Iron Oxide “Bass Response EP”

Iron Oxide is a “Noise” band from Cleveland, Ohio—Jeff Curtis and K Stewart—I’ve known both of them for some time and I played in several bands with JC. I believe they refer to themselves as a noise band, but I’m not sure—still, that would be my assessment—though, at one time, similar music might have been called “industrial” or “no wave” or “experimental” or even “punk.” What’s in a label? I don’t know if they’re still performing as Iron Oxide, but I did have the pleasure of seeing a live show featuring them back in 2013, at a bowling alley, memorable for me because of the inspiring performance—at one point Stewart “played” a taco.

This is a 2005 release—it’s an “EP,” due to having two songs a side, I suppose—though it’s 45 RPM. I suppose you could try playing it at 33 RPM—though it’s not recommended. It’s got an attractive red and black cover with some stylized “modern” art which would have been comfortable in the Sixties. There are humorous liner notes, written in an odd way that makes you feel a bit off-balance—my take is that the style mimics English as a second language—and is somewhat a parody of the “audiophile” records from… I guess, the Fifties and Sixties, which exploited the new (at least for the squares in the suburbs) fetishization of hi-fidelity sound equipment. The label is “Coffee-Hut Records” (named after Youngstown, Ohio’s legendary Coffee Hut), and the vinyl, which initially appears black, when you hold it up to the light reveals that it is actually coffee colored! It’s the best vinyl color I’ve ever seen—and may be the only coffee-colored vinyl in existence (though probably not—it’s a big world).

There are four songs. Starting with Side A: “Anglegrinder”—a word which describes it well—just in the title. An instrumental. I don’t think I have the authority to elaborate. Next is a cover, “Not Moving”—which is a DNA song, written by Robin Crutchfield. There is singing in this one, lyrics I can’t make out, except for the chorus: “Not moving, not moving, etc.” This also features the Farfisa organ, and some complex noises, the origin of which I can barely guess. Oddly, I recognize this song! From the DNA tracks on the “No New York” record, a concise document of some 1970s downtown New York “No Wave” bands. I’ve told this story before, but it’s a funny one—after I worked at the Strand Bookstore for a year, 1985, 1986—I moved back to Ohio, and reunited with my records (didn’t lug them to NYC), I got out the “No New York” LP and said, jokingly, let’s see if there’s anyone I know on here—and then noticed Robin Crutchfield, who worked at the Strand. Sadly, I hadn’t gotten to know him—he had worked in a spooky computer shack in the warehouse (as I recall). There’s a lesson here (which I still haven’t learned—because I’m not exactly sure what it is).

Side B starts off with a live song called “Heat Death”—again, an apt title. If you can imagine the massive gush of flame coming from the mouth of one of those dinosaur-like Japanese monster movie monsters, you’ve got the first part—followed by something less menacing, but no less grim, like a haunted sawmill, back in operation just for the hell of it. It’s not unlike the unknowable drone coming from some part of the hi-rise apartment building they built next door to me during the lockdown—except that noise is unpleasant and ceaseless. The song on the record is intriguing and… it ends. Then, finally, another Farfisa song, the organ part repetitive enough to make you second-guess your needle’s dedication to the groove’s progression inward. Interesting—the organ is about six inches in front of you, and then further back there is what sounds like something happening—involving barrels and electricity—but I mean really, really further back—like a block away—yet in the same building. Then it ends, confidently. Did I mention that there are multiple bass parts, throughout—I’m guessing electric bass—bass guitar—not the fish.

Elvis Costello and The Attractions “Live at Hollywood High”

Where did this record come from? It’s a three-song promo 33 1/3 seven-inch that came as a bonus with the “Armed Forces” LP—in 1979. Much later, a full-length recording of the show was released. This one, dated 1978 (the date of the show), consists of the songs: “Accidents Will Happen,” “Alison,” and “Watching the Detectives.” There isn’t much to recommend this little record (except that it’s little)—unless you like live recordings (I don’t, generally). It’s got a paper cover with a bold, primary-color, paint-spatter design—that all these years haven’t managed to foment, for me, anything in the nostalgia bin. Speaking of which—I’m still tired of two of these songs—heard them too much—and probably always will be. And they’re fine songs—just heard them too much. The exception is “Alison,” which has always been my favorite Elvis Costello song. The loud, fast, aggressive, and angry stuff doesn’t age well—at least not to me—but a lovely sounding pop love song does—and this is a particularly good one. Well, it’s angry, too, but also sad, and there’s some ambiguity among the lyrics. And there’s definitely some sadness and regret—which goes really well with just how totally pretty the song is.

