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17
Aug
19

The Addrisi Brothers “We’ve Got To Get It On Again”

This Addrisi Brothers LP interested me because I had no idea who were The Addrisi Brothers—interesting because I should have known immediately, because I’m literally obsessed with the song “Never My Love”—which they wrote, though The Association had the big hit with it. I must have looked up who wrote this song, within the last couple of years, at least, but the Addrisi name didn’t stick. It will now. Do you know that “Never My Love” (by some BMI reckoning) is the second most played song on American radio and television of the Twentieth Century? That’s particularly interesting to me because I actually love the song, and I’ve looked up and listened to countless cover versions of it. I’ll save you, if you’re reading this, from looking up what’s number one, because you’ve got to know—it’s not surprisingly a Barry Mann/Cynthia Weil composition, “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’”—of course Phil Spector shoehorned his way in there as co-writer as well (perhaps at gunpoint?). How is Phil Spector doing, anyway?—at least according to Wikipedia? Oh, he’s eligible for parole in about six years, and you can bet if he gets out (one would hope not playing with guns would be a condition of parole) that hungry young bands will still line up to work with that nut job. I guess, in one sense, I can’t blame anyone for wanting something to rub off from the co-writer of the greatest song in rock’n’roll history (“Be My Baby”), but also, sadly, we’re now in an era where history is forgotten as fast as it happens—well, maybe faster—maybe we’ve crossed the event horizon of memory.

I’m fascinated with siblings (my novel, The Doughnuts (20??) has not one but three sets of brothers) and unlike many popular acts called “Brothers” or “Family” they are actually brothers—they are Don and Dick Addrisi, born around the same time as my mom—and at press time Dick is still with us, though Don sadly died very young, in 1984. The internet claims that as youngsters they were part of the family’s acrobatic group, The Flying Addrisis—and while that’s exactly the kind of bio I would write for myself in an inspired moment (and still may)—who knows, it might be true. The closeup photo of the two on the front and the wide shot on back are obviously from the same session, outside, in front of searing blue sky. If you stop and look at the back cover photo, you’ve got to wonder where in the hell are they? It looks like it could be a desert anywhere in the world, or a seashore (but who takes a photo with their back to the water?) or maybe a vast, recently bulldozed and graded lot waiting for the construction of a new mall. I’m not sure which one is Don and which is Dick—they are roughly the same height and build—one has hands awkwardly folded, while the other is doing that hands partially thrust into tight pockets thing where one finger is either inadvertently or intentionally pointing to his Johnson. In the closeup, the family resemblance is unmistakable, yet they look totally different—which is something fascinating about siblings. They are both handsome, and it could be an interesting party question—which one would you make out with? They are both wearing brown leather jackets, though one is shiny and one is suede. And most significantly, they are both wearing these GREAT matching yellow turtlenecks that look pretty similar to the one Frank Sinatra wears in Tony Rome (1967).

I admit, on first listening, this record did nothing for me, at least until the last song, “Never My Love,” and my realization that I’m in the presence of greatness. That made me want to listen to the whole thing over again, with that perspective. I realize how unfair that is—it’s reminds me the scene in Christmas in July (1940) where, because they think he’s won the slogan contest, some top ranking executives listen to Jimmy’s ad ideas, but as soon as they realize it was a mistake, they dismiss him as a schmoe. This is an old story, and it’s obviously unjust, but it’s the way the world works. To their credit, they don’t put a spoken word intro on “Never My Love” or anything—they do throw a lot of weight into it, with strings and horns, and there’s lot going on with those voices, but they don’t go totally Wisconsin cheeseball, and they keep it reverent and bring it in at a modest 3:26. The first song on the LP (never judge an album by its first song!) however, is a bit of a bummer, as hopeful as the lyrics are—it’s about as convincing as a salad bar. Fortunately, every other song are what the brothers and pretty much every other popular songwriter in the popular era do best—love songs.

