Paul Carrack/Suburban Voodoo

I have two breakfast meetings this week, and an early morning flight Friday morning, so I had to do an afternoon workout today, and Paul Carrack wins the lottery with Suburban Voodoo(1982) for Wednesday Afternoon.
Carrack has one of the most appealing voices of that brit grouping–Squeeze, Nick Lowe, Dave Edmunds, Elvis Costello, etc. He’s the voice behind Ace’s hit How Long? and more memorably, Squeeze’s Tempted. I’ll always remember him coming out before Roger Waters’ concert in Saratoga Springs, singing that song solo, and then heading off stage. A nice treat. He’s the voice behind a bunch of hits for Mike + the Mechanics. He also backed John Hiatt on one of my favorite records, Riding with the King. In fact, that album’s second side featured almost the exact same lineup as Suburban Voodoo. And it also featured Nick Lowe producing.
That may be the problem here, actually. There are some memorable songs here, and Carrack’s voice is strong and quite charming. But the production is cloudy and muddled–it sounds like a bass player is producing. Call Me Tonight, I Found Love and the Difford/Tilbrook penned Out Of Touch kind of melt together, leaving little impression at all.
The standout, and something of a single was I Need You. Still catchy nearly 30 years later, it stands out for the sparseness of it’s production. The hook stands out and has plenty of space to grab you. From Now On, from side 2 is the runner up. Lesson in Love, Always Better with You, and Don’t give My Heart a Break emerge on a second listen although Carlene Carter’s version of Heart on C’est c Bon is superior. Coincidentally, that one is due up some time next week.
This album ain’t bad, and I might even transfer a couple of these over to iTunes. But most of it sounds like filler.
The artwork is killin’ me, by the way. Three identical 10″ shots of Carrack looking very serious, in profile. Lighten up buddy, you’ve got a couple hits under your belt.

To dream the impossible dream…

I’ve always loved music–I bought Dark Side of the Moon when I was eight. But I completely lack rhythm and am pretty much tone deaf to boot.
I owned a guitar when I was a teenager, but never practiced–never had the discipline to master even the simplest parts of playing. I wanted to be a rock and roll star, but I really just wanted to look cool.
So as part of my personal renovation, I’m teaching myself piano.
My expectations are low. I don’t know that I’ll ever play for anyone. But through practice, I hope to build a better sense of rhythm and a sense of pitch. And maybe even a better understanding of how a song is put together.
So last night, I broke out my first lesson in the “Piano and Keyboard Method for Mac”. The first lesson was Mary Had a Little Lamb. That was just getting the right notes in the right order. I cranked through that one in no time. Then on to “rhythm rhythm”, which has a little backing track and a metronome beat.

Fourteen notes, two rests, four fingers, two hands. 90 minutes.

According to the software, I ran through it perfectly once. But mostly, I was scoring somewhere in the b+/a- range. The melody is childish, so the real challenge is getting on the beat–something that I seem to be genetically incapable of.
Over and over and over and over. But I was actually having fun. Yes, it’s frustrating to not be able to get even this rudimentary thing right. But I know that my real problem with rhythm, with music in general, is never having just sat down and done the work. And I feel myself getting better at it. Hearing the beat in the music along with the notes I’m playing, trying different ways to get myself syncopated to this stupid track, it all felt like progress.
So I’ll be back at it this evening, if I can find time. More to come, but I will not be posting any MP3s any time soon.

Glen Campbell–Wichita Lineman

As a way to rediscover my vinyl collection, I’m playing an old record each time I work out. The idea is to listen to stuff I haven’t heard in decades, and to get out of my listening rut. So, the rules are:

1. I go alphabetically by artist, then chronologically within the artist.
2. I skip anything I own digitally. (This keeps me away from stuff I listen to already)
3. I skip stuff that is accepted canon.( I can’t think of anything else to say about the White Album)
4. I reserve the right to skip the second third, fourth, etc. album from an artist I’ve already covered.

Before discussing this morning’s masterpiece, let me just mention the workout for a change. I had a pretty nasty chest cold over the last week and a half, so I haven’t been exercising. I went out for a run yesterday morning, and the first mile nearly killed me. And during the whole trip, I kept trying to think of ways to cut the process short, so that I didn’t actually have to do all the work. The same thing happened again this morning while going through my routine, which took nearly 50% longer than the last time I did it. Getting back in the groove is not easy, and the longer you go, the harder it gets. But you just have to keep at it. There’s no substitute for just working.