Dorothy Donegan “at the Embers”

Album cover photos don’t get much better than this one—four well-dressed people sitting at a bar on movable stools, the kind without backs, and tubular steel footrests at the bottom. Two women are on the center stools—wearing skirts and stockings (the photo is cropped above their waists)—and they have slipped off their shoes, which are on the floor below. It’s a rather suggestive photo for 1957. Also, a little weird. I’m not exactly sure what it says, but it seems to say a lot. One would like to assume it’s taken at “The Embers”—and there is music in the air. Drinking is going on, definitely. The men may be more focused on the woman than the woman are on the men. The band is a small jazz combo, sounds like a trio, dominated by piano that I assume is Dorothy Donegan—and her playing is kind of nuts, if I can say it. A lot of energy, and then some. Mostly standards. I have always particularly loved the name “The Embers” for a bar, nightclub, or restaurant—it’s the best.

I wouldn’t call this music “jaunty,” exactly—but it’s definitely not laid back. I might call it “caffeinated”—which I like more than jaunty (the word and the sentiment). It’s certainly energetic. It’s kind of like… why not play 100 notes, where one will do, if you can work in 100 notes. I read a little bit about Dorothy Donegan—classically trained, from Chicago, put out a dozen-and-a-half records from the Forties to the Nineties, but was best known for live performances. Wikipedia notes she was “the first African American to perform at Chicago’s Orchestra Hall”—in 1943. She criticized sexism in the music industry. She was a protegee of Art Tatum. She “was known for performing stride and boogie-woogie, as well as be-bop, swing, and classical.” When you put all those together, what do you get? Rock’n’roll. I’m just kidding—but listen to the short number called “Donegan Walk”—which sounds more like rock’n’roll than most music that calls itself rock’n’roll—it’s my favorite on the record. It’s credited to Dorothy Donegan, as is another one called “DDT”—another rockin’ out number that I’m guessing isn’t named after the insecticide. Maybe it’s “Dorothy Donegan plus something that starts with “T”—(Time, Terror, Tyrannosaurus?). I also very much like some of the standards I know—in particular, a nuts version of “That Old Black Magic,” “Just in Time,” a nice slow version of “My Funny Valentine,” and a hot version of “Lullaby in Birdland” that won’t put you to sleep. All of them are good.

Even though it’s an album cover you might want to hang on your wall, don’t do it! For one thing, you’ve got to protect the record. And for another, you’ll miss the liner notes on back—pretty good ones, though uncredited, which is weird. Even more weird, whoever formatted the liner notes obviously didn’t read them—I won’t go into details, but there are errors—how does that stuff happen—even in 1957? A lot about the Embers—a nightclub/restaurant on East 54^th Street in New York. It was on East 54^th Street, I guess—I looked it up—long gone now—just hideous skyscrapers there, now. Though it’s (was) just around the corner from Dee Dee Ramone Corner. I guess they served food there, too, and for a moment, the liner notes seem to want to turn into a restaurant review—or maybe the author was just hungry! Mostly, it’s some glowing words about Dorothy Donegan and her very popular live performances. A Time Magazine writer is even quoted: “Dorothy shuts her eyes. Her feet begin to pound the floor. Her face contorts as if she were in agony. What comes out is pure Donegan. It has the customers shagging in their seats.” What’s that mean? Well, either they are baseball players, catching fly balls for practice, or they’re f**king!

Johnny Cash “A Boy Named Sue” / “San Quentin”

The only thing worse than a novelty record is a live novelty record—but this one, from 1969, has an odd place in my heart. I still have (somehow!) the same record I bought when I was nine years old, though I haven’t actually listened to it for probably near half a century—having turned against it at some point. Hearing it again, now, though, is funny—it brought back the progression of thoughts I had about it over time. It’s written by Shel Silverstein and was a big hit for Johnny Cash, who I used to see on TV—it seemed like regularly—and no doubt at least once singing this one. I liked him, and listening to it now, I can see how compelling he is, even doing a joke song—the band is also very good, stripped down, and tough. Most likely the first thing I noticed, as a kid, was that I was able to understand the irony in the story—a kid’s dad named him Sue in order to toughen him up by having him deal with ridicule. Neither amused nor appreciative of the gesture, the kid spends his young life hunting down his dad to kill him—eventually they fight, but then Dad explains why he did it. After my initial understanding, though, a few alternate ideas set in. Why did this piece of shit parent use such a shortcut? Why didn’t he stick around and maybe teach the kid in a more conventional way? And then, why was the bullying that the kid was subjected to simply accepted as inevitable? The thing that saved the song, for me, was the double ironic twist at the end where the kid appreciates his dad, finally, but vows, if he has kids—a boy—to give him a boy’s name! It’s a good, disarming ending. But I was still bugged by the other problems, and by that time, too, I was beginning to be against fighting. Though, ultimately, the thing that might have turned me against the record was it being overplayed—on TV, the radio, and at home (I only had a handful of choices). A humorous story song like this soon wears out its welcome.

