fled his home state, following the flow of other young Texans to San Francisco's Haight Ashbury. It was there in this druggy new mecca for free thinking youth that Doug Sahm unquestionably found his groove. Forming a new band, 'The Sir Douglas Quintet + 2,' he began to unveil the first of his several (and authentic) musical incarnations, and to understand these persona's (which merely showcased the many sides of his musical personality) is key to understanding the more mysterious whole of the man. Sahm had absorbed much along the road to California, and now he distilled all the music that had inspired him along the way --- from Western Swing to Lightnin' Hopkins, Tex-Mex to Cajun Polkas, Hank Ballard to Rock and Roll, plus everything in between --- and created something that was singularly his own; a unique voice and style that can only be described as Doug Sahm. In the naively optimistic blush of the Haight Ashbury's pre-Summer of Love days when good vibes really did prevail, Sahm reinvented himself as the quintessential Psychedelic Cowboy and became a regular at early venues like the Avalon Ballroom. Later, recruiting his former band mates from San Antonio, Sahm assembled a streamlined version of the quintet who recorded a string of LP's for the Mercury label, further showcasing his varied influences. In addition to the Psychedelic Cowboy, we met Doug, the Soul Shouter, Doug, the smooth Rhythm and Blues balladeer, and Doug, the Cajun Fiddler. There was also T-Bone Doug, the heavy Bluesman, Doug Saldaña, the Norteño Conjunto and honorary Chicano. Also in the mix we heard from Doug, the Jazz Cat, and finally Wayne Douglas, the Country Crooner. All of Sahm's experiences of a lifetime found their way into his new music, resulting in wonderful records that sound nothing like those made today. They were absolutely all over the map stylistically, and lacked anything that resembled polish or sheen. No post production tweaking for this 'keep it real' musician. Instead we heard frayed guitars, a drummer sometimes slipping off the beat, occasional harmonies that never quite hit the note, bass strings slightly out of tune, and horn players flubbing notes here and there. In other words, honest to goodness real music made by real people who may not have been the most technically proficient players, but sure as hell had a lot of soul.

But music was not the only quality that made Sahm both uncommon and unforgettable, for he was also the consummate hipster and optimist. If having been 'vaccinated with a phonograph needle' could ever be applied to anyone, it would certainly be Doug Sahm. Capable of speaking a mile a minute, Sahm was a virtual Texas tornado --- spinning tales, information, phone numbers, statistics, random thoughts and recollections --- all seemingly without pausing for breath. The great Freddie Fender reportedly once told him, "Doug, if you can't stop talking, can you at least slow it down?" He could be overwhelming at times, but he was always entertaining. Then to add even more color to the picture, Sahm's stream of conscious delivery was peppered with all manner of hipster's lingo from the 1960's. Though you might think this would be annoying, the result was actually endearing, as Sahm was more than capable of pulling it off due to his warmth, easy smile, and all around 'good vibes.' Filled with unceasing wonder, unbridled enthusiasm, and brimming with genuine bonhomie, Sahm was not one to complain, deride or dwell on the negative. Rather, he described most people and places in his life as either "beautiful" or "groovy." In fact, each town became more "beautiful" than the last, whether it be San Antonio, Amarillo, Sante Fe or Albuquerque, San Bernadino, Mendocino, or the most unlikely, Prunedale, CA where he briefly called home. That was just the way he was, always finding the silver lining. And because of that colorful personality, boundless energy, and ability to make friends wherever he went, Sahm's conversations were able to include oddities that most others might find impossible; like the use of two improbable phrases such as 'good karma' and 'kick ass' in the same sentence and somehow making it work, or being the only man who could ever get away with calling the fabled City By The Bay, 'Frisco.' Somehow coming out of his mouth, it just sounded natural, even downright acceptable.

Doug eventually returned to his hometown of San Antonio, where he continued to create his unique brand of Americana. After dissolving The Sir Douglas Quintet, Sahm was given the opportunity to make an all star recording with the many friends and musical admirers that he'd made through the years. Those friends who come out to participate included, Bob Dylan, Dr. John, David Bromberg, Charlie Owens, and David 'Fathead' Newman to name a few. He later formed another all star conglomeration of regional giants with Flaco Jimenez, Augie Meyers, and Freddie Fender, appropriately called 'The Texas Tornados.' In his last years, he worked out with 'The Last Real Texas Blues Band,' a roadhouse combo that played like a dream jukebox of Blues and R&B favorites, unfortunately releasing only one recording before his passing.

Sahm sadly moved on to groover's paradise on November 18, 1999 after suffering a fatal heart attack while chasing his muse in New Mexico. He was truly one of a kind, and his breed now seems almost an anomaly. The world today could use a few more people like Doug Sahm. His rich and personalized hybrid of Southern music may not have always produced brilliance, but it was certainly filled with a whole lot of heart and soul, and for my money, that's what counts the most.

Set No.#1

1) My Dearest Darling
2) Mendocino
3) In The Dark
4) I Wanna' Be Your Mama Again
5) Too Little, Too Late
6) The Gypsy
7) When I Fall In Love
8) Catch A Man On The Rise
9) Daydreaming At Midnight
10) Blue Horizon
11) I Don't Want
12) Be Real
13) I'm Glad For Your Sake, But I'm Sorry For Mine
14) I Get Off
15) The Image Of Me
16) Twisted World
17) Wasted Days And Wasted Nights
18) Ain't That Lovin' You?

