Blues Explosion “Extra Width”

I preferred to alphabetize the band as “Blues Explosion” rather than wait for later in the alphabet (and be faced with alphabetizing dilemmas–Spencer, Jon Spencer, The Jon Spencer?)– but this is indeed The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, one of my all time favorite bands, I’ll admit right away. This isn’t my favorite of their records (and I haven’t even HEARD all their records) but it’s pretty solid. Also nice is that it’s a record–one of the newest in the current collection I’m writing about– though it’s from 1993– which now seems as long ago as The Fifties. The boys look pretty young in their individual Richard Kern glamour portraits– Jon Spencer’s, on the cover, which should have sold a record or two, is particularly striking with all the stuff in his hair and his Kuchar-esque eyebrows. Hell– I’D buy that guy a double bourbon!

There’s even some pointless liner notes on the back, for an old-fashioned touch– by Herb Hitts– a description of a live show that is so generalized and cliché-ridden it may as well say, “they rocked” with one fist in the air. Is it meant to be ironic? While I think it is — the once ironic fist in the air, and heavy metal fist in the air, and expression “rocked!” — once intended to be ironic, is no longer taken, or even intended that way– so what you have instead is a willful reduction of the IQ by half. But with this band there is no discussing irony or sincerity, they are so far beyond those considerations, you can’t figure it out and you shouldn’t try. Though, I can imagine if I was in a band with Jon Spencer I might at some point beg him to “please sing normal for once!” I might roll my eyes violently when he comes into rehearsal with a song called “Back Slider.” It might lead to a fight, someone walking out on the session, sulking on a bar stool, but would any of that be real or just another episode in a cheap paperback version of the life of a blues band that’s a rock band and a punk band?

I guess the question with this band will always be (as it is with every band): are they just an act– are they merely ABOUT what they seem to be, or are they the real thing? I have had the benefit of seeing a live show a few years back (maybe the last live show I’ve seen) where that question was answered; either they were the real thing, or else the real thing doesn’t really exist. Which might be the case. As time goes on and layers of history are peeled away, and you closely examine what you considered the important bands from your past, you find out they were ALL acts. The only thing that is real are the rare moments when no one was looking, the mistakes, and the tiny miracles that occasionally transcend the cement weighted egos and vanities.

But enough about me. This record is the kind of record, unfortunately rare, that I always prefer to listen to all the way through. I love some of it and hate some of it, but to isolate individual songs seems pointless. It all runs together the way a record album should. I’ve listened to it now hundreds of times, but I couldn’t tell you what a single song title is or what any of them are about. There’s a lot of grunting, groaning, screaming, unsettling noises, and then suddenly you find yourself in a groove that you wish you never had to leave. The guy’s singing “typecast” but he may as well be singing “hotpants” – guitars are destroyed, and the side is over.

To all of you in the CD generation, you will, I’m sure, not believe me when I tell you that you will never, ever be able to understand the singular, sublime pleasure of turning a record over and putting the needle on the second side. After some Elvis from hell bullshit, we again find ourselves in a groove that is over far too soon. Then some kind of an incomprehensible plodding noise out of which suddenly can be heard the phrase: “a Roy Rogers roast beef sandwich!” Probably the high point of my life. Then an instrumental funk groove that serves a similar function as when, in certain times and certain cultures, one would excuse oneself from the table to gracefully throw up. Followed by an unpleasant exorcism of a song– but it all works together, because then you get to the last song on the record, which is also the best, and it’s like you endured your dreadful vegetables, formalities, and pleasantries so that you can be rewarded with (your favorite dessert here). Bon appetit!

George Benson “Weekend in LA”

Ever since the suffering, bored days of high school, I’ve always considered George Benson’s 1976 milestone, “Breezin’” as shorthand for “insipid.” So it was with great trepidation that I put on this double, LIVE, LP from two years later, the dreaded cultural abyss of 1978. But to my surprise, I’m rather enjoying this low key, smooth jazz experience—really, I’m not kidding. I’ve graced my turntable and neighbors with this LP more than a few times lately. Perhaps I have mellowed like a fine wine. I’m not exactly coming home from school, putting on the Sex Pistols, and pounding a quart of hard cider like I was doing in the days this was pressed. No, these days Ray Speen has used his crack pipe to prop up the wobbly leg of his game table where he’s slowly working on an enormous jigsaw puzzle of the Taj Mahal. That image in the reflecting pool—as still and perfect as it is—just drives you crazy! But that’s another subject.