This morning, Wichita Lineman, by Glen Campbell

Once upon a time, there was a band called Naked Prey, and they did a cover of Wichita Lineman. And it was good. In fact, it was revelatory. It took a three minute pop song and imbued it with a sense of violence, madness and intimidation that no one, not even Jimmy Webb, knew was there. It is one of those recordings, long lost from the mid-eighties, that proves that there is plenty of gold in hidden places. I will write about Naked Prey when I reach the N’s, but it was because of that recording that I snatched this up at a yard sale.

Glen Campbell should be one of the coolest guys ever. He has a fantastic rock and roll pedigree. For Christ’s sake, he played on the original recording of “Tequila”. He backed Elvis. He played on “Wild Thing” (penned by Sonny Curtis). He was a regular studio guy for Phil Spector. He played guitar on Frakin’ Pet Sounds! Pet Sounds! PET SOUNDS! You want cool. He backed Steve McQueen on guitar in Baby the Rain Must Fall. There’s nothing cooler than Steve McQueen. Not convinced? He backed Sinatra on “Strangers in the Night.” Check. and mate.

Otis Redding. Sonny Curtis. Tim Hardin. Jim Webb. That’s a few of the songwriters that contributed to this album. So you have all the connections in the world. You’ve got the best songwriters of the era. You’ve got an unlimited budget. And you serve up this 12 inch platter of string cheese. Unforgivable. Sure, getting coked up and beating the hell out of Tanya Tucker is unforgivable too, but the crime of this album left much more evidence.

It’s all strings, pretty boy singing, and soulless arrangements. What’s shocking is the complete lack of irony in any of this. 1968 was a pretty interesting year for music and culture, and you crank out a track with this lyric:

I know I’ll never meet another hunk of woman like my Ann
Cause she makes me feel like a great big man…

She sure is stacked from her toes to the pretty little nape
Of her neck she’s packed like a seed in a grape she’s smooth as marble skin
When I see her I believe I’m a real young guy
And every time I go to work I think I might die if I can’t hurry home again
If the good Lord worked all night a makin’ me a female plan
I’d say no thanks Lord I’ll just keep Ann

“Stacked from her toes”? Really? And then there’s the gem “Dreams of the Everyday Housewife”. One gets the sense that Mr. Campbell thinks he is, in fact, the dream of the Everyday Housewife. Perhaps. But only if she lacked any imagination.

I started this record thinking Campbell was due for a revival, ala Neil Diamond or Ray Charles.I end saying “Nope.” Leave him buried in Branson.

Will I ever play this record again? I’d rather watch the Trololo guy, or his cat.

Julie Brown–Trapped in the Body of a White Girl

As a way to rediscover my vinyl collection, I’m playing an old record each time I work out. The idea is to listen to stuff I haven’t heard in decades, and to get out of my listening rut. So, the rules are:

1. I go alphabetically by artist, then chronologically within the artist.
2. I skip anything I own digitally. (This keeps me away from stuff I listen to already)
3. I skip stuff that is accepted canon.( I can’t think of anything else to say about the White Album)
4. I reserve the right to skip the second third, fourth, etc. album from an artist I’ve already covered. (After hearing Asia’s first album, Asia’s Alpha has nothing more to offer. I still may go back and listen to Jeff Beck’s Blow by Blow, but I get to pass on Wired.)

Why and when did I buy Julie Brown’s Trapped in the Body of a White Girl?

When? Surely it was at a garage sale for a quarter. I could not have bought it at Chelsea Records, where I worked during this era. I would have never lived down the scorn from my High Fidelity-like peers.

Why? Probably because of the cheesecake cover.

That was wrong of me. I’m ashamed of myself. Today I listened to it for the first time. I’ve done my penance.

The hit on this record: The Homecoming Queen’s Got A Gun. A cute novelty song wherein a student goes on a killing rampage through the school. Ha ha, ha. Good times.

There’s only one question left: Will it Blend? My God, I hope so.

As a way to rediscover my vinyl collection, I’m playing an old record each time I work out. The idea is to listen to stuff I haven’t heard in decades, and to get out of my listening rut. So, the rules are:

1. I go alphabetically by artist, then chronologically within the artist.
2. I skip anything I own digitally. (This keeps me away from stuff I listen to already)
3. I skip stuff that is accepted canon.( I can’t think of anything else to say about the White Album)
4. I reserve the right to skip the second third, fourth, etc. album from an artist I’ve already covered. (After hearing Asia’s first album, Asia’s Alpha has nothing more to offer. I still may go back and listen to Jeff Beck’s Blow by Blow, but I get to pass on Wired.)

