A fat lip. A throbbing head. A full heart. It is observed that the Tibetan people (whose country and culture remains illegally occupied and oppressed by communist China) are among the happiest on earth, despite their circumstances. Their recipe? A constant contemplation of the everpresent reality of death that becomes their catalyst for the enjoyment of every moment, this moment. It’s all gravy, they giggle. Understand? I’ve found the Irish possessing a similar ability to dance in spite of their shackles, but not of the same fruit of active detachment from the illusionary external world of which the eastern religious traditions bring awareness; rather, the Irish find/choose joy in the midst of their active engagement with the muddy world, as well as the spirits that abide in it: whiskey (ponder why, exactly, alcohol has been classically identified as a spirit), followed by a good dust up, and then another whiskey. At some point, a weeping, snot nosed, good cry is in order. And all accompanied with music and song, dance, and fall. Another round of whiskey! There is an intentional and unwaverable attitude of joy in the Pogues’ music and lyrics, despite the worst that life (or the devil and all his fallen angels, sometimes even God himself) can bring. The Irish don’t raise a glass to celebrate poverty and oppression. They toast the Irish spirit, the human spirit, who rages against and endures the worst that life brings. Who fight it tooth and nail. Whose dying words echo the concluding lyrics of this LP- even when the worms be crawling in and around your brain, ‘Be merry, my friends. Be merry.’ Sweet Mary, Jesus, and all the saints, can’t the Pogues wander, musically: from traditional Irish folk music amped up a might with a punk edge. Celtic sounds pared with Latin flare. When did a Turkish song of the damned ever propel a person to dance a jig to salvation? Or singing 'The Rare Old Mountain Dew' in the drunk tank on Christmas Eve ever transfigure into something as earthly-holy as the feeding trough in Bethlehem in which the baby Jesus slumbered? ‘Metropolis’ even introduced this listener, at least, into the genre of Celtic jazz! Lyrics? Where do we begin? I’ve not heard anyone, other than the Pogues, use both the words ‘fuck (ed, ing, er, etc)’ and ‘Jesus’ in the same song (‘Bottle Of Smoke’) and with reverence for the meaning and importance of both. As expected, there’s plenty of love for the immigrant experience and celebration for the promised land of opportunity in America. Irish are certainly among the most grateful immigrants of the freedom and opportunity America provides. But so are Latinos and Africans, for whom the Pogues also sing. This LP, this band, is so much more than only ‘Irish.’ And yet, nothing less, somehow, too. Hey, what do I know? I’m WUI anyway, from my home, on a snow day in Denver (2 feet and rising.) Is it happy hour, yet, across the Alantic, to the east? My great-grandfather, Papa Hall Delaney, was an Irish immigrant and worked on the western U.S. railroad, eventually settling in San Francisco before he died, forcing my great grandmother, Nanny, to move back to Pasadena, Texas, where she lived out her days in a small apartment above the garage in the backyard of my grandparent’s home. At 29, when this LP was released, I was barely even aware of my Irish roots. I was spirited enough, that’s for sure, and too familiar with spirits, but not yet spiritual, Celtic or otherwise, so I didn’t’ know shite. Over the years, I’ve become more than familiar with the best and worst Irish blood can bring: an unfortunate propensity to the overindulgence of alcohol, an exaggerated and sometimes violent reaction to fear and despair, an uneasy alliance with church and society; but, also, a love of hearth and song, a longing for reconciliation and peace with Creator and creation. Caressing the beads of a rosary in morning devotion, after fishing it out of the toilet where it accidentally fell the night before- the Word became (too?) flesh. This is Irish, for me, in a sentence. Better yet, I believe this lyric in ‘Sit Down By The Fire’ kinda says everything one needs to know about the Pogues, this terrific LP, and the Irish and/or Irish-American experience in general: ‘Remember this place. It is damp and its cold. The best place on Earth. But it’s dark and its old. So lie near the wall and cover your head. Good night and God bless. Now fuck off to bed!’ I’ll conclude with Ireland’s greatest and most loved and loathed (and so, soo Irish), writer, Oscar Wilde: ‘We are all in the gutter. Some of us are looking at the stars.’ And raise your glass (and if you don’t already have one full, we’ll wait………………………………………………………………………………………………………….) for this most famous of Irish toasts: May you be in heaven a full half hour before the the devil knows you’re dead. I love ya all- that’s Jesus and the whiskey talking (and so, me…), Mark.