At first I thought this was a single record, as the second disk is gone. Then I noticed that I was in possession of Record 1 Side I, backed with Record 1 Side IV. That’s Roman numeral “4″ for all you intravenous drug abusers who can’t get their minds off the dope. Try a jigsaw puzzle, really. The best song is on side “IV”—the awesome Leon Russell’s “Lady Blue.” Other standouts are “Weekend in LA”, which could be synonymous with “mellow,” and “On Broadway” which could maybe be the theme song for everything in the 1970s I’d like to forget. But in a good way. You can barely tell this is a live record, the audience is so subdued; they sound like they’re all sitting in comfortable seats next to blonde ladies, sipping gin sours.

The cover is as equally classic, with “George Benson” “signed” in red neon, and George assuming the (strictly reserved for superstars) Jesus on the cross pose, that is if Jesus had been gripping a hollowbody, George Benson signature Ibanez in one hand, which, who knows, maybe he was. There are a couple more good pictures of GB, and really, he’s got one of the best moustaches of all time. This could very well be my moustache model for my new look. I’m already, as it is well known, fond of those open collars big enough to double as a jib, Genoa, or even a mainsail. Not something you’d want to wear on the high seas, but fine for tropical, LA nights.

Jeff Beck Group “Rough and Ready”

Did Helen Reddy ever put out an album with the title “Rough and Ready”? Or “Rough and Reddy”? I’d pay good money for that one! About 49 cents (and then only if it had a picture of a clown on the cover– for which I have a particular weakness).

This is the third Jeff Beck Group record, from 1971, and it sounds worlds away from the first record– which partly has to do with it being a completely different band. The only surviving member is… you guessed it. The sound is somehow really contemporary, like this could have come out in 2008– and at the same time sounds like it was dated even in 1971. The singer makes you REALLY MISS Rod Stewart, who, I understand, was in the hospital at the time this record was recorded, having his stomach pumped as the result of having spent too much time with excessive noodlers. Jeff Beck’s guitar playing has also evolved. Where he used to play 10 notes where one would do, he now gets by with 47. I have to admit that my copy here is in really bad shape, but I can tell that these cats are working overtime to remove the soulfulness from R&B.

The cover is remarkable, with five black and white photographs that reveal every bump, pore, and blemish on the faces of these guys, who could easily have been known as Jeff Beck and his band of lycanthropes. It is refreshing to see that they didn’t let airbrushes, makeup, or even shaving cream or razors anywhere near the photo session. The funniest thing is that while you’re listening to this virtual sex on vinyl, and your album cover is leaning up against the stereo or beanbag chair, these five guys are staring at you rather creepily. So you turn the cover around, and viola!– on the back cover: the SAME FIVE PHOTOGRAPHS! Either someone was really lazy or had a really warped sense of humor.

Jeff Beck “Truth”

This is the first Jeff Beck Group album, put out in 1968, and it starts off really well with a very weird version of the familiar Yardbirds song, “Shapes of Things.” It sounds like the tape is being sped up and slowed down–it’s really kind of playful and heavy at the same time. Jeff Beck’s liner notes say, about the song, “appropriate background music if you have the Vicar over for tea.” The next song, “Let Me Love You”– I will argue without even listening to anything else recorded by Jeff Beck in 40 years– is the best thing ever recorded by Jeff Beck. It’s got a nice bass part– maybe that’s why I like it– played by, apparently, Ron Wood—that sounds like a sleazy guy with a tiny moustache crawling through the slime and smoke of all the late night taverns of hell. But there are already warning signs of wanky guitar ahead. The singer sounds suspiciously like Rod Stewart– oh, it is! Four songs through side one, and it’s a great party record– I’ve already ripped the tabs off of three Stroh’s. And then… “Ol’ Man River”?