The other side is “San Quentin”—both songs were recorded live at San Quentin Prison—this one written by Johnny Cash. As you might guess, a song in which he sings: “San Quentin… I hate every inch of you…” goes over pretty well among the audience there. The main sentiment of the song, besides hating the prison, is that the experience of prison will do no good as far as changing the prisoner for the better—it’s simply punishment, but there’s no reform—nothing good about it, whatsoever. Again, the band is great, just guitar, bass, and minimal drums, and there’s also some women backup singers, briefly, which I didn’t remember—almost not there—on the instrumental break, singing “San Quentin” all of like two times. I didn’t like this one as much, as a kid, but I think I appreciated the “plain talkin’.” There’s no ironic twist at the end of this song—it’s short and simple. Focusing the hatred on the place, however, rather than the people responsible for the place, is interesting. Plus, he sounds like he’s singing from personal experience—though, in this case, there’s no intriguing admission of shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die (fictional or not). At any rate, he’s convincing—what a voice! —I’m sure when I was a kid, I really believed that he was a hardened criminal. With a voice like that, he could convince you that he’d been retrieved from thirty days in the hole just that morning.

Donna Summer “MacArthur Park” / “Once Upon a Time”

This live version of “Once Upon a Time” is a fast-paced popsong narrative, a mini-movie, contemporary noir told in hyper disco nightclub style—it’s over before I can type this sentence. Maybe it’s supposed to be 33 1/3 RPM, not 45 (doesn’t actually say on the record). There’s 1978 live audience noise at the beginning, but now it sounds quite ominous. It sounds really cool and weird, actually, the only thing is that now Donna Summer sounds like a slightly off, male crooner. It’s weird that it’s a B-Side, since the studio version of this was the title song of a double album from the year before. I only know that because I happened to be looking at a list of those “33 1/3” books, and there’s one about that album. It’s weird how once you open yourself up to something, the connections start to happen. I was never a disco fan, so this is my sole record by the Queen of Disco. Donna Summer was, to some degree, the just-offscreen soundtrack to the crucial years of my life. No doubt I picked up this one because the A-Side is “MacArthur Park,” one of my favorite songs—and I always love to hear what various artists have done with it. Here, she starts out with a few quiet dramatic lines, and then there’s that annoying disco sound effect (I never did know what that was, it sounds like a clown prop noise) and then it launches into a full disco version of the rest of the song. I’m not crazy about it—still haven’t come around to disco. Give me a few more years. It’s still the song, though, very catchy. No matter what presentation you go with, the line, “someone left the cake out in the rain” is no less weird. It’s a perfect expression of something, though no one knows what it means. (Still haven’t read that Jimmy Webb memoir.) Anyway, it’s a pleasure to hear Donna Summer sing that line, and that song—it just adds to the meaning and the mystique.

Rockin’ R’s “Live at the Rusty Rail”

This one gets five stars out of five without even putting the needle on it, the cover is so excellent—a full-size black and white photo of who one might assume are the Rockin’ R’s—five white guys, three with bangs, 2 receding a bit—wearing their matching costumes. White pants and metallic, glimmering jackets that most resemble space alien garb from Lost in Space. Also, each guy has a neck scarf (can’t tell the color, could be red) knotted tightly on the right side. The middle guy is sitting behind a snare drum, three have electric guitars and bass (Gibson and Fenders)—and the big guy with glasses has a tambourine. The album title is just below in rocket orange. On back there are four small headshots (three women, one guy) that look like they could be for the chamber of commerce, along with the 14 song titles and who takes the vocals on each—some which match up to the photos. There’s a booking address and phone number. And then liner notes by Rosemary Ellis—which I hope will explain some of this. It’s a pretty thorough rundown of who does what, more or less, down to the songwriting (on the originals), booking, answering the phone (437-1886), wardrobe, bowling, and horse shoes. It sounds like a collective, a club, a group of friends, a band, a business venture, a cult, a very small town, a sailing ship—I’ll go with band. This is a follow-up to a previous live album. They played in Northern Minnesota (a lot in Austin) and made their way into Iowa, as well.