This morning, One Night with a Stranger/Martin Briley

Somewhere, someday there will be a nostalgia concert with Greg Khin,  Tommy Tutone, Donny Iris and Martin Briley. The headliner will be Billy Squier.

If you’d like to take a tour of the seventies and eighties, click over to Briley’s website and click on his discography. The guy was playing with everyone back then. Mostly a guitarist out of the Mick Ronson/Ian Hunter clan, he was also a bassist, singer, arranger, etc. Later, he surely made more money, but got less interesting when he starting paling around with Canadian terrorists like Celine Dion.

This album brought his only solo hit that I know of, “The Salt in My Tears”. Perpetual MTV fodder in the early 80′s, it featured a great hook, snappy guitar work, a cool video, and a memorable chorus that perfectly expressed all the anger over perceived feminine slights that a high school boy in suburban Buffalo could muster.

It’s been said that you can spot a Dave Alvin song a mile away, because someone is always taking off her dress, lighting a cigarette or checking in or out of a motel. Briley is much the same, but I can’t help but think you could get room service where he’s checking in.

He’s a clever songwriter, although all but one of these songs circles the same territory: sex, lust, and cheating. Dumb Love, like Salt in My Tears has the rock and roll misogyny down to a fine art

“I saw her leaning up against the bar,
Wearing the leopard upholstery from a stolen car,
I thought she was a porno star.
She had a name I’ll never remember,
and a face I’ll never forget.”

She’s so Flexible is a fun, quirky song about true love is a bit of sweetness in a rather bitter landscape. But the real oddity on this album is Put Your Hands on the Screen, Briley’s piece of social commentary. He aims and fires on the televangelists of the day, and does a pretty good takedown. His voice does a great job of slipping the knife in, but the lyrics on the page are pretty straight forward. His website features an endorsement of the song from the Reverend Ernest Angley, who was clearly the target of the song. Quite a coup, I have to say.

I always loved the artwork. It turns out that Briley, a graduate of Art School, was pretty active in that process and the cover was nominated for a Grammy. I didn’t even know they gave out Grammys for cover art.

Overall, the record’s worth an occasional listen, but I don’t think it’ll hold up to heavy rotation again.

A note about the workout: I travelled over the weekend, and hadn’t done my regular routine in six days. Holy crap it kicked my butt this morning. I guess I better stay on schedule.

Brand X–Is There Anything About?

As a way to rediscover my vinyl collection, I’m playing an old record each time I work out. The idea is to listen to stuff I haven’t heard in decades, and to get out of my listening rut. So, the rules are:

1. I go alphabetically by artist, then chronologically within the artist.
2. I skip anything I own digitally. (This keeps me away from stuff I listen to already)
3. I skip stuff that is accepted canon.( I can’t think of anything else to say about the White Album)
4. I reserve the right to skip the second third, fourth, etc. album from an artist I’ve already covered. (After hearing Asia’s first album, Asia’s Alpha has nothing more to offer. I still may go back and listen to Jeff Beck’s Blow by Blow, but I get to pass on Wired.)

This morning, I listened to Is There Anything About? by Brand X.

Fusion is supposed to be laid back and relaxing, but I was in a constant state of anxiety, because I kept expecting tech support take me off hold and pick up.

Brand X was a british fusion jazz band featuring many musicians who never gave up their day jobs for this gig, most famously Phil Collins from Genesis, Percy Jones from Soft Machine, and John Goodsall from Atomic Rooster.

Fusion. How I hate fusion. I find most british prog rock pretty tedious these days as well. Imagine my much joy listening to  fusion from a bunch of british progressive rock stars, most of them from bands I didn’t know or like.

I’m pretty sure I bought this record at a cut out bin because Raphael Ravenscroft was on it. I once had him sign my jean jacket, too. He was a great studio sax guy, who most famously played the solo on Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street, but also played on Pink Floyd’s Final Cut. I have his solo record, which features an instrumental version of “Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll”. You’ll have to wait until the “R’s” to hear more about that one. Once upon a time, I actually tracked studio sax players, and could recognize them in recordings. I wish I could reclaim those brain cells for useful purposes now.