I guess this is back when rock stars thought they were gods, and they were, essentially. (They still THINK they’re gods.) They could do no wrong. So if they want to do a pretentious, uncompelling version of “Ol’ Man River” on their record, we just have to say it’s cool. But it just killed the party, that’s for sure. Turn the record over and it gets WORSE. A ridiculous acoustic version of “Greensleeves” starts off side two, and even though it’s only 1:47, the girls have left the party, went off with the dangerous Led Zeppelin guys. No one left but us blues aficionados and guitar technicians, so there’s nothing left to do but practice and practice, make that guitar sing. It sounds like a snake charmer, a cello, a violin… but then heavy metal strikes back momentarily. But the girls are still gone, and now there’s an EIGHT minute blues song with a fake “live” treatment that flashes forward 40 years to these guys playing dinner theater, bald, huge stomachs, and still, tragically, either puffy sleeves or no sleeves.

I’m being too hard on this record, maybe– there’s a really weird piano solo on this long blues number, played by Nicky Hopkins. But the guitar– I’m sorry we have the benefit and misfortune of 40 years of bad, excessive, uninspired, derivative guitar solos since this record was recorded. Maybe back then this sounded amazing– but I just don’t think so. The last song just embarrassed me for even owning a guitar and makes me want to cut my hair and do volunteer work or something.

The Beatles “Magical Mystery Tour”

This record sounded fresher to me than the other two, just now, maybe because I’ve always avoided this one. There’s this fantastic song called “Penny Lane” that I’ve never heard before. I’m kidding. I think what I like about this record is my lasting admiration for a few of the songs. Maybe two. When I was a single digit kid, I had the single of “Hello, Goodbye” which I thought was the perfect dumb pop single–it’s almost frightening–and I still think so, pretty much. But then on the other side of that record was “I Am the Walrus” which completely intrigued me, and maybe was frightening in a different way. I admit, I still haven’t gotten over that “yellow matter custard” business. I imagine there are entire support groups for people who were traumatized by that phrase. It should surprise no one that there is a band called Yellow Matter Custard. But really, right now, I wish I didn’t know that. Sometimes the internet makes the world seem really, really small. But of course, that’s all an illusion. Because with all that information at your fingertips, it’s still impossible to know another person, really. It’s pretty much impossible to know yourself. The internet is just a hall of mirrors. I’m really hating the world, and myself, a little bit right about now. I mean, how many hours did I spend on this glorious morning looking at designer pot and glass pipes on slowly loading, clumsy web pages? The answer is: TOO MANY.

The Beatles “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”

I think that’s the first time I actually TYPED “Sgt. Pepper’s…” etc, and it feels kind of weird to think about Dr. Pepper, and Chihuahuas named pepper, and lonely hearts, etc. There could be a public digital counter like the national debt clock that ticks off faster than the eye can see for every time this record is played. I’m sure more people have listened to it than have been served at McDonald’s. I feel a little bit in danger, actually, putting this on the turntable, as if this time might be the crucial spin that reaches some kind of cosmic saturation point and creates a rupture in the universe or something. But I’m trying to be objective. Because you know, as impossible as it is, that is what we strive for here at the “Farraginous Zone.”

I would be happy to never hear again: “A Little Help From My Friends.” “Getting Better.” “Fixing A Hole.” “She’s Leaving Home.” “For the Benefit of Mr. Kite.” Also: The SITAR, in any form. “Lovely Rita” sounds good only because it follows the interminable “Within You Without You.” What was I doing in 1967? Not acid, that’s for sure. I think listening to Motown on my transistor radio. I heard, from my cousin, that The Beatles said they were bigger than Jesus, or something, and I was kind of freaked out. The Partridge Family was bigger than Jesus, for me, and Tommy Roe, as well. Because I was in love. The Beatles didn’t do much for me until years and years later. When I heard that “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” meant LSD, I thought that was one of the coolest things I’d ever heard.

I still kind of like “A Day In The Life” at least. I mean, how can you argue with a line like: “four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire?” If anyone knows what that means, I’ll thank them to please NOT tell me and ruin the spell. But I think I still have feelings about that song mostly because when I had laughing gas for the first time, my dentist, Dr. Verringer, happened to be playing that song. It was no accident; he loved The Beatles, that’s all he played in the office. I think he got some kind of thrill out of the fact that a guy was getting high in his chair while that song was playing. I can’t complain.