Oh, Amy… 'Frank,' Amy Winehouse’s debut album, refers partly to the quintessential crooner Frank Sinatra, one of Amy’s earliest influences. A couple of tracks in I heard more jazz/blues singer Billie Holiday than Sinatra. Although I would not title Amy’s LP 'Billie' because Ms. Holiday, despite her own problems with men and drugs, had so much more depth (where would one drop ‘Strange Fruit’ among the collection of songs on 'Frank'?), both in voice and lyrics, a multi-dimensional artist in comparison to Amy Winehouse and her singular lyrical focus: hooking up with the bad boys. Every single song on 'Frank' (save one about the death of her pet bird, Ava- ‘October Song’) is about Amy’s desperate and shallow pursuit of masculine affection. Comedian Chris Rock once commented that a father’s main goal in raising a daughter is to keep her off the (stripper) pole. Amy’s mother and brother are briefly mentioned on 'Frank,' but no reference to her father, so who knows what went on there? I have no information nor do I even want to pronounce any kind of judgment on their relationship. Just wondering. I happen to like strong, independent women. And that bleeds over into my musical preference. One of my favorite female artists is Liz Phair, who has made a career out of unashamedly affirming and asserting her own sexuality. One gets the impression from her songs that her family origin might have had its own dysfunction that affected, for example, her ability to choose healthier relationships with men. But Amy is damaged in a way well beyond Liz. On the opener, she cruelly says to her man, ‘You always wanna talk it through, I don’t care… You always wanna talk it through, I’m ok. I always have to comfort you every day. But that’s what I need to do, are you gay?’ Other songs have her sleeping with married men, boasting about it even (‘What Is It About Men’), and then brutally criticizing slutty girls who just want to score a good looking sugar daddy (‘Fuck Me Pumps.’) On ‘I Heard Love Is Blind‘ she excuses (blames, even) her own cheating on her man by asking what did you expect, I was drunk, and he looked like you! But hey, at least ‘I was thinking of you when I came (with the other guy).’ Amy Amy Amy’ features the background singers in chorus pleading with her to get her shit together, but to no avail. Amy is cursed with her attraction to the kinds of dudes who apparently are great in bed but rotten elsewhere. And then there’s the hints of alcohol and substance abuse. Several of the songs have Amy hungover, so the drinking has already begun. The drug abuse, of course, was not far behind, and eventually took her life. Despite the competent jazz players who earn at least a star themselves on 'Frank,' Amy’s sickness just taints the whole thing, at least for this listener. I’m no stranger to the blues, musically or otherwise, but the sadness I feel for Amy is even more pronounced by what could have been. It’s very clear on this LP where she’s headed and the consequences that catch up with all who stumble down her path. ‘I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself,’ she sings to one of her ‘bad boy’ lovers, unknowingly prophesying her own demise. Would that Amy had listened to her own advice.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw this photo. I had the original leather bound cover (remember?) purchased proudly with the earnings from my newspaper route down at our local Peaches Records and Tapes. I wanted nothing more than to grow my hair long and wear that beautiful fringe jacket that David Crosby often wore, but my parents had different ideas about how their children should look. They were Nixon supporters. I haven’t listened to 'Déjà Vu' from beginning to end in a long time. But I played it so often it’s embedded in my memory. I was more curious if it still resonated with my heart. The answer is yes. Both for the glorious music but also for the spirit. Dylan prophesied a hard rain coming in 1963, and by 1970 he was already seeking shelter from the storm. CSNY filled the void, took up the mantle, like Elisha following Elijah. But this is another subject for another time. Back to the matter at hand. There were a couple of new things that surfaced for me during this particular listen, the first being that Neil Young is not really so much an equal partner with CSN on 'Déjà Vu' as he is a special guest on a few tracks. I couldn’t detect any Neil at all on the first two tracks, finally some guitar playing on the third. And then, of course, his own composition, ‘Helpless,’ and ending side one with his searing guitar solo on ‘Woodstock.’ But when side two opened with the title track, seemingly Neil had again taken five, and didn’t come back until the second to last song, another of his own compositions, ‘Country Girl.’ And he’s heard clearly on guitar rockin it up on the finale, ‘Everybody I Love You.’ Perhaps this is revealing of Neil’s divided commitment between his own solo stuff (which would ultimately triumph) and this super group. Truthfully (and I say this as a fan who thinks Neil sits at the right hand of only the Beatles), I don’t think CSN really needed Y. He certainly didn’t them, and ‘After The Gold Rush,’ ‘Harvest,’ ‘On The Beach,’ and the rest of his couple of dozen LPs following are proof. Even the cover photo features CSN in a perfect triangle, and faces up and illuminated; whereas Neil is on the furthest fringe, head bowed and darkened. Too Sergeant Pepper? And secondly, in addition to these songs being written mostly about the weal and woe of human relationships, might they also be referencing, if even subconsciously, the state of the baby boomer generation at that time, still very much in the midst of anti-war and civil rights demonstrations but losing the optimism that so permeated the summer of love three years before? Could not ‘Carry On,’ for example- an encouragement to keep struggling for love and not succumbing to despair following a breakup- also be heard as a call to the younger generation for the same resilience against the unjust, ruling status quo? ‘Teach Your Children’ becomes an appeal to both generations (young and old), both political parties, to learn to love one another. David Crosby pleading on ‘Almost Cut My Hair’ to not give in to fear as we figure out where to go from here as a country? Neil Young’s ‘place in north Ontario’ mirroring the distress of their American neighbors to the south? And ‘Woodstock’ speaks for itself, including the line ‘bomber death planes riding shotgun in the sky, turning into butterflies above the nation.’ I’ve always heard bomber jet planes, and had to stop the recording and listen again. In Joni Mitchell’s original lyrics, she just sing ‘bombers.’ I wonder which of the quartet added the word death? Side two opens with Crosby’s ponderings about ‘what’s going on under the ground? The anti-war underground movement? ‘Our House,’ a delightful song about hearth and home, has a hint of melancholy because that innocence Graham Nash is so wanting to hold onto is, on a national level, rapidly slipping away. ‘4 + 20’ finds Stephen Stills in such despair over his loss (of a lover), or perhaps the loss of actual lives both abroad in southeast Asia and also in the embittered civil rights battlefields of America’s deep south, that he ends the song wishing that his ‘life would simply cease.’ Neil’s ‘Country Girl,’ an invitation to leave the city and the other guy, and come to the country and be with me… might the other guy be Uncle Sam? And in the grand finale, ‘Everybody I Love You,’ when the whole gang fervently sings ‘You expect for me to love you when you hate yourself, my friend,’ to whom are they addressing, one American or the whole country? Again, I’ve been listening to this LP, off and on, for over 50 years, and am very familiar with the material. Or I thought I was. Funny how you can sometimes hear a song like ‘Teach Your Children Well,’ for years, and still, sometimes, hear something new. There’s no doubt it’s a good song. it’s just not one of my favorites, at least partly due to its popularity. I’ve simply heard it played too much. And so, by the time Nash begins the final verse I’ve already emotionally moved on to the next track with Crosby almost cutting his hair for cryin’ out loud! But on this particular listen for this review, I was reading the lyrics as if for the first time- Nash’s appeal at the end of the song to all Americans, young and old, hawks and doves, to trust in the power of love to affect reconciliation; or as the late Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr said so famously, ‘Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend’: ‘And you of the tender years can’t (possibly) know the fears that your elders grew by. And, so, please help (and not hurt) them with your youth. They seek the truth (like you/we do) before they can die.’ (Italics are mine) Musically, what can I add? You’ve got Crosby singing both his heart and angelic voice out on ‘Almost Cut My Hair,’ Nash’s high register, and slightly British accent throughout, not to mention his underrated song writing talent, both Stills and Young’s unique lead guitar playing (two great tastes that go great together.) But please don’t let the famous quartet overshadow the workingman drumming of Dallas Taylor, and most especially, the incredible touch of Greg Reeves, playing bass parts that rival Paul McCartney’s own melodic, creative roaming. And of course, Jerry Garcia famously drops right in and sits right down at pedal steel on ‘Teach.’ Sure, CSNY are all old and fat (except for the fountain of youth Graham Nash), and sometimes cantankerous and crotchety and such, now. But if you just could have heard them then, if but for a brief moment… Ah, that’s a déjà vu I would welcome today ‘… with all of you.’