Set No.#2

1) If You Really Want Me To, I'll Go
2) Hard Way To Go
3) You Never Get Too Big, And You Sure Don't Get Too Heavy,
That You Don't Have To Stop And Pay Some Dues Sometimes
4) At The Crossroads
5) Sunday Sunny Mill Valley Groove Day
6) It Didn't Even Bring Me Down
7) Tell Me The Truth
8) Box Car Hobo
9) Tennessee Blues
10) What About Tomorrow?
11) Song Of Everything
12) Texas Me
13) I Don't Want To Go Home
14) (Is Anyone Going To) San Antone
15) Yesterday Got In The Way
16) Chicano
17) Nice Song
18) Stoned Faces Don't Lie

To download Set No.#1, click here. For Set No.#2, click here.

Just Another 10¢ Novel From The Five And Dime (A Tribute To Pulp Fiction & Film Noir)

2008-07-25T09:40:00.000-07:00

My name is Jack Stature. I'm a Private Dick, and this is my story.

It'd been one long, hot, hell of a lousy day to say the least. The Santa Ana winds were blowin’ like the devil’s breath over the L.A. basin, causin' an eerie stillness that brings out every bad instinct that lives in the heart of man, woman, and child alike. Even the little puppy dogs start actin’ like wild canines. After gumshoein’ through every stinkin’ burg in this miserable town, talkin’ with what felt like every two-bit bookie this side of the Rio Grande, I was beat, and I still had nothin’. At least nothin’ I could make a respectable deposit with at the Bank of Credibility, which is exactly what I needed over at the D.A.’s office in Riverside. All I’d come back with was an earful of malarkey and some top grade shine-ola. Maybe I was barkin’ up the wrong tree, but I just couldn't help but think that this just might be the ace in the hand that puts some dough in the pocket. After all, a shamus like me can't live on bread alone, he's gotta' have a little toast every now and then. But now, I was headed back to my office downtown, which was almost a welcome relief, if it weren't for those winds.

Hangin’ my hat on the rack, I was lookin’ forward to settlin’ in for a quiet night with a bottle of Scotch, a National Geographic, and a bag fulla’ pipedreams, only there was one question that kept knockin’ around my brain like a silver ball in some crazy pinball machine. Had Johnny DeLuchi stopped off at the track before his fatal run-in with Nick Scarlatti, or had he driven out to the valley to meet with Johnny 'The Lug' Rydell and settle his long-standing debt, the debt that had hounded him like pack of hungry wolves for the last 12 months? That was the key to unlockin' this stinkin’ case, but I was gettin’ nowhere with it. I had nothin’ and was too tired to even think about it any more. Besides, my feet were achin’ like a busted heart right out of a Hank Williams tune. Not only that, I was also starin' at a near empty pack of Chesterfields. I would’ve asked Velma, my Girl Friday to run down to Carlotta’s for another carton, but she’d already left for the day, something about a hot ticket and a night on the town with some dumb palooka who lived in Paramount. She was a sweet gal, Velma, but I felt sorry for her, always fallin’ for some small town loser with no directions home. But hey, it was her life, and what was I, her old man, or somethin’? I put my weary feet up on the desk, lit my last cigarette, and was just about to tune in the Hit Parade, when from outside my window, I heard a scream that pierced my gray matter like an ice pick through a Casaba melon.

It all happened in an instant, but I remember it like a schoolboy remembers his first wet dream. After the last car sped away, all I could see in the haze of smoke from the squealing tires was the mangled body that lay bleeding in the curb, and the silhouette of a dame with more dangerous curves than Mulholland Drive. I only saw her for a second, and that was mostly in the shadows of a solitary lamppost, but I’ll never forget the sight. She was shapely, that was for sure, with gams up to here. She wore a low cut powder blue cashmere sweater with a diamond-studded broach that had a small cluster of rubies in the center, positioned just above her left breast. Around her neck was a silk scarf, and she carried an Italian leather handbag from Bloomingdale's. Her pumps were new and they were sexy. Very sexy. T-straps with stiletto heels. Her lips were painted ruby red and she was wearing Prince Matchebelli, smokin’ a Lucky Strike, hummin’ a Rudy Vallee number, and thinkin’ about the pine nut she’d left behind in East St. Louis, still nursing a warm beer and a broken heart. That’s all I can tell ya’ though. Like I said, I only saw her for a second, but I savored every moment of it.

Well, I put in an anonymous tip to Central Station, alerting the boys in blue, then grabbed my hat and ran down to street below, but by the time I got there, she was gone and the goons from downtown were already converging on the scene. L.A.’s finest, they call them. They weren’t always, but sometimes they get it right, like this time, but not without the help of friendly angels like myself I’d like to think. This case would fall squarely on the desk of Detective O’Malley and I didn’t want to get involved, not in the least. We’d been at odds he and I, ever since I beat him to the punch on the Remington caper and that international jewel thief from Monte Carlo. He thought I’d made him look bad in the eyes of the D.A., but I couldn’t help it if I was the better gumshoe. That’s just the way the cookie crumbles, but O’Malley, he’s not a bad guy really. His problem is that all these low-life punks have already figured him out. They can smell him comin’ like a bad odor. It's not all that hard to do, if you get my drift. And that’s where I get the upper hand on these G-men, see? Well, O'Malley was already overwhelmed, poor sap, starin’ at the corpse, rubbin’ his neck. The sweat was drippin’ from his brow and he already smelled like a hard salami, when suddenly it dawned on me. Why was I standin’ there talkin’ to myself like a blatherin’ idiot when I’d better make myself scarce? Maybe I was beginnin’ to lose my touch, or maybe it was those damn Santa Ana winds. I just couldn’t be sure which it was. That's what those winds do to ya'. Then it hit me again, but like a frying pan this time 'round. There I was doin’ it again! I fell back into the shadows and fumbled for a cigarette, but had already smoked my last. I needed a new pack, but then, I also needed to find that dame before O’Malley got wind of her. No time to dilly-dally. I tossed my burning match to the curb and was in the breeze without a sound.