The record is very well-recorded (by the immortal Johnny Durham) (I don’t know if he’s immortal, but his name is the most prominent one on the cover)—crystal clear and immediate—like they’re right here in the room with me, half a century later. The crowd is polite and not overdone. There are a few instrumentals, but mostly it’s country songs with the vocals so upfront you can almost tell what aftershave they’re wearing (or brand of chewing gum, with the women). I believe there are seven different people taking the vocals, including two women—and there are some duets. The playing is top-notch, the band is tight, and they don’t get in each other’s way. The singing is all over the place, from pretty competent to emanating from the neighbor’s shower to cracking bar glasses and rendering mirrors askew. I hope I don’t sound mean—as I’m sure some people would be—I love the heartfelt styles here—and there are a lot of them. I have nothing against singing that wouldn’t make it past the first round of the Gong Show tryouts—I’m a singer myself and can’t stay in key to save my life. The one song sung by “Fritz” (pic on back) is a particular varnish-melter—fantastic. The monologue at the end of the Hank Thompson number, “I Came Awful Close,” sung by “Harold,” is pretty inspired: “You guys stick around here, maybe we’ll get some snakes out later on, and we’ll open some of that good old Christian Brothers brandy from the Alpine liquors in Austin and have a really good time down here at the Rusty Rail.” Another real standout is “Jane” singing “One’s On the Way”—a hilarious song—I probably should have known it—which was a hit for Loretta Lynn around this time. Jane isn’t Loretta, but then no one is—but Loretta. Interesting, that song was written by Shel Silverstein—weird, because I just, yesterday (I’m not kidding) looked him up on the Big Board to see a list of the songs he wrote—because I had been talking about him to someone (OK, to myself—I do a lot of talking to myself). But yeah—odd coincidence—and odd coincidences keep the world spinning.

Neil Diamond “Hot August Night II”

Starts out with “Song of the Whales (Fanfare)”—then some wanky synth stuff and “Headed for the Future”—in other words, Danger, Will Robinson. I wonder… what… year… he announces it, 1986, as part of the inane patter (it came out the next year). I was always pretty dismissive of Neil Diamond until I saw the movie, The Last Waltz (1978), which he’s in, and I thought he was awesome, so I figured I should revise my opinion. I didn’t really pursue it, though—I didn’t actively go back and listen to anything… so it was limited to what you’d hear on the radio and so forth. His 1972 record, “Hot August Night,” is a thrift store staple, but I’ve never listened to it. That’s the one with the cover photo that looks like he just discovered an invisible 14 inch erection that demanded his full attention. He has gigantic hair, too. On the cover of this one, way less hair, but still a lot, and now he has a guitar in his hands, but still sports full orgasm-face. Is all of this some intimate communication with his fans? Lot of concert pics here—and this double live record opens up for a huge photo of ND, arms outstretched to the hordes of fans. If you were there, you might be able to pick yourself out—good photo. I’ve often wondered how easy it would be to feel okay with standing on a stage in front of sea of human beings who are there for you—who might as easily make love to you as tear you to bits and eat your flesh. I suppose it’s as easy as anything previously unimaginable—good or bad. Also interesting, that “Future” song reminded me exactly of the terrible first song Kris Kristofferson is singing in A Star is Born (1976)—to the extent that you might think the film came after this record, but no… but as terrible as both songs are, maybe they exist in timeless vacuum. Neil Diamond wrote a lot of good songs, that’s for sure, and he also wrote a lot of bad songs. They’re all performed full-on here, with bland applause filling the cracks in between, erecting this towering, multilayered, sweltering sweet pastry from hell.

James Gang “Live in Concert”

The first song is what I wanted to hear, with some of that excessive hard-rock guitar I still like—though I’m guessing a lot of my friends don’t—since they’ve moved on from 1971. But after that, the boys turn the wank-o-later up to eleven. I believe this is just about the last James Gang LP before Joe Walsh left—and the band continued on without him. I might take a wild guess and say “Live in Concert” is not the title the band wanted for the record—it sounds exactly like a title a record company would apply after overruling the band’s choice—something like: “James Gang Cleans Up,” or “…and the Horse You Rode in On,” or “James Gang Shovels Shit and Give Zero Fucks.” Though there are virtually no credits on the record, it’s implied that the concert was recorded at the prestigious Carnegie Hall, and the story the album cover tells is that either they rode up on horses or wrangled some for an album cover pic—leading to the even better back cover photo—four guys shoveling horse poop. (I believe the band was a three-piece at this point, so maybe the other guy is the only other credited name on the cover, Bill Szymczyk, but I don’t know.) At least they’re not using leaf blowers. I can’t say I enjoy this record, except that it perfectly paints an aural flashback so vivid I can smell it. Hippie sandals, subtle weed, good cigarette tobacco, stale beer, bota bag crap wine, overheated amp tubes, and the coke-fueled sweat of hardworking musician excess. It’s something. Way too many instruments for three guys and way too many notes and effects. It’s kind of perfect. I love Joe Walsh, especially because he seems like he has a good sense of humor. Plus, I can listen to “Funk #49” all day. (I’m sure they played it in this concert, but it’s not on the record.) It’s been said that genius and shit are two sides of the same coin, and to finish a single disk live record with with an 18 minute version of The Yardbirds’ “Lost Woman” that manages to be even wankier than the original—and without a harmonica, even—is a feat that can best be expressed by a picture of four guys shoveling shit outside of Carnegie Hall. Bravo!