I hope the '1001 LPs' folks led you to the same YouTube channel that I just enjoyed while listening to 'In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.' A bonus visual of multi-colored lights pulsating from within the two large orbs on the cover, recreating the feel of the liquid light shows that were characteristic of psychedelic rock concerts in the mid to late 60s. And this particular group possessed one of my favorite band names, again so reminiscent of the times: Iron Butterfly. Strawberry Alarm Clock is not even close. Moby Grape? Getting there, but not quite. 'In-A-Gada-Da-Vida,' Iron Butterfly’s second studio album, outsold every record in the history of recorded music to that time- 8 million copies. No doubt on the strength and success of that famous title track, all 17 minutes of the entire second side! And if you haven’t heard it in its entirety, do yourself a favor and drop the needle. It’s worth the time; that is, if you like this particular genre of music, which according to Wikipedia is labeled, variously, as hard rock (no), heavy metal (hell no), occult rock (huh?), and finally, acid rock (we have a winner!) But side one has been virtually overshadowed by the title track, and sadly, I fear, forgotten; while, I find it just as enjoyable, maybe more so. Don’t go searching for anything profound here, lyrically speaking. With the exclusion of ‘Mirage (I’m guessing an LSD inspired song),’ and ‘Termination (either the death of material life, or possibly the death of one’s ego experienced during an LSD trip?),’ the two openers and the closer on side one are all about the joy of being in love. And a sweet, innocent joy it is: ‘I met a pretty girl on a date last night… I kissed the pretty girl, and I held her tight. And let me tell you now, she was groovy (‘Are You Happy’).’ And while he’s not exactly T.S. Eliot, Doug Ingle can sing- an interesting voice for a rock singer, deeper than most and with a slight, undiscernible accent, but sung with the unmistakable happiness of just being young and alive. But the real reason why we listen to Iron Butterfly is not for the lyrics, but the music: bright, tenor organ contrasting the thundering walking bass and pounding tribal drum beats. And, the integral part to every good acid rock band: that fuzz tone, distorted, wahwah pedal, bending notes, loud (very important) psychedelic guitar. If you’re not burning some patchouli incense and dancing like a whirling hippie dervish until your love beads get tangled up in the flowers adorning your long hair… then Iron Butterfly just isn’t your bag. But don’t get hung up on it, man. Admittedly, for many (most especially, the many who weren’t there in ’68), this band is an acquired taste. But hey, so’s caviar and cabernet. I believe my favorite part of the whole LP comes at about the two minute mark on ‘Termination.’ The music takes an abrupt stop, and then for the remainder of the song (about another minute) there is the most tender, almost mystical duet between guitarist Erik Brann’s lovely, soft fingerpicking of his electric guitar (sans distortion) and I’m guessing drummer Ron Bushy on tinkling wind chimes. That little minute, for me, always takes me back to the late 60s of my childhood and, if only for a brief moment in American history… allow me to defer to a real poet from the same generation, Paul Simon, on 'Bookends': ‘Time it was and what a time it was. It was a time of innocence…’ There was an awful lot of corruption back then, too, of course. But I was nine years old when 'In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida' was released, and mostly still innocent myself. Well, I certainly lost mine a long, long time ago- that’s for sure (and shame)- but I’m still able to find it, rediscovered, in this remarkable LP. And that makes me very happy, even despite the lack of a groovy, pretty girl with a pair of luscious lips to kiss and some curvy hips to hold tight. Just as Doug Ingle lets us know on this LPs opening song that ‘Most anything that you want, girl, is all right by me,’ I’m letting them (and you) know that most anything that Iron Butterfly wants to play, boy, is all right by me, too.