Thank God I had a coupla’ dead presidents in my pocket, and possessed the nose of a bloodhound. Nobody's ever accused me of bein' a pretty boy, but I could always track a scent, and the smell of her perfume led me down La Cienega Boulevard until it finally disappeared behind the doors of a smoky saloon called, The Burning Embers. I called it a dive. Just another low-rent gin joint at the intersection of Down and Out Avenues. They're littered like cigarette butts all over this stinkin' town. Adjusting my hat, I stepped inside slowly like an alley cat through the back door of a Saturday night fish-fry. Bingo! There she was at the Wurlitzer, drinkin’ a highball and smoking’ a Lucky, pluggin’ nickels in the box and lookin’ for somethin’ lively by Rosemary Clooney. I sidled over in her direction and punched in a number on the old 'Bubbler' that I'd hoped would send a subtle message. It was an old favorite, 'Beat Me Daddy, Eight To The Bar.' Then, real casual like a hipster at a funeral, I said, "What's a good lookin' dame like you doin' in a dump like this?" "Whadda' ya' think I’m doin’, you dick!," she shot back. "A real firecracker!," I thought, "I like it, but how'd she nail my M.O. so quickly?" Maybe I really was losin' my touch, or was it these miserable Santa Ana's? I knew O’Malley was washed up, but was I tip-toein’ down the same primrose path as that poor sap? She’d called my number early in the game and I couldn’t afford a new exchange now. I was treadin’ through dicey territory here and I couldn’t help but wonder whether I was about to break one of my three cardinal rules of life. You see, every shamus needs to set some guidlines for himself, otherwise he might to end up out at Cypress Lawn wearin’ a wooden kimono. My rules are 3, and simple. Never play cards with a guy named after a large metropolitan community, never date a girl with a tattoo of a dagger that’s drippin’ blood, and never, ever have lunch at a place where you can come out with enough gas to open up your own Mobil station. If I managed to keep my powder dry, the rest would be like cream cheese and baloney on rye. This was a fine line though, finer than the pair of silk stockings on this dame’s legs, but like a city politician, I was about to cross it gladly. I chewed it over for a couple of minutes when she broke my train of thought by saying, "Well slim, are ya' just gonna' stand there talkin’ to yourself all night, or are you gonna' buy me a drink?" Mouth like a sailor, Body by Fisher, and easy on the eyes. I liked it even more. It was a tempting combination that any of those two-bit bookies would be clamorin' to lay odds on, and I was already baskin' like a champ in the Winner's Circle.

Well, maybe my treads were wearin’ thin, but what did I care now? This wasn't the first time I'd found myself face to face with a pair of 38’s, only this time they were softer, warmer, and cloaked behind a thin veil of blue cashmere. I adjusted my rod and ordered a Scotch. It looked like the night wasn't turn out so bad after all! In fact, the entire weekend looked like it promised to be perfumed, gin soaked, and hand rubbed, or at least that's what I thought she meant when she said, "Let's go to my place, get drunk, and refurnish the furniture." But it was the way she said it, you know? Kinda' husky like a lead dog in a snow job, and I wasn't about to get left out in the cold.

Just Another 10¢ Novel From The Five And Dime

1) Complete Soundtrack to 'Farewell, My Lovely'/David Shire
2) Excepts from the Soundtrack to 'Mulholland Falls'/Dave Grusin
3) Complete Soundtrack to 'Body Heat'/John Barry
(Taken from the original Label X, LASE-X-2, 45 rpm recording)

To download, click here.

Special thanks to Edward G. Robinson and Humphrey Bogart, and especially to Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, the city of Los Angeles, Carl Reiner and Phil Austin.

Hot Fun In The Summertime (Viva La Musica Latina)

2008-07-17T10:40:00.000-07:00

Look at that mug. It's a face that only a mother could love. That was me, roughly 30 years ago when I still had a glimmer of faith in mankind. The days before life dealt me a few bad hands, before several sure bets turned into certain busts, and before I eventually packed it in to become the misanthropic crank I am today. If I lived in a small town with only a handful of neighbors, I'd likely be trying to get rid of them. "Hit your ball into my backyard, and you'll never see it again, Sonny!" That's what happens when you get shat on one too many times. But honestly, I'm not really that cantankerous, although it's safe to say that you'd never find me skipping down the sidewalk whistling, 'Up With People!’ It's a funny paradox. I mean, for someone who’s not too big on hanging out with humanity, here I am, week after week sharing myself in the pages of this blog, which is read worldwide. Funny too, that I've nearly always made my living in something that is called, ‘Communications.’ Considering this, it's then a contradiction that as a whole, I reserve more respect for those in the animal kingdom than I do for those of humankind. I do however enjoy watching people. No, not to ridicule and scoff at, as you might be thinking, but rather as a way of learning something about them as individuals, or about ourselves as culture. Education through observation. I could be a great reporter by way of casual bystander, or maybe even a cop, if I actually had an interest in upholding the law. I mean, I see it this way, I can't entirely avoid interacting with society. After all, I am a member of that organization, and a responsible one at that. So I mix, but only as long as I can hold most individuals at arms length. For the most part, I prefer to learn about people, customs, and lifestyles through astute examination, ideally with as little actual physical contact as possible. Kind of like Jimmy Stewart in 'Rear Window.' That's me, except without the broken leg, the telephoto lens, or Grace Kelly as a girlfriend. Minimum face time, maximum supposition. It's not a perfect form of research, I know, but more often that not, what I take away is relatively sound. Combine a bit of fact-finding with educated guesswork and analysis, blend with the scrutiny of my eye for detail, and I usually end up drawing conclusions that are pretty close to absolute truth. It's always been that way. In fact, I consider myself as knowing a little bit about a lot of things, from shipyards and mercury poisoning, to epicurean and make-up tips. Enough at least to get started. The things I don't know much about, I make up as I learn. Meanwhile, I cautiously mingle. But don't get me wrong, I'm not ready to disappear into the desert landscape of Baja to live in an Airstream trailer, or anything. Not yet anyway. Besides, there are still several people who owe me money, and I'd like to collect on those debts first.