There’s a good reason that we attribute love to an internal organ most of us won’t ever have to see firsthand, but stylize with an easily rendered symbol. I don’t know what that reason is, but I’m convinced that if we replaced the heart with say, three wavy lines, civilization would implode—or at least social media would. Most of these songs (including the golden egg) are addressed to the immortal “you”—though the title song addresses “Hey Girl”—it’s one of those about needing to rekindle the flames by any means necessary (though it stops short of any specific suggestions, like animal costumes). A couple songs refer to “She”—including “Twogether”—which is an inspired title, why didn’t I think of that? (Though, if it hasn’t already been attempted, I’m totally going to steal that and write a song called “Threegether.”) This is not an original or brilliant observation, but concrete language and painful specifics are often what makes a pop song pop. That’s why I’m always a little torn about songs that come just short of rhyming the Social Security Number (“Angie,” “Rosanna,” “867-5309”) because stalkers are out there. Also, rarely do they address men—can I think of any?—“Dan” (can’t even remember what song that is), “Lola” I guess. Randy, but only when Randy is a woman. Anyway, this song called “Windy Wakefield” cracked me up, because there’s obviously no one with that name—or is there? Maybe there’s a story there (I’ve never, ever met anyone named Windy, have you?)—but I’ll have to look into that later. For now, it also amused me that, you remember, The Association had a hit with “Windy” (I had a 45 of that one)—and that was in 1967. The word “stormy” is not in the lyrics of this one, but when your name is Windy, weather imagery is never far behind. But actually, this is quite a beautiful song, and—though I’m not going into details, listen to it!—quite weird.

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14
Aug
19

Sharon Van Etten “Tramp”

The black and white photo of presumably Sharon Van Etten on the cover of the LP is blown up so much you realize it’s almost abstract, maybe only makes sense with a little distance. Her head is about twice as big a normal person—in effect, you’d never see her this close up, even if you were making out with her. It’s a very beautiful photo, and album cover, but it really accentuates the quality of her eyes—it’s hard for me to describe—it’s more of a feeling, but for some reason I never feel like I can trust someone with eyes like that. My feelings like that are usually wrong, which becomes evident within one minute of meeting a person, and longer meetings further prove that, but since I’m not meeting SVE anytime soon, I’m just going to make the assumption that I’m wrong and chalk it up to the powerful—and often totally misleading—quality of photographs. There’s a lot of musicians and collaboration going on, but especially with a guy named Aaron Dessner (I’ll have to look him up), and there’s a picture of SVE and a guy (might be him?) on the inside cover, sitting on a bench, presumably outdoors, neither winter nor summer, pleasantly blurry and smiling, slightly disheveled, wearing every tasteful shade of blue known to man, their white hands looking like alien beings. In tiny white letters at the bottom it says, “for John Cale.” That could lead me to many, many more words, or I could just let it go.

The initial sound of these songs is, to me, entirely unfairly, off-putting, even though I like the sparse, subtle, and tasteful instrumentation. Maybe too tasteful. And sometimes blatantly eclectic, some with annoying arcane sounding instruments that only exist in Civil War museums and recording studios in Brooklyn. Sharon Van Etten’s voice has this liquid quality, both thick and thin, that just pours between the edges, and fills all cracks, sounding like it’s desperate to cauterize not only her wounds but those of everyone she comes in contact with. It’s a bit much, and I can’t say I’m enjoying it, but I know from experience that that’s a hasty, first-impression opinion, and I really need to listen to each song more closely, and listen to the lyrics, as well, before I make any judgment. So I’ll do that, and also, it seems at first glance that a lot of these might be love songs, and sad songs—and that’s something I’ve been kind of into lately. That’s a joke—for those people who know me.

The first song is a love song, a sad song, addressed to “you”—unless it’s a metaphor for a political situation, but I’ll leave it be. The next song, also addressed to “you,” has a tragic tone to it, along with this kind of devastating lyric that we can all relate to: “You’re the reason why I’ll movie to the city or why I’ll need to leave.” Another song addressed to “you,” called “Serpents,” even more fraught, and this time she hopes “he” changes. Don’t hold your breath, SVE. Next is “Kevin’s”—which is the only use of a possessive version of a name without an object as a song title I can think of. No mention of Kevin’s what?—in the song—or Kevin—unless he’s “you” (in which case maybe means that she belongs to Kevin—in which case I hate him). Anyway, it’s a beautiful sad song, with some nice “ooohhhs”—long, drawn out—that sound like “yous.” Next is one about “Leonard” who eventually becomes “you” by the end of the song. I may be wrong, but it sounds like this Leonard was a pretty okay guy, but she fucked it up this time. So it goes. Finally, “In Line” is quite a haunting song, and I don’t just say that because the word “ghosts” is in it. I have no idea what it’s about, but it’s not about domestic bliss and talking about your future while in line at the Court Street Trader Joe’s.