A fusion jazz album by a bunch of guys who weren’t particularly serious about the recording. At least the liner notes make it clear that they weren’t taking things too seriously. I’d reproduce some of the clever banter, but like the record, it’s really not very clever. (Okay, just one credit: “Bricks Hypnotised by Peter Griffiths”. And yes, of course they used the British spelling of hypnotized.)

The only thing redeeming about this record is that it clocks in at a scant 32 minutes, although it certainly feels longer. The only memorable cut, Modern, Noisy and Effective, is only effective because it steals (Pardon me, I mean ”nicks”, the quaint british term for stealing that is used elsewhere in the clever liner notes) its central riff from Steve Miller’s Swingtown. Why stop there boys? Why not nick something good, like Fly Like an Eagle?

Boston

As a way to rediscover my vinyl collection, I’m playing an old record each time I work out. The idea is to listen to stuff I haven’t heard in decades, and to get out of my listening rut. So, the rules are:

1. I go alphabetically by artist, then chronologically within the artist.
2. I skip anything I own digitally. (This keeps me away from stuff I listen to already)
3. I skip stuff that is accepted canon.( I can’t think of anything else to say about the White Album)
4. I reserve the right to skip the second third, fourth, etc. album from an artist I’ve already covered. (After hearing Asia’s first album, Asia’s Alpha has nothing more to offer. I still may go back and listen to Jeff Beck’s Blow by Blow, but I get to pass on Wired.)

This morning, I listened to Boston.

Okay, so this LP spent 132 weeks on the bestseller chart, so it’s pretty much a canon. It’s probably a DaveFM staple, but I haven’t heard this whole album since high school, so this is my chance to hear with fresh ears, and frankly, I’ve been looking forward to it.

Boston was the finale of something: a movement, an attitude, a sound. This album dropped in August of 1976; the following January, Starland Vocal Band would score a Grammy for Afternoon Delight, a song that band worried was too risque for airplay. Within months, the Sex Pistols Never Mind the Bollocks and the Talking Heads 77 would hit the bins, and the studio perfection of Boston and the safety of SVB would start sounding dated very quickly. That 12-month period was the point where rock and roll was restarted in a way that we won’t see again: the listening world has fractured too much for that, much like the cheesy comic book artwork on this cover.(I always expect to see Galactus on the back cover. The cover artist, Roger Huyssen, has kept busy since then. Take a look at his portfolio.)

So, what does it sound like after all these years? Pretty good, actually. Certainly dated, but the combination of Brad Delp’s vocals and Tom Scholz’s guitar are a real triumph. Scholz, am MIT engineer, worked at Xerox when he made created most of this album in his basement and  created the guitar effects box that would define his sound.

(Aside: In the 80′s, when I thought I could learn guitar, I use to lust after a “Rockman”, which was a tiny guitar amp with all those Boston effects built in. You plugged your guitar and headphones in, and shredded away. It was kind of like Guitar Hero for people who could form actual chords. Scholz had engineered it, and still makes a good amount of money off of that and rack effects for real guitar folks.)

But back to the record. The second side is over-slick, bar band stuff–standard fare that would have been pretty much ignored if not for the extraordinary first side. I’m pretty sure “Rock & Roll Band” was the inspiration for Frank Zappa’s Joe’s Garage, but not in a good way.

The album opens with More than A Feeling, which has a great sense of ebb and flow. Delp’s voice soars, and is often met at the highest ranges by Scholz, who continues with  some really fine guitar work. I can’t really think of a better matching of vocalist and guitar player. Page/Plant always seemed to counter each other, whereas these guys sound like the same instrument quite often. According to the official website, the rest of the band was more or less pick-up guys, but they do a yeoman’s job.

Peace of Mind, otherwise known as the song between More Than a Feeling and Long Time answers the question “What kind of lyrics would an MIT engineer write?” But the arrangement and sound is so tight and compulsive, it’s hard to not like it, despite yourself.

The defining song on the album, really of the band’s career, is Foreplay/Long Time. This one answers the question, “What would you get if Prog Rock got a little soul?” From the opening spacy guitar intro, to the handclappy rhythm section in chorus, it’s quite a dynamic track. And Scholz’s organ work give the whole thing a bit of Memphis that seems key to me now, although I’m sure I never really listened for it before. But at 7:28, it really is one of the tightest, most dense pieces of rock I can think of that actually works. This track is just waiting for Quentin Tarantino to make it hip again. Opening credits: A closeup of Uma Thurman’s feet (again) while “Foreplay” goes full blast.