When that picture above was taken, I was working at KRE, the station you've heard me wax about in previous posts. Man, I loved that station! Not only was it a great learning experience for me, but I also got to work alongside (oddly enough) a talented crew of people who for the most part, kept their egos checked at the door when entering the building. And there, much like my way of observing people, I educated myself, again through attention to detail, a bit of formal research, a dash of luck, and the ability to become a quick study. I mean, before I encountered Thelonious Monk at the age of 10, my childhood idea of jazz was Boots Randolph and The Anita Kerr Singers, the latter who did that stuff like, "Scooby-dooby-dooby-doo, Scoobity-wa-wa-waaaa!" Later in my post-Monk teen years, I poked around the jazz section in the record aisle at the local Department store and found some other things I liked. But when I got to KRE as a young adult, I got exposed to it all, and all at once! What jazz I already knew was enough to get me through initially, but while there, I picked up as much as I could absorb until I became versed enough to consider myself a connoisseur. And again, it was through scrutiny and studied consideration. A friend in a similar circumstance once told me that when auditioning for an on-air position, she was asked by the Program Director to pick out what she thought were the two-dozen strongest titles in the stations library. Cleverly, she perused the collection methodically, and the titles she selected were the L.P.'s whose jacket spines were the most well worn! From there, like me, she simply absorbed and learned as she went along, making up the other bits along the way. A very smart girl! It's almost like, if you talk as though you were an authority on something, as long as your line of bullshit isn't too far out, most people will initially accept your word on it. Then over time, you truly do educate yourself and it's no longer B.S., but fact.

I mention this because while at KRE (as with most any radio station), staff members would fill in for a colleague if they were ill, vacationing, or otherwise predisposed. Every so often, I would get tapped to cover for Talaya Trigueros who now works at KTWV-FM in Los Angeles. The young and beautiful Talaya hosted a salsa music program that was extremely popular, largely due to her winning personality, her silky voice, her excellent taste in music, and of course because of the large Latino community that resides in the Bay Area. Well, who was I to substitute host a salsa program? I'll tell you. I was a dopey gringo who didn't know salsa from shinola. Similar to my take on jazz before first hearing Thelonious Monk, anything that featured timbales and was sung in Spanish potentially qualified as salsa music to my unenlightened ears. However, I wasn't that completely naive. I made it a point to inform myself in the only way I knew how --- I listened to her show, took note of what she played that appealed to my own sensibilities, checked out what was selling at 'Discolandia' in San Francisco's Latino Mission district --- and then I undertook the task as though I actually knew what I were doing. Meanwhile, I'd audition other recordings I was less familiar with (or completely unfamiliar with) while airing one that I felt confident in. That, combined with listener requests, always got me through in spite of my relative lack of exposure to the genre. Of course, I didn't produce anything that vaguely resembled a 'salsa' program in the strictest sense, it was rather a 'Musica Latina' program that featured Latin rock, Latin jazz, Afro-Cuban jazz, the requisite salsa, and even 'old school' soul (although it wasn't old school at the time). The music featured below is an example of the sort of mix I'd do (except then I had a much larger library to choose from), and the selections are mostly from that period as well. As it was then, it today remains more than quite suitable for summer listening. In fact it's actually great for summer listening! Looking back, it obviously wasn't Talaya's salsa show, no way! But all things considered, I didn't do too bad of a job with it. I mean, I would get calls from Mission low riders, some of the brothers in Oakland, and even the random cholo from East San Jose! I figured that kind of response was pretty good for a honky/gringo who was learning on the fly, and making up the rules as he went along. Man, what was that thing that Honest Abe said? "You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can't fool all of the people all of the time." It's kinda' like that.

Viva La Musica Latina

1) El Chicano/El Cayuco

2) The Santana Band/Incident At Neshabur
3) Celia Cruz/Usted Abusó
4) Rubén Blades/Buscando Guayaba
5) Kool & The Gang/Summer Madness
6) Cal Tjader/Guarabe
7) Sapo/Been Had
8) The Harvey Averne Barrio Band/Cayaco
9) Herbie Hancock/Butterfly
10) The Santana Band/Treat
11) Willie Colón/Dime
12) The Alex Cuba Band/Muevete
13) Cruisin' With Pedro
14) El Chicano/Viva Tirado

Bonus Tracks
(Because I'm really not such a crank after all)

14) Jerry Gonzalez/Bye-Ya
15) Pedro's Request
16) Tower Of Power/You're Still A Young Man
17) The Chico O'Farrill Orchestra/Freezelandia
18) Donny Hathaway/The Ghetto
19) Cal Tjader/This Is Always
20) Malo/Nana
21) Las Siete Potencias/No Volvere
22) Celia Cruz/La Guaga
23) Pedro, Red Freak, And 'La Bamba'
24) War/All Day Music

To download, click here. For the bonus tracks, click here.