Tom Waits is nothing if not authentic, a veritable machine of authenticity right down to the bone. He lives, bleeds, drinks, sings, howls… and one day will die… authentically. Not necessarily pretty or polite. But bona fide. And I’ll take a real ‘sinner’ any day over an artificial ‘saint.’ Billy Joel was wrong, incidentally, about the sinners having much more fun. It’s not that they don’t sometimes experience pleasurable things (one of the reasons people self-medicate with alcohol and drugs is partly due to how good it feels, at least until it don’t no more), but the sinners that populate 'Bone Machine' (and every other Waits’ album I can think of) are more often than not wounded and suffering from life situations. Jesus tells my favorite story from his collection about two brothers, the younger of which could easily be counted among the many outcast, unclean characters Waits writes about. The older is morally perfect; except for his feeling of entitlement, as if he has earned and deserves his father’s blessing. The younger screws it all up, suffers the consequences of his actions, then becomes very self-aware and goes back home seeking forgiveness, of which his father, thankfully, is only too happy and eager to give. One of the many take-a-ways in this story is that those who pursue meritocracy in their relationship with the Creator and the Creator’s creation, sadly, may never know the joy of grace. Waits’ characters may be dissolute, but they are also in a perfect position to be the joyful, grateful recipients of grace. Would you rather be inside the house in Jesus’ story, a symbol of heaven, with all the other happy partying forgiven sinners, or outside by your own refusal because you feel as if you've earned an invitation while the rest of the losers have not? Furthermore, if you refuse to participate in heaven, standing outside, then where exactly do you find yourself? Another way to say this is to ask the question: are you giving more power to the sin that closes doors or the Father’s grace which opens them? Your free choice. I only bring the Bible into this because Waits does too. Like Dylan, his songs are infused with scripture. Real scripture, real people, real God, real songs. Very different from the Amy Grant ‘Jesus is my boyfriend’ kind of religious songs (no disrespect intended to Grant, nor am I suggesting that she’s not authentic, too.) It’s just that I much more identify with Waits’ creations- drunks and whores and people contemplating homicide or suicide. Demons, too, perhaps the devil himself. (Good Lord, didn’t the hair on my arms stand straight up when Waits sings in ‘Black Wings’ that ‘… he has risen,’ but rather than the crucified One it’s the one doing the crucifying.) Tom concludes that chilling number with, ‘One look in his eye, everyone denies ever having met him,’ and then whispers that several times to fade out. Brr… Or, the hellish ‘In the Colosseum,’ where ‘we call ‘em as we see ‘em,’ or the ‘Murder in the Red Barn,’ that goes unprosecuted, or worse, unknown at all, or the deceptively playful ‘I Don’t Wanna Grow Up,’ also covered by the playful Ramones, except when Waits sings it is loses any seeming playful innocence of youth and sounds as if the youth is a victim of abuse. I happen to find the crazy, clunky music and Waits’ gravely, booze and cigarette vocals rather enjoyable; but, then I also like that kind of stuff. I’m sure a lot more probably will argue that he makes Joe Cocker, by comparison, sound like Tony Bennett, but that’s ok. Music is pretty subjective to begin with, to a certain extent. You like what you like. I like anchovies and green olives on my pizza, so there. Waits can play a gorgeously melancholy piano, keys soaked in booze, and then turn around and strum a filthy, dirty guitar that probably sends forth a plume of dust when it’s set to rest in its case. Wonderful pedal steel from David Williams to accompany those piano songs. And wherever Keith Richards pops in (on the final song, written by Waits for him) can Waddy Wachtel be far behind? Les Claypool and Brain, from Primus, ‘nuff said. David Hildalgo from Los Lobos coaxes a coyote out of the violin on ‘Whistle Down the Wind.’ But the predominate sounds on this intrepid LP are all the percussion, many of which Waits plays, and I’m not talking about just drums, but an interesting variety of other things, including one Waits invented himself that he names the ‘conundrum,’ a metal instrument ‘with a lot of things hanging off it that I’ve found- metal objects- and I like playing it with a hammer.’ That said, the real draw on 'Bone Machine' is not the music, but the lyrics. And I’m not about to begin quoting them all. I simply can’t. There’s too much. He creates little worlds within each and every song, mini-novels. I know of almost no other artist who does this as/so well, save Bob Dylan. It’s an outstanding gift- God blessed, not earned- despite the pitiable inability, perhaps unwillingness, of the so-called morally upr(t)ight to look beyond his red-rimmed eyes and down into the man’s heart. By the by, that story I referenced before, from Jesus’ discography, was told as a direct cause of the religious professionals in his day grumbling about his keeping company with the kinds of folks Waits witnesses in his songs. Waits’ criminals and outcasts are treated by Jesus as friends. The religious professionals have rendered themselves criminals and outcasts to God, and not by God’s choice, but by their choice. While googling the lyrics to assist with my listening to 'Bone Machine' I ran across this little anecdote from a fan: ‘I saw this homeless guy singing a couple of summers ago. I told him he sounded just like Tom Waits. He said, ‘That’s because I am!’ I couldn’t argue with him about that.’ You can argue with me about the merits of this LP, but not it’s grace. You just can’t. You really can’t. Please don’t even try, for Jesus’ sake.