Brad Delp, reportedly one of the nicest guys to grab a microphone, died three years ago on March 10. He was no David Byrne, but the guy could sing.

One of the ironies of this band is that their second album was titled Don’t Look Back. Like having the slogan “moving forward” when your cars won’t stop, Don’t Look Back showed a band that was already trapped in the past. The band website says that Scholz is slaving away at the next album, no doubt in a much nicer studio than that basement he put this one together in. Perhaps he should take a minute and a half to listen to this.

Gate River Run

Just Back from Jacksonville, where I came in 3213th in the Gate River Run 15k! Woo Hoo! I’m number 3213! I’m number 3213!
By far the best part of the race was that my parents took part in the concurrent 5k race. My dad’s had some pretty serious health issues over the last few years, so the chance for all of us to crank through a few k’s was absolutely worth heading to Jacksonville for.
This is a great race–flat for about 80% of the course. You’ve got to climb up a big bridge between 7.5 and 8 miles, but after that, it’s all down hill to the finish line.
My dad finished the 5k in about 52 minutes, but started at the back of the pack, so it probably took him about 49 minutes or so to actually do the 5k. He’s doing great. My mom fast walked about 42 minutes even though it took her about 3 minutes to get to the starting line, which is a kick butt number too.

For Shame of Doing Wrong–Richard Thompson

I am driving down to Jacksonville today to run the Gate 15K River Race tomorrow, so no work out record.
But here’s a Youtube clip of Richard Thompson from 1985. You can stack Thompson up against any of your guitar gods–Hendrix, Vaughn, Page, Clapton: any of those guys– and Thompson very well may come out on top. To top it off, he’s a far better songwriter than the whole lot. And finally, if you’ve seen him live, you’d know he’d have had a career as a stand up comedian if he weren’t so fierce a musician.

Boomtown Rats–Fine Art of Surfacing

As a way to rediscover my vinyl collection, I’m playing an old record each time I work out. The idea is to listen to stuff I haven’t heard in decades, and to get out of my listening rut. So, the rules are:

1. I go alphabetically by artist, then chronologically within the artist.
2. I skip anything I own digitally. (This keeps me away from stuff I listen to already)
3. I skip stuff that is accepted canon.( I can’t think of anything else to say about the White Album)
4. I reserve the right to skip the second third, fourth, etc. album from an artist I’ve already covered. (After hearing Asia’s first album, Asia’s Alpha has nothing more to offer. I still may go back and listen to Jeff Beck’s Blow by Blow, but I get to pass on Wired.)

This morning, The Boomtown Rat’s The Fine Art of Surfacing

Before Bob Geldof was doing everything he can to save the world, he fronted the Boomtown Rats, then referred to as a punk band. Listening to this, their most successful US release, I’m reminded how everything that everything that didn’t sound like the Eagles got tossed into the bin.

Geldof was a hyperliterate songwriter, a more thoughful, less prolific Elvis Costello. “I don’t like Mondays” is, of course, part of the FM radio canon these days and it does stand out on the LP. But given that it was recorded and released on the previous UK album, that doesn’t surprise. Thirty years later, it still has its edge, even if it’s become something of the “American Pie” of the Goth movement.

The rest of the record, produced by Mutt Lange has those “first listening Bob Geldof blues.” To a Pink Floyd fan, it’s hard to not picture him commanding Rock and Roll SS squads and slicing his nipples off (He starred in the film version of “The Wall”, an experience which he claims to be one of the most miserable experiences in his life). His quirky, nasal voice can be off-putting, but after a spin or two he starts sounding pretty natural, though distinctive. Quirky and upbeat, Surfacing sounds very much like a record of its time, but  stands up well to the 21st century ear. Its hard to sit still for record, and I can’t help but imagine they were a great live band. There’s a vitality and urgency to the playing that makes you want to move.

But all of that masks Geldof’s writing, which is really quite brilliant. Diamond Smiles, Keep it Up or Sleep(Fingers’ Lullaby) are like Tom Waits’ Blue Valentine set in Dublin. His character sketches make me wish he’d take some time to pen a novel or two. And Someone’s Looking At You and Having My Picture Taken are spookily politically prescient.  Lyrically, the album is as dark as can be, rampant with suicides, random killings, overdoses and casual encounters with hookers in dark alleys. But the Rats had em all dancing to it, I’m sure.

This is another record that I’ve been hauling around for thirty years that I should have been playing. Next workout, I’m playing Mondo Bongo.