TR-i (The Rundgren-index): The Kid Gets Heavy

2008-07-11T07:30:00.000-07:00

No.#4 in a series.

O.K., I admit it, I'm a Toddhead. But don't get me wrong, I'm not obsessive about the guy or anything. I mean, I don't salivate over every piece of Rundgren related memorabilia that goes up on eBay, I don't attend every show, nor have I ever visited a chat room devoted to the man. I didn't name my first born 'Runt,'* nor am I a completest, collecting every single bootleg and alternate take that ever sees the light of day. Hell, I don't think I even own all of his official recordings! But those I do possess have always brought me great pleasure. And what keeps me returning to them is the combination of quality songwriting, solid playing, intricate harmonies, memorable hooks, and the underlying humanistic message that informs them. I've never held anyone up as an idol, but there are those for whom I have great admiration, and Todd Rundgren is one of them. I've touched on my reasons in previous entries and I won't repeat them here. Let me just state that beyond his music, it's Rundgren's vision and commitment to remaining true to himself that I find most intriguing and commendable.

As Todd is currently on tour in the U.S. to promote his forthcoming release, 'Arena,' this seems as prime a time as any to showcase his guitar driven hard rock recordings in this 4th chapter of TR-i (The Rundgren-index), a series which profiles Todd's 40+ career in the music industry.

The Kid Gets Heavy

1) Under The Ice
(with Nazz)
2) The Death Of Rock And Roll
3) Everybody's Going To Heaven/King Kong Reggae
4) No.#1 Lowest Common Denominator
5) I Hate My Frickin' I.S.P.
6) Black And White
7) Utopia Theme
(with Utopia)
8) Little Red Lights
9) Black Maria
10) Couldn't I Just Tell You
11) Parole
12) Devil's Bite
13) Drive
14) Is It My Name?
15) Love In Action
(with Utopia)
16) Heavy Metal Kids

*'Runt' is the name of Rundgren's first solo LP. And for the record --- I don't have any children, although I occasionally rent one for special events and holiday gatherings with the family.

To download, click here and play loud!

Visit Roger Linder's labor of love The Todd Rundgren Connection for more info on Rundgren.

A Loose Salute (25 Big Ones From The Underappreciated Canon Of Michael Nesmith, The RCA Victor Years)

2008-07-04T11:30:00.000-07:00

Most everyone is already familiar with the name of Michael Nesmith, whether you came of age during his stint with the wildly successful Monkees, or learned of him years later while browsing through an older brother or sister's record collection. His pivotal role in that zany made-for-television music combo no doubt kept his children outfitted in new shoes and wool knit caps all the way from K, though earning their Masters. However, much to his detriment, it was also the stigma of his association with the pre-fabricated band that forever haunted his post-Monkee musical career. Without bothering to check the facts, many of those who had previously dismissed him as simply a be-hatted puppet in a corporate marketing scheme, largely continued to spurn him as a counterfeit pop star who made trivial music exclusively for the pre-teen set. In doing so, they did themselves no small favor by overlooking some of the most listenable recordings ever created in the country rock idiom, recordings that were among the first in the genre, squarely placing the ex-Monkee alongside Gram Parsons as a founding father of the once popular hybrid. Nesmith's music during this period may in fact have actually been the more organic, and thereby more authentic of the two band leaders, though it is Parsons who has been lionized, largely due to his larger than life legacy of 'living fast, dying young, and leaving behind a good looking corpse.' After all, the elder Nesmith had already paid his dues in the folk music scene, tasted life as a rock star, and shared a certain commonality with 'The Father of Country Music,' Jimmie Rodgers. Nesmith was also a Texan, a state that is rich in country music mavericks. At the bottom line, regardless of how history may ultimately rank him, Nesmith and his band made some damn fine music, largely due to the presence and superb playing of pedal steel great, Red Rhodes, with whom Nesmith had forged a copasetic musical relationship. Collectively, his First National Band had more than enough credibility to not only to stand shoulder to shoulder with their L.A. peers, but with their Nashville counterparts as well. Admittedly, from a compositional point of view, Parsons songs do have legs, and perhaps are built around more sophisticated themes, structures, and harmonies, but Nesmith's on the other hand are just plain fun to hear! There's no pretense, no grand statements, no ridiculous Topanga Canyon outlaws, no desperadoes, and no tequila sunrises. Just honest, unaffected heartfelt tunes that are extremely listenable and likable. They're the kind of songs that would sound great on a summer's eve as a soundtrack for sharing tacos and cold beer with a handful of good friends. And what could be better than that!? Well, a lot of things actually, but the point is, like that unassuming gathering, Michael Nesmith's music too, is a simple and rewarding pleasure.

A Word About The Albums

These recordings come from Michael Nesmith's RCA albums dating from 1970 through 1974, minus one, 'And The Hits Just Keep On Coming,' which is another worth investigating. Most are still in print and issued on CD, and there are also several collections of varying quality that are also available. Nesmith later recorded a handful of projects on his own imprint, Pacific Arts. These are also in print and well worth investigating. The titles from which the songs below are drawn include: 'Loose Salute,' 'Magnetic South,' and 'Nevada Fighter' by Michael Nesmith and The First National Band. 'Tantamount To Treason, Vol.1' by Michael Nesmith and The Second National Band, and finally 'Pretty Much Your Standard Ranch Stash' credited solely to Nesmith.

