I’m sure there are plenty of Black country and western singers out there—there’s a lot more of everyone out there than we ever thought—but I can’t, offhand, name another one, which is kind of odd if you think about it. I’ve known about Charley Pride my whole life, he’s one of those household names, and I suppose was on the radio and TV when I was a kid—I’m sure I saw him on TV. He sold a ton of records. I looked up a brief bio on the internet, just wondering if that was his real name—it is—it’s a great name. He’s in his eighties now. I didn’t realize he was a baseball player. He’s got an interesting bio, for sure. This record, which I got somewhere, is one of his few straight up-gospel records. You pretty much know it’s gospel by the title, and the cover photo of CP standing in front of a classic, old, country church, wearing a sharp suit and tie. It’s framed in an odd way that makes him look like a “giant”—but I’m sure that’s not intentional. The back cover has small b&w images and song lists of twelve Charley Pride albums. He was pretty much always on the RCA label. This is one of those “dynaflex” records (from 1971) that is so flimsy, it almost feels like a “flexi disc”—but it plays just fine—I don’t see the need for the super heavy vinyl—though, of course, I have a low-budget stereo. I can listen to straight gospel anytime, and this record is fine, if not real inspiring to me. I wonder what is Charley Pride’s best record? I’ll have to pick up a few, or do some research. There’s at least one documentary about him, and I read there was going to be a biopic, starring “The Rock”—but I can’t find anything about that, so maybe it fell through.
Archive for November, 2020
There was a time (in the late 1980s, I guess) when the Gibson Bros were my very favorite band, and I suppose one moves on, but I’m still quite fond of them. I have a number of their records on vinyl, CD, and cassette. This 1990 release might be their most bizarre record, and funniest. It’s all over the place, from an intro by a radio DJ that sounds kind of manufactured, but might be real—as well as some other collage songs that seem to be constructed from roughly recorded bits, and found sound pieces. I’m not going to try to explain the Gibson Bros for people who aren’t familiar with them—it would be too daunting of a task, and I’d get it wrong and just confuse you. You’d be better off getting confused directly from the source—that is if you can find this record (there’s always the internet). It’s a great record, at any rate, and would be the perfect one to clear the room at parties—I’d be all about that if I was still going to, or throwing, parties. You put this on to find out what people are made of.
The two “Bros”—at this point—are Jeff Evans and Don Howland (who both have gone on since to similarly hard core, country blues roots music that is seriously informed by punk rock—apart from each other). They are pictured on the hilarious album cover, sitting with 40s of Colt 45 and Olde English 800, looking through the legs of a stripper, who is looming over them. It looks exactly like a low-budget imagining of a stripper bar scene, which it is—meant to illustrate the title song, which is nearly as funny as the cover. The two sides are subtitled “Homes” and “Abroad”—the latter being live recordings (though I think the first side also has live tracks, or who knows what). Anyway, taken as a whole, this album really captures the essence of the Gibson Bros—especially the more bizarre and inscrutable spectrum of their art. I can’t really pick out a favorite track on this record—I find it works best as a whole. Also, of note, Jon Spencer plays on the live side. Between the three of those guys, you’ve got a lot of bands and almost-band projects that approach the blues in a way that some purists find offensive or annoying—but I really appreciate, as I think their their take on the music is to get at the essence of it by finding the insanity at the heart of the best of what’s out there—with equal parts dumbness and intelligence, and never too far from humor.
This is a 1973 box-set of six records, a nice overview of jazz history, with a 50 page booklet. I mean, it would be sad if you were a jazz fan and it was the only record you had—I mean, if it was the only music available (most people have no records). I bought this at a library book sale for nothing—not a library copy, but one donated to the library, virtually unplayed. It’s fun to listen to from end to end—a few of the artists I know very little about—and it also has a few of my favorite recordings. The most exiting thing for me about finding it, though, is my personal history with this collection.