An ashtray of cigarette butts. The splatter of slushy, dirty snow from a passing bus. A decrepit scrapbook. There’s a very unique sound on certain songs from the mid to late sixties, like 'California Dreamin,' by the Mamas and the Papas, or 'Get Together,' by the Youngbloods. And I heard it the minute the opening and title track of Bookends began to play. It’s the silent sound behind the music- a whisper of a hiss?, but not really- and it takes me right back to the latter half of the 1960s. I was 9 years old when this recording was released, still innocent, many confidences. Not looking back yet, as I would many years later, on my memories, preserved, ‘all that’s left of you.’ This is hardly an LP for a 9 year old kid. Nor is it completely for a 19 year old. Paul Simon himself was only in his mid-20s when it was released, somehow possessing a wisdom far beyond his years. I can understand how a 20 something in 1968 can write a song like 'America': ‘Kathy, I’m lost,’ I said. Though I knew she was asleep. ‘I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why.’ But how does the same age write and sing songs like 'Overs' and 'Old Friends'? By the way, this is only a review of the first side of Bookends. The second side contains unrelated and mostly unused material intended for the film, The Graduate. It’s fine. Paul Simon’s lessers are still better than a lot of song writer’s best. But the first side, conceptual in intent, is the real deal. Paul’s guitar playing often is overshadowed by his lyrics, but listen to 'Overs,' in particular. I wish I could play like that! And the arrangements throughout are splendid, including several surprising, dramatic changes in melody and tempo, not to mention the complete absence of any music at all on' Voices Of Old People' (the only ‘composition’ attributed to Art Garfunkel). But where that other concept LP from the same period, Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, is described as ‘sonically colorful,’ Bookends is ‘starkly contrasted by moody black and white and gray sounds.’ I’ve always been a sucker for the minor keys. Night is falling here in Denver, CO, following a large snow storm. We are most definitely in a hazy shade in winter around here. And I’m now 62, more than familiar with disillusionment, loss, failure, bewilderment, despair, sorrow. The right age to receive what Paul has to share. I’m giving the first side 5 stars, the second side a 3, which still leaves an impressive 4. But I would’ve been just as satisfied to stop at the end of side one after a mere 15 minutes. A time it was…

Antiseptic wipes. Mahogany cabinets painted white. An unbuttered baked potato. Quite possibly the longest 50 minutes of my life, listening to this LP. First of all… there’s this great scene in The Simpsons featuring Kenny G, live, and his opening address to the crowd is: ‘Springfield, are you ready to soft rock?!’ I believe the industry itself titles it MOR rock- middle of the road. Neil Young recalled that following the success of 'Harvest,' he found himself in the middle of the road, and decided it was the most dangerous place to be. So, he headed right for the ditch on his next several LPs. (His very next release was the gloriously awful mess of 'Time Fades Away,' with the sloppy drunkenness of 'Tonight’s the Night' soon to follow. Both great LPs, in my opinion.) 