A Loose Salute

1) Tengo Amor
2) Wax Minute
3) Propinquity (I've Only Just Begun To Care)
4) Calico Girlfriend
5) Nine Times Blue
6) Little Red Rider
7) The Crippled Lion
8) Joanne
9) Continuing
10) Some Of Shelly's Blues
11) Prairie Lullaby
12) Born To Love You
13) Silver Moon
14) I Fall To Pieces
15) Thanks For The Ride
16) Dedicated Friend
17) Texas Morning
18) Tumbling Tumbleweeds
19) I Looked Away
20) Rainmaker
21) René
22) Release
23) Winonah
24) Bye, Bye, Bye
25) Only Bound

To download, click here, and don't forget the hot sauce.

Visit Michael Nesmith's latest project, Videoranch 3D.

668: Next Door Neighbor Of The Beast (Or Learning To Love Diamanda Galas), Pt. 2

2008-06-27T10:30:00.000-07:00

...Continued from last week

When I awoke from the most vivid and disturbing nightmare in recent memory, I was in a cold sweat. Was it a result of fever, or the dream? I was mildly delirious, approaching panic. Again I wondered, had I OD'd on the Formula 44, or was it the dream? Assuming the latter, I thought to myself, "This woman is going to have me for lunch! She's going to chew me to pieces and spit me out like a unwanted watermelon seed! What have I gotten myself into? She'll probably show up with a velvet cape in a cloud of smoke, and make a toy out of me like some cat with a hapless mouse. Shit! Why didn't I better prepare for this meeting? From now on, I should just stick with the jazz stuff! Damn!"

That day, I was pretty nervous, which was unlike me before doing a radio show. I obviously hadn't slept well the night before. My head felt like anvil and my concentration was nowhere to be found. Everybody at the station was excited about her arrival, happy with glee in fact. Myself, I had almost wished she'd call to announce that she needed to cancel, a sorcerer's convention or something. Quite suddenly there was a noticeable commotion outside the studio, Diamanda and her small entourage had arrived. Lingering outside for a moment, her companion entered the studio first, a tall, lanky guy with a pasty complexion (a studio tan actually), and an expressionless look on his face. He was dressed in black leather with combat boots, and introduced himself to me as Naut Humon.* "Charming," I thought as I nervously stroked my bulging throat, "This is gonna' be everything that I feared." Just then, the small crowd outside the door parted, and in walked the woman who I was convinced was about to cut me into little pieces, Beelzebub's messenger, Diamanda Galas.

The woman above is who I met. A disarmingly pleasant, highly intelligent, and extremely articulate woman of substance who greeted me with a warm smile, an easy laugh, and willingness to subject herself to my largely uninformed and benign questioning (as well as my irrational fears). We spoke at length of literature (Baudelaire, Nietzsche), musical heroes (Coltrane, Cecil Taylor, Albert Ayler, Sun Ra), audience perception (often mirroring my own), and of course, her own art. She was absolutely charming! She put me at ease (in a reversal of what was supposed to be my job!) and revealed a side of herself that few audience members (again, like myself) might have never imagined. She was no longer a simple girl from suburban San Diego, but now something different. A hybrid of that girl, integrated with the adult woman in her newfound and self-created role as an artistic spokesperson and interpreter of social and political ills, many from which our society would rather turn away. She has found an art form which enables her to illuminate with brutal honesty and searing intensity all the evils of our world, presenting them in a visceral context that offers them up for deeper examination. Certainly not in glorification, but rather in an effort to confront them with the hope of one day banishing them forever. As stated previously, it's an exorcism of sorts. And yes, it's deep, it's dark, and it's very disturbing. It's meant to alarm, to frighten, and to provoke. Because of that, it then becomes a unique form of political action, and as a result, I've learned to love Diamanda Galas.

668: Next Door Neighbor Of The Beast, Pt.2

6) L'Heautonimoroumenos
7) Eight Men And Four Women
8) La Treizieme Revient
9) Deliver Me
10) Free Among The Dead
a) Psalm 88
b) Lamentations
c) Sono L'Antichristo
11) You Must Be Certain Of The Devil

*Naut Humon at the time was leading an industrial noise/music group called, 'Rhythm and Noise,' and was actually not as intimidating as his name or dress suggested. For info on 'Rhythm and Noise,' please read here. He also runs Recombinant Media Labs.

To download, click here.

Diamanda Speaks is a highly condensed version of the infamous interview.

For more information on Diamanda Galas, please visit her website here.

668: Next Door Neighbor Of The Beast (Or Learning To Love Diamanda Galas), Pt.1

2008-06-20T06:00:00.000-07:00

Diamanda Galas has always been a mystery. A paradox wrapped in a puzzle. A Southern California girl from suburban San Diego who produces some of the most somber, intense, and compelling music that one is likely to hear in their lifetime. But let's double back here. Not all of her material falls into what is conventionally acknowledged as music per se. A gross understatement as you will soon learn. Her earliest conceptual work was largely solo vocalese under highly processed electronic manipulation (in quadraphonic sound, no less). Performance art, if you will. With a three and a half octave range, her 'singing,' however operatic in scope, consisted primarily of shrieks, screams, moans, and howls, which have been described as "capable of the most unnerving vocal terror." With the aforementioned processing, this most certainly was correct. Silently entering a darkened stage, long black hair teased to resemble a fright wig, and draped in a simple form fitting black gown, she would wield two microphones as though they were sabers, or more fittingly, sacramental artifacts, and begin a vocalized 20 minute exorcism, speaking in tongues, and conjuring up demonic sounds that seemingly came from the very depths of hell itself. It was overwhelming to say the least, and unsettling in the extreme, particularly for the uninitiated.