Thelonious Monk “Misterioso (recorded on tour)”

This is a live record from 1965, eight tracks, according to the album cover info, Charlie Rouse on all songs—he is one of my favorite saxophone players ever—partly because I’ve mostly heard him playing with Thelonious Monk, and they really compliment each other. Larry Gales and Ben Riley, bass and drums on half the songs, and Butch Warren and Frank Dunlap, bass and drums, other half. Recorded East Coast, West Coast, and one song in Tokyo. Liner notes, by Harry Colomby—a nice story about giving Monk a ride home and becoming his manager—kind of touching, actually. I hope it worked out! As I’ve said before, when I first heard a version of the song “Misterioso”—I believe it was a quartet, with vibes—that changed my life—or at least the part of my life that was about listening to music. Other versions of that song are great as well, and the one here is somewhat different than I’ve heard before. They really go somewhere out there on this one—let me try to describe it. I can’t describe it, I’m too dumb. I’ll try. After the intro, the song’s established, and then there’s no piano for like half the song, just really nice trio, with bluesy saxophone, that really lures you into comfort. Then the piano comes back in and you try to follow it, of course, can’t, and it takes you on some kind of weird journey.

Besides that song, other Thelonious Monk compositions on this record: “Well, You Needn’t,” “Light Blue,” “Bemsha Swing,” and “Evidence.” Also included are versions of “I’m Gettin’ Sentimental Over You,” “All the Things You Are,” and “Honeysuckle Rose”—which the band, of course, make sound like Thelonious Monk songs. That it’s a live record matters little—there’s a bit of applause here and there, but the recording is clear and excellent—they could be playing in my apartment if there was enough room. It’s hard to write about something that’s your favorite thing—the bigger the hyperbole gets, the less convincing it sounds. I’ll tell anyone not sick of listening, again, that not only is Monk my favorite musician, he’s my favorite artist, period—and really, no one is even close. I’m guessing not everyone is as fond of him, as his style can sound unusual and eccentric—but in this case, unlike certain films, writing, and visual arts that I’ll admit are “not for everybody,” I really believe that anyone can come around to this music by listening to it and really concentrating on it. What you hear in the music is a direct impression of the workings of Monk’s brain—I don’t know if you get that so profoundly from any other artist. I guess it can be a little scary. We are lucky to live in a time after films were made of him playing live, and still exist, and you can actually watch quite a bit for free, on the internet—and that is also a good way to try to understand him, figure out what he’s doing, or just see and hear something incredibly beautiful.

Ella Fitzgerald “At the Opera House”

This is an old, Verve, live recording of Ella Fitzgerald on a couple of occasions (Chicago and LA, 1957) with excellent bands. The first side sounds amazingly quiet and minimal, yet you can hear everything. Ella Fitzgerald’s voice is up front, and it sounds like she’s right on the room. Of course, she always sounds like she’s right in the room—some voices just have that quality. Some of my favorite songs, here—“It’s All Right with Me,” “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered” (always my favorite Ella song), “These Foolish Things,” and more. Also, “Baby Don’t Go Away Mad” (aka “Don’cha Go ‘Way Mad”) (written by Illinois Jacquet and Jimmy Mundy, with lyrics by Al Stillman)—a song I’ve mostly associated with Sinatra’s version, which I’m kind of obsessed with—and caused me to go on a Friday afternoon mini-rabbthole, which I won’t document here). There’s good liner notes by Norman Granz, in which he asserts the version of “Stompin’ at the Savoy” is the greatest vocal performance ever recorded. And, also the A-side recording is technically almost perfect. I won’t argue. What’s kind of amazing, if you think about it, is how this artifact, which cost me about half the price of a latte, is a year older than I am and works like it’s brand now, and brings to life, like holograms in my room, some magical performances by a few of the most amazing jazz artists of the last century—and can kind of transport you in time, in less than an hour, and bring you back unharmed. It can keep doing it, too, if you want, countless times—it’ll still be ticking along, long after I