New paragraph, second side, this is vinyl. I didn’t mean to go on this long with this, but once I committed to it, I was kind of sunk. That’s commitment for you—when you don’t have it, you’re sunk, and you’re sunk when you do. The first song is killer, one that probably sold me on this record (as if I needed to be sold, or anyone cares). It starts out quiet and slow, and then just builds in volume and intensity, with the line “we all make mistakes” running through it like veins of gold through the darkness. “We Are Fine” is an interesting title to a song, especially where the sentiment is “I’m alright”—another pretty and harrowing one, which could be about hypochondria, or hypochondria as love metaphor, or the other way around. “Magic Chords” just confuses me—it sounds like a funeral march, with the repeated lines: “You got to lose sometime” and then “Nothing to lose.” That’s too general—I mean, we’re all going to die, but I need to focus on something else, occasionally. “Ask” makes my stomach hurt, and I mean that as a compliment, as in, SVE can land a punch. Addressed to “friend” and “man” and, it feels like, me, the line, “It hurts too much to laugh about it” hurts too much to laugh about it. “I’m Wrong” asks to “tell me I’m wrong.” I don’t think you’re wrong. With a line like, “tell me all the miles that you put on your car,” I’d have to say you’re probably right, as sad as that is. The last song is slow and haunting, and I guess I want it to leave me with a positive note, at this point, sucker that I am, soft in my old age, wanting things to work out between her and one of these “you’s.” I think: “I could do better, couldn’t I?” In the romance department. Men are little boys, with tantrums, and egos, that want everything, but are just destined, you know, to either be kicked under a shed, or else allowed to be a monster. Anyway, it ends on a grim note, but it feels like truth, at least, and the light dims.

02
Aug
19

Lionel Hampton “Silver Vibes”

For some reason, I never put this record on, most likely because the cover makes you think it’s not all that much. I mean, a photograph of what I assume is a vibraphone, closeup, from the top—and you know, it may as well be a boardwalk. Or some shit stacked in a warehouse. The vibraphone is one of the coolest looking instruments—but not from the top. I mean, it could be stairs, or a fence. If it was out of context, you’d have no idea what it was at all. Terrible cover. Come on Columbia records! You know how they say “you can’t judge a book by its cover?” That goes for everything, metaphorically or not, and certainly vinyl records. Do I, Mister Smart Guy, have a better suggestion? I certainly do: Lionel Hampton playing the vibes. Lionel Hampton with the musicians on this record. Lionel Hampton partying. Lionel Hampton getting tea. Lionel Hampton and Lionel Ritchie getting tea. Lionel Hampton playing with Lionel Trains. Lionel Hampton in The Hamptons. Lionel Hampton eating breakfast. Lionel Hampton sitting across the desk from some jackass at Columbia Records pleading to have a better album cover. In short, any photograph of Lionel Hampton at all would be better than this cover.

Of course, I am familiar with Lionel Hampton, and as soon as I put this on, I knew it was a mistake to not have worn this record out. Incidentally, me and this record, we’re like the same age. But if I was half this fresh, I’d be getting slapped so much I’d need a weekly dentist appointment. Can’t afford it. Anyway, the liner notes are good and almost make up for the cover. I’ll type a bit: Jangling nerves? Here’s music with a wonderful, silvery tone, varied by the darker colors of trombones. This is smooth, easy-going music, that swings, nevertheless. It goes on. I love the description of the trombones having a “dark color”—it makes total sense when you think about it, and it really does sound lovely on this record, the trombone heavy arrangements with vibes over the top. It’s cool, kind of earthy, and simultaneously breezy and melancholy. Some standards I know, some I don’t, but it doesn’t matter, this is just the perfect record for a Friday night (which it is) to unwind (which I’m doing) while mixing a cocktail from your well-stocked bachelor bar (not exactly doing that; having coffee), waiting for your date to arrive (waiting being the top-heavy part of that sentiment). After this, maybe I’ll put on one of those thrift-store, easy-listening, budget classics: Music for Waiting.