I first saw and heard Diamanda Galas during this early period of her career. Although my ears were close to bleeding by the end of her performance, I nonetheless sat mesmerized by the power and command she exuded. The pieces were socially and politically charged statements ranging from 'The Litanies of Satan,' to 'Wild Women with Steak Knives (A Homicidal Love Song),' 'Panopticon,' and 'Song from the Blood of Those Murdered.' Her subject matter, striking stage persona, and the shear intensity of her work were enough to spark my interest, and my curiosity.

At the time, I had just returned from a stint abroad and began volunteering at a local, cutting edge (and award winning) college radio station, where my intention was to create a demo tape for submission to commercial stations. I had been off the air for a bit, and I now needed to regain my chops in order to pursue a new position (and one that paid!). I contacted Diamanda's management, and arranged for an interview with her in advance of an upcoming performance she was about to make. I was relatively rusty, and the new music scene was a still a bit foreign to me, so I felt a little uneasy there, but the prospect of coming face to face with Diamanda Galas while highly intriguing to me, was also daunting. I really didn't know just what to make of her. I knew next to nothing about her, and in a new approach for me, I decided not to do any research on her background. No press releases, no record label bio, nothing. It was a bold move on my part, but I felt like starting anew. Just sitting down with a complete stranger and start asking questions that come naturally in the course of conversation, all without the benefit of a safety net. Why I chose her as my starting place? I don't honestly know, but I came to regret it.

It was early winter. The evening prior to our scheduled interview, I felt myself coming down with a cold. I was tired, achy, and feeling altogether miserable. I swigged a six-pack of Vick's Formula 44 and went to bed early in the hope of feeling better by the following day. When that day came, I didn't, my cold symptoms being the least of it. More than the sinus headache and the medication, it was the event which was about to transpire that very night which affected me most. As I had laid down to rest, I began to ponder the subject I was about to meet. "Just who was Diamanda Galas? What sort of a name was that? Unusual, certainly. From her looks, she might be of some Eastern European descent. Hungarian maybe? Or maybe that weird place somewhere beyond the Romanian forest? What did they once call it? Transylvania? Wow! Spooky. And where does she conjure up all this bizarre stuff? Litanies of Satan? Steak Knives? Pretty intense, all of it. What is she, some sort of conduit for the netherworld? And what about that brother of hers?"

I had recently stumbled upon a homemade Christmas card with a photo of Joan Crawford taken from 'Mommy Dearest.' In it, she's holding a butcher's knife with a crazed, maniacal look in her eyes, and the caption read, 'Have an oh so Merry Christmas, you bastard!" When I flipped it over, I discovered that it had been designed by none other than playwright, Phillip Dimitri Galas, Diamanda's late brother! I considered (possibly aloud), "Wow! These two really have a monopoly on the macabre. What are they, the Addams Family, or something?" With all these thoughts running through my head, and the Formula 44 coursing through my system, I fell into a deep dream state that as you might imagine, served to bring out my worst, and deepest fears. I was about to enter into the heart of darkness.

Imagine this, if you will, in a cinematic approach:

Fade in to an overhead shot of a bed holding a sleeping couple. There is no sound. The man (myself) lays on his back with his hands clasped behind his head. To his left sleeps his partner, a slender woman with long black hair. She is on her side with her back toward him. As her hair partially covers her face, it is impossible to clearly make out her features. Both appear at ease with one another, allowing us to naturally assume that they are friends and lovers.

The camera begins to slowly zoom in, swinging to the left it does, ending with a side view just slightly above being directly horizontal with the bed. We clearly see the sleeping man (myself) in the forefront, and the woman, slightly out of focus in the background. Hold the shot. Still no sound. Quite suddenly, and without explanation, the woman bolts upright to a seated position. The camera focuses in to the accompaniment of jabbing strings (something like Hitchcock's 'Psycho'). Her head begins to slowly swivel towards her partner (think: Linda Blair in 'The Exorcist') now revealing for the first time that it is Diamanda Galas. Otherworldly whispers begin to fill the room (much like her 'Litanies of Satan'), growing in intensity. Her eyes are wild and possessed, rolling back into their sockets to display only the whites. With one deft swoop of her hand, she grabs the unsuspecting man's (myself) vulnerably exposed trachea with the power of an iron claw. Cue suspense music. Digging her two inch long, razor sharp fingernails deep into his gullet, she proceeds to violently rip his throat from his neck, leaving him helpless, gasping for air, and begging for mercy. The music swells, and cut. End of scene, but the nightmare had only begun.

I awoke in a cold sweat, feeling panicked, and not without good reason. Later that afternoon, I was scheduled to meet singer, performance artist, and leading lady of my disturbing dream, Diamanda Galas, the next door neighbor of the Beast.

To be continued...

668: Next Door Neighbor Of The Beast, Pt.1

1) Heaven Have Mercy
2) The Litanies Of Satan
3) Birds Of Death
4) Deliver Me From Mine Enemies
a) This Is The Law Of The Plague
b) Deliver Me From Mine Enemies
c) We Shall Not Accept Your Quarantine
d) Deliver Me
e) Yiati O Ozoe
f) Psalm 22
5) Double-Barrel Prayer

To download. click here.