The Beatles “Revolver”

When the question “Beatles or Rolling Stones” comes up, I say Rolling Stones without thinking, and I do admit to being an Anglophobe, though I happen to be smoking Samuel Gawith’s “Squadron Leader” RIGHT NOW. There is no way The Beatles could be anything but overrated, seeing how popular and critical opinion pretty much put them on top of every list of ALL MUSIC ever composed, played by human beings ever in recorded history. But still, I’m trying to be objective, listening to The Beatles with fresh, unbiased ears, hearing for the first time some songs that are among the most overplayed songs ever, ever, ever.

It’s impossible, of course. It’s impossible of course. I don’t even know why I’m trying. Without a doubt, “the white album” is my favorite Beatles record, and I’ll take it over everything else they recorded put together. I can still listen to it all the way through and get back that feeling I had when I first discovered it. I guess there is a nostalgia factor there, I’ll admit. There were drugs involved. But anyway, there is no white album in this collection. There is “Revolver,” which is a lot of people’s favorite, I am well aware. I can’t say I even come close to LIKING this record, though “She Said She Said” always sounds fresh to me when listening to it, though it quickly becomes stale in my mind. Pretty much all the rest of the songs sound stale even on my vintage 1970s equipment.

Bangles “Different Light”

It has been said (by me) that The Eighties are an entire decade that could be completely eradicated with almost no loss to the English speaking culture and we should only be so lucky. This Bangles record from 1986 doesn’t exactly make me change my mind about that, but I have been enjoying it to a surprising (to me) degree, as uneven as it is. Even more shocking is the cover and back cover, comprised of approximately 32 headshot photos of the band members, and any one of them taken by itself screams NINETEEN EIGHTIES! Taken all together, this hair parade is an awe-inspiring spectacle and expression of a collective, aesthetic insanity. But enough about the hair already!

This album has the distinction of containing one of the worst and unlistenable songs of all time, “Walk Like an Egyptian,” which happens to be written by Liam Sternberg, who wrote some pretty good songs for Rachel Sweet, so it’s hard to say how he came up with such a perfect song for selling cheap, shitty products to stupid people. I suppose the band should take equal blame, but then they are perfectly capable of performing a really good song like “September Gurls”—by Alex Chilton—nearly as compellingly as Alex Chilton. “Manic Monday” is the next worst song on this record, which is also surprising as it is written by a pretty excellent songwriter, The Artist Formerly Known as “Christopher.” The rest of the album is pretty okay to listen to, and the best songs are the ones by the members of the band. But those weren’t the hits, and what else is new?

Joan Baez

This is Joan Baez’s first record, on Vanguard, from 1960, and it’s serious and pure, and old-seeming; it has the feeling of a record that came out in some year more like 1860 than 1960. I mean it’s hard to argue with this record, for what it is, but I feel no more compelled to put it on again than I do to dutifully eat my vegetables. I think my problem with the performance here is that it seems like it is playing way too fast; to me it sounds like an LP played at 45rpm. I really wish I had one of those old record players that actually had “16″ speed, roughly half the speed of a 33 and 1/3! Did anyone ever actually have a 16rpm record? Someone must have. Or maybe that speed was just put on turntables for reasons such as this: so the listener could shape the music to their needs. Though really, I don’t want her voice lower. I like her voice. I just want it slower. Okay, this is pointless. Forget I even said anything.

Amalia Rodrigues “Amalia canta Portugal III”

Apparently Amalia Rodrigues is one of the most popular Portuguese Fado singers of all time, but I really know nothing about Fado, or where this record stands among all of her records. This one is dated 1972. It is very upbeat and fairly intense, vocally– she’s singing a LOT of words, and I can’t understand a single one. She may be singing: “Ray Speen is a stupid jerk/ why does anyone let him write about things he knows nothing about?/ he should be cleaning toilets/ cleaning toilets and mowing the lawn.”

I can’t say I’m crazy about this record, considering the negative Speen sentiments. But I do like to imagine it as a soundtrack record for my dream movie of all time: Warren Oates as Bernardo Soares in the film version of “The Book of Disquiet.”