31
Jul
19

Neko Case “The Worse Things Get, The Harder I Fight, The Harder I Fight, The More I Love You”

That’s the kind of title, I admit, that I wish I had thought of, for anything, I suppose, but really, it’s best for a pop album, or maybe a novel. Could be a song or a short story, I guess. Maybe a song on this record? We’ll find out. It’s a sentiment easily understood on first hearing it, but when you think about it a little further you realize that “you” and “things” are inextricably linked. And who is “you?”—could it be, in this case me? I may be wrong about this, but I think I follow Neko Case on Twitter, and I might of replied to something she tweeted, and she may have replied to my reply. So in my mind, that means we’re like this far from dating. Oh, boy. Someone come up with a better term than “social media”—please! The only thing that saves me, in this case, is that I’m not sure. I maybe fabricated that whole exchange. She’s got a great singing voice—certainly one that inspires ones heart to stop, or whatever that metaphorical heart does when confronted with beauty and clarity. The songs are catchy, compelling, and I can understand the lyrics (no lyric sheet) even if I can’t understand what they’re about. I mean, maybe I could, if I really worked at it, but I’m short on time and wine and cool dry air. I will vow to come back to this record, by and by (make a note). I don’t know if I can afford to buy it, as it looks like it was quite a production—the extra thick cover has imagery that is both flat back and glossy black. Also, color, including someone I would naturally presume is Neko Case, with a cartoon sword and no pants. There is also a lot of art, and some temporary tattoos, and an extra record that has a few songs on one side and some etched art on the other! (It won’t play music, the art won’t, so don’t even try.) The first “bonus” song is one I recognize—it’s “Madonna of the Wasps” by Robyn Hitchcock—a good song, and this is a nice version. Overall the record is solid and pleasant and thought-provoking—but that doesn’t sound like love to me. It’s hard to put my finger or, I just feel like once removed from the entire enterprise, like I’m a ghost trying to hear with ghost ears. I need more, I guess, when it comes down to it… but I’ll keep trying.

20
Jul
19

Eagles “One of These Nights”

There are worse album covers, though right now I can’t think of one. I mean, it’s okay, like if you bought an 8×10 framed version of that image at Wall Drug for $2.99, to put in the sleeping cabin of your truck, or a rec-room back home, nothing could be more appropriate. Who would name their band “The Eagles” or “Eagles” anyway? I mean, if you’re like ten years old, and/or it’s your first band, that would be cool. My first band was called The Chinese Electrical Band, and we made what could have been some hit music, but we just couldn’t get past that name, mostly because half of the potential fans thought we were communists, and half thought we were racist, and half thought we were Chinese, and half thought we were goofballs. Do the math. The song, “One of These Nights,” when not in conjunction with some heinous commercial or movie (I don’t actually know if it is; I don’t want to know) actually sounds pretty good. The song, “Take It to the Limit,” however, I hate with a passion, and I’m never going to come around to that one, even though I think it was sung by Randy Meisner, and I like him if for no other reason than he’s named Randy, and I’m somewhat partial to that name. This is a fairly early version of the Eagles, from 1975, when Bernie Leadon, who I like, was in the band. But this was the last album for him, I guess. Then Joe Walsh joined, and I like him, too. I guess on paper, I should really like the Eagles. But this is vinyl, of course, not paper, and some of the sound this particular vinyl makes rubs me the wrong way. I kind of had a theory that I like their more country tinged stuff, and don’t like their more metal tinged stuff, but there are exceptions. So many exceptions, in fact, that I realize that was a dumb thing to even say. I’d just delete that whole thought, but I get paid by the word for writing this crap. Somewhere I seem to remember the Eagles are considered “soft rock”—but that can’t really be a thing, can it? Maybe it was back when they kept trying to categorize different types of rock music with different dumb names. I hope to God that trend is long over. Oh, then there is this “I Wish You Peace” song on the end of the record, which is really pretty nice, a lovely song. Way to put the best song last, Eagles, and make me feel like an asshole for my negative review. But anyway, it really is nice to go out on a positive note, so there you have it.

17
Jul
19

The Doobie Brothers “Minute by Minute”

This record came out certainly after I had stopped liking The Doobie Brothers—1978—by that time, it was punk rock for me, not these lame, saggy-ass hippies. The kind of classic b&w band photo cover with the six of them posing like a soccer team is nice. Which one would you make out with? If you said anyone but Michael McDonald, you’re just being contrary, because you know he’s the only one without skunk-weed breath. Though I am a “Skunk” Baxter guy from way back. There is an inner sleeve with a giant blowup photo of a roach—no, not a cockroach!—a nearly consumed marijuana cigarette—I’m guessing it’s blown up X10. Just in case you thought “Doobie” referred to a high school track coach, or a submarine sandwich, or someone’s pet, or dick—well, here it is, spelled out in plain English. Or maybe that’s not a roach at all (squinting), but an artist’s rendition of an alien craft, from the school that believes UFOs will not be all sleek, smooth, and symmetrical, but all fucked up. It actually looks like some alien vessel from Lost in Space, the original TV show, the early episodes from 1965, which were in black and white and sometimes truly frightening (and first introduced me to the idea that when we, Earthlings, are traveling out there, Space, then we are the aliens).