Biff! Bang! Pow! (From Beat To Paisley Pop), Pt.3

2008-06-13T10:50:00.000-07:00

In the last two parts of this series, I've been showcasing the transition in mid-60's popular British music from the innocuous Beat, to the more aggressive rave-ups of Freakbeat, which in turn led to the shimmering Paisley Pop of 1966-67.

Over a relatively brief swath of time, the face of English pop music had changed faster than a chorus girl in a Vegas floor show. Seemingly overnight, lovable mop tops in ankle boots with Cuban heels became psychedelicized hipsters draped in ruffled shirts and Afghans. Youth culture was entering it's apex, and the atmosphere was filled with excitement, experimentation, and cultural transformation. Of course, this was all reflected most evidently through fashion and music. The Beatles' overwhelming success internationally had opened the gates for aspiring musicians, producers, and entrepreneurs throughout the U.K. to try their own hand at the game of creating the next big thing. But unlike their American counterparts, English managers and promoters were always searching for a unique hook to make their discovery stand out from the others, gurus like Brian Epstein, Shel Talmy, Chas Chandler, and the team of Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp. "Alright then lads, we're going put you boys into crushed velvet fox hunting garb, surrounded by leggy birds dancing in patent leather go-go boots. As for you, Ian, we've just got to do something about that hair of yours!" And if that didn't go over with the kids, the following week it was, "Right then, this time we utilize a medieval theme! Nigel and Duffy, you boys do a few more 'sha-la-la's,' and Graham, from now on you'll be known as 'Gnarley.' At the end of the performance, you'll drop all of your gear straight into a boiling cauldron, set center stage. We'll call you, 'Witch's Coven,' and it'll be a smash! Alright boys, no time to waste! Hop to it then." It didn't always make for the best music, but it was at the very least, it was constantly entertaining.

With the advent of Paisley Pop however (which was an organic evolution by the way), the musicians began to gain control of their images and their sound to commence producing music that reflected their own values and interests. Studio techniques were additionally becoming more advanced, lending added polish and sonic trickery to the recorded proceedings. It was at this juncture that the doors were flung wide open for all sorts of experimentation on both a personal, and professional level. The results were fabulous! However, they were merely the tip of the iceberg for the creation of interesting sounds, only to be eclipsed by the full-blown psychedelia that would soon follow. But what an fascinating time it was! Stereo panning, backwards tape loops, and previously unheard textures began cropping up in the singles that found their way to the radio airwaves. Nearly everyone began indulging in sonic wizardry, ultimately producing some of the most unorthodox, yet oddly accessible pop music. Now the airwaves and the dance halls carried all the schools of contemporary hit making from Beat, to Northern Soul, and Freakbeat. But it was the rapidly unifying Paisley Pop that quickly put everyone moving in the same direction, with many demonstrating mere cleverness with their creations. In the end however, it was The Beatles who truly led the way, first with the sonic sophistication of 'Tomorrow Never Knows,' and months later with the historic release of 'Sgt. Pepper.' Those events became the clarion call for ushering out the old, and fully embracing the new. That new sound would be Psychedelic, and from that point on, everyone would carry a gleam in their eye, a stash in their pocket, and a flower in their hair. At least for a moment.

A Word About The Music

I've tried to assemble a reasonable time line in this series, but I'm only one person. Without the benefit of a staff of researchers, I can only do so much with the accuracy in my placement of songs and artists. Part Three was a bit more difficult for me, as 1966 and early 1967 were extremely fertile years in British pop. There was so much produced in a variety of styles, and I wanted to attempt to represent it all, but I believe I failed on this one. In fact, I know I failed. For one thing, I got hung up on The Nice whom I hadn't listened to in decades, and I was reminded of just how much I liked their very early recordings. 'Child Of The Moon' actually came just after this period, as did 'Deserted Cities Of The Heart,' I believe. Therefore, it's obviously not a truly definitive collection of this period. Regardless, it's all meant for enjoyment and despite the inaccuracies, it's still a great listen! With Part Four, I'll continue highlight much more paisley pop, and then slowly move into psychedelic music. I hope you'll enjoy this, and come back around for another chapter.

1) David Watts/The Kinks
2) Dreams Secondhand/The Blinkers
3) Child Of The Moon (rmk) The Rolling Stones
4) Sanitation/Amen Corner
5) Nite Is A Comin'/Smeta Murgaty/The Warm Sounds
6) Telegram Tuesday/Blossom Toes
7) Bert's Apple Crumble/The Quik
8) How Am I To Know?/Ars Nova*
9) Flower King Of Flies/The Nice
10) Gone Is The Sad Man/Timebox
11) For Speedy Freaks/Blossom Toes
12) Pictures Of Matchstick Men/Status Quo
13) Azrial/The Nice
14) My White Bicycle/Tomorrow
15) Walking Through My Dreams/Pretty Things
16) Deserted Cities Of The Heart/Cream
17) Dear Eloise/The Hollies
18) Fortune Teller/The Tony Jackson Group
19) Wicked Annabella/The Kinks
20) Here Come The Nice/The Small Faces
21) Daddy, Where Did I Come From?/The Nice
22) Flowers In The Rain/The Move
23) Tomorrow Never Knows/The Beatles

*This is an American band. What can I say? I told you it wasn't entirely accurate.

To download, click here.

For Biff! Bang! Pow!, Pt.1, click here. For Pt.2, click here.