In 1981, I moved into my first apartment, in Sandusky, Ohio, an old place across from the public library. I had no TV, maybe a radio, and an old record player. I made a point of not moving my record collection with me, for some reason—I guess I had the idea of reinventing myself (at the age of 21!)—or maybe I wanted to proceed with a fictional, experimental persona—which I guess is pretty much the same thing. I didn’t want my my record collection (which I stored at my parents’ house) to dictate my identity. When I turned 21, I began work in a full-time job, and every paycheck I bought a different kind of liquor. I cooked, and drank, and started work on a novel, while only listening to music from the public library—trying out a lot of stuff I had no idea about.
I checked out this jazz box-set and played it over and over, trying to remember who was who. Most of the artists I was hearing for the first time. Most notable of impact on me were the Thelonious Monk tracks. I may have heard a bit of his music before, but never made note of it, but he’s prominent here, with six tracks, the first being “Misterioso”—which was one of those musical experiences—you might only have a dozen in your lifetime this big—where everything changes. I’d never heard anything like that. I would never be the same. Nothing would ever top that, for me… except, three songs later… his version of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” with his quintet—and then I believe my head melted. What was that? What was that I just heard? Were you even allowed to do that? If Thelonious Monk was allowed to play that song that way (I mean, it’s the Smithsonian!), then what wasn’t possible? I haven’t been the same sense, and for that I’m grateful.
Steely Dan “Katy Lied”
This is the fourth Steely Dan LP, from 1975, and it may have been the first one I bought, as a 15-year-old music fan. I’m not sure though—I think I might have bought the first four all roughly around that time. I don’t remember what I made of it—I liked it—some songs more than others. I hear it somewhat differently now, of course. I have a page on my website (rspeen.com) where I write exclusively about individual Steely Dan songs—one at a time (selected at random, similar to here). At some point I realized that the only way to really appreciate SD music is to listen really closely, and also to attempt to analyze the lyrics. Otherwise, you’re only halfway there. For example, you might appreciate “Rose Darling” as a terrific pop song about a fictional woman named Rose, rather than a twisted coming of age masturbation saga in the form of a terrific pop song.
There are ten songs on this record, all of them really good. My all-time favorite was, and still is, “Doctor Wu”—which is one of my favorite Steely Dan songs—I’ve only listened to it thousands of times, yet it still puts goosebumps on my spine. It rivals the ten best movies of any given year—though in a four minute song, no CGI, no images at all, except in your mind. The song that I didn’t appreciate at all 45 years ago, but now has become one of my favorite SD songs is “Any World (That I’m Welcome To)”—kind of an epic in four minutes—it would be one of the 10 best TV shows in any given year. The music and the lyrics align in such a vision of affirmation that you can’t help but wonder just where lie the mines in that field of Hallmark emotional health—but since it’s a Steely Dan song, you know something lies beneath—though in this case, possibly dormant for a half century, or more.
The album cover is a blown-up photo of a grasshopper that’s pretty much almost all out of focus and quite striking and beautiful—it’s all but abstract. The back cover is an odd set of photos—by now, they’re pretty much strictly a studio band, I guess—they could have easily just included Becker and Fagen (or no one)—or maybe a couple dozen artists integral to the making of this record. Included: the great drummer Jeff Porcaro, looking like a 12-year-old (as do Becker and Fagen). Also, there’s “Mike” McDonald, snapped in the very process of—I read somewhere—inventing “Yacht Rock”—and the proof is “Bad Sneakers”—whether or not any of these guys could sail. As a teenager, oddly, the thing that made the biggest impression on me was the entire, pretty lengthy, recording tech paragraph at the bottom of the credits. I didn’t yet know how some adults could be totally serious and total goofballs at the same time, so I found this deliciously confusing. I particularly liked the line: “some very expensive German microphones.” Who says something like that? I was, at the time, working on my second or third “album” myself, on cassette—with $1.98 of gear. And that didn’t stop me—when I designed the “album cover”—from constructing my own inscrutable myths.
DJ Farraginous 
Recent Comments