On the other side is a lyric sheet! I am so excited! Now I can finally find out what they are singing on “What A Fool Believes”—something that’s been driving me crazy now for forty years. It starts out, “He came from somewhere back in Malongo.” Where in the hell is “Malongo?” Well, it’s not Malongo, it’s: “in her long ago.” But what does that even mean? And then, “As she rises to the Apocalypse, or the Acropolis”—what’s that about? But no, it’s “her apology.” Actually, when I really listen, I can’t understand any of the lyrics. Is that the key to a number one song? I’m here to make that statement: the key to a hit song is to sing the lyrics so no one can understand them. Anyway, this is after Michael McDonald pretty much took over this band, at least on paper. Who knows, really. I’ll look forward to watching that 12 hour Doobie Brothers documentary, that’s got to be out there, or being made, on a double feature with a Yacht Rock documentary, which of course features Michael McDonald. I used to hate the guy; maybe I associated him with the lame side of the late Seventies, you know, that horrible beard and football jersey combo look. Or maybe I associated him with that most heinous of all hamburger chains. But now I pretty much love the guy, which I suppose says something about me, not him, or time, or the sewer flowing into the river, and the river flowing into the sea.

21
Jun
19

Paul Horn “Visions”

I should have known who Paul Horn was, or maybe I did, kind of, but forgot or wasn’t thinking about it when I picked up this record. I was drawn to it because it looks like someone made the album cover while either on acid or in a therapeutic situation while being detained—whether it be by the authorities, caregivers, or cultists. Apologies to cover designer Glen Dias. That sounds too harsh—and it really is quite stunning and beautiful, but also kind of fucked up. It’s really pretty bizarre, and not slick, and if it wasn’t for the prominent “Epic” logo in the corner, I might think this record was totally homemade. That’s a compliment. There are liner notes on the back, by producer Henry Lewy—neatly typed, not scrawled in blood or anything, but laid out in the shape of a butterfly (or a bat? Or a concretion?—anyway, I can’t read it). There’s a reason that writing—which is just an already rather difficult-to-translate code of communication—is laid out with the end of each line continuing on a justified left margin. These liner notes are telling me they want to be admired as a design, but not read. Or maybe it was just someone’s—over there at Epic—bad design idea.

Another record from 1974—I seem to be drawn to that year without even trying. I’m not sure what to make of this record, actually, some of it sounds just right on, with a mellow groove, and some fine playing, and of course some really nice flute by Paul Horn. I could imagine putting this on quite regularly. But then it will get to a part that sounds just kind of insipid to me. It’s interesting, this record is all cover songs—David Batteau, Joan Baez, two by Joni Mitchell, three by David Crosby, and three by Stevie Wonder—but it sounds like a real unified band sound—so you kind of recognize the songs, but the style is Paul Horn (or his band on this record—I don’t know enough Paul Horn to say if this is a deviation). I’ll have to pay more attention to see whose songs translate best to this style. But right now, I’m having trouble paying attention to anything. Still can’t sleep, headache every day. The headaches are getting worse. Can’t concentrate. Where was I? Oh, yeah, I started to imagine putting this record on with a dinner guest over. Maybe I’ve just cooked some, I don’t know, some quinoa, kale horseshit. Borrow a corkscrew from the front desk and open the best bottle of red $12 will buy. If I started drinking again, I think the last thing I would be able tolerate is red wine. Like, for some reason, I really associate red wine with depression. Anyway, one song comes on, and it’s prefect mood music—and yeah, I guess I’m talking about a date. Then the next song comes on and creeps me out! I guess one song will make me feel like a very suave guy, kind of liquid, mind and body as one. And then the next one will make me feel like I’m in a commercial for a 401(k) Plan. It’s totally schizo, this record. I’ve heard movie soundtracks this schizo—in fact most movie soundtracks are, which is why I rarely listen to movie soundtrack records. Maybe I won’t write about this record now. But then, I might put it on a year from now and have the same exact reaction—so maybe I should write about it, get it over with, as a kind of warning, or an antidote… for my future self.




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