'Brother In Arms' was released in May of 1985, a couple of months before I embarked on a major life transition, and one month before I turned 26. And while I had dabbled a bit in punk rock back in the 70s, I was still fairly MOR myself, having not yet discovered amazing groups like Cali’s hardcore Black Flag or the Minutemen, or the awesome sonic waves of Nadja or Sunn O))), or even the free jazz of John (& Alice) Coltrane or Ornette Coleman. That said, though, I do remember enjoying Dire Straits for a hot minute, but then tired of them pretty quickly. Too much radio play, for one thing. If I never hear ‘Money For Nothing’ again for the rest of my life I’ll be ok. Secondly… my biggest beef is that while Mark Knopfler’s guitar is featured on the cover, where is it in the recording? ‘Why Worry’ (George Harrison already expressed this, and much better, on ‘All Things Must Pass’) goes on far too long, and in the absence of a good guitar solo, probably Dire Straits’ strongest component. We finally get a little on ‘Ride Across the River,’ but that goes on too long, too. Same with the remainder of the LP. ‘Can’t get no fancy notes on my blue guitar,’ Knopfler sings on ‘One World.’ Truer words have never been sung. Finally… apparently, 'Brothers In Arms' is one of the best selling LPs of all time!? I feel sorry for the poor saps who purchased the thing on the basis of the 2 big hits- ‘Money For Nothing’ and ‘Walk Of Life,’ both upbeat and playful tunes. And Dire Straits looked like they were having a lot of fun playing them live when I saw their videos. But that’s where the fun ends. The remainder of the LP is dark and tedious. Actually, they’re not even really that dark (thematically, yes; lyrically, musically, no) nearly as much as they are tedious. OK, so it was one of the first LPs recorded on a Sony 24-track digital machine. No hiss, that’s for sure. Unfortunately, not much soul either. I’ll take Dead Kennedys’, 'Holiday In Cambodia'- which quality-wise kinda sounds like shit, but also has passion just spraying out the same ass- any day over 'Brothers In Arms.' In fact, the Dead Kennedys actually were brothers in arms against censorship, and fought it hard. What battles have Dire Straits ever fought, beside their defense of the misunderstood lyric, ‘The little faggot, he’s a millionaire’? (For the record, Knopfler was quoting some knucklehead at a bar commenting about some musician he saw on MTV.) Keep this LP so far away from me, please.

The blues, as best I can understand it as a 62 year old American, middle class, white guy, is the music of the oppressed, voices that refuse to be silent. There is an underlying hope in the blues, an inner freedom and joy not contingent upon external circumstances. The book of Acts in the Bible witnesses to some of Jesus’ earliest disciples, beaten and imprisoned, singing joyful hymns! Different Class ain’t that. It’s just the bruises and the bondage, as an end to themselves, including desires to fuck everybody else’s wives and mothers, as well as fucking up one’s enemies. Don’t get fooled by the opening track- a call for the marginalized to use their minds rather than fists. The next song (and the rest of the recording) betray the lyricist’s true intentions, and ends with the final track, an invitation to meet at a bar in Soho ‘where other broken people go.’ And that’s that. No direction, purpose, understanding, wisdom, redemption, forgiveness, love, etc. Just brokenness for brokenness' sake. Thank God the music sucked too so I won’t be tempted to give it another listen. I didn’t even enjoy writing the review! Alexa, please put on some Albert King. 1/5 (Because I can’t give it a zero.)

Sweaty musicians. Gobbing fans. Cheap nachos. Cheap nachos? Yeah, the kind with the pump cheese and pickled jalapenos. Convenience store nachos. Or, in my case, Chelsea Street Nachos. No, not the affluent area in west London; rather, the chain restaurant usually located in malls. Like the one I worked for in the early 1980s in Gainesville, Florida. I’m not sure which was worse at Chelsea St. Pub: the nachos or the live cover bands that played in the evening. But the best came in between sets, following tired songs like Bob Seeger’s ‘Down on Main Street,’ when the head bartender would often put on 'London Calling.' I had never heard anything quite like it- predominately rock (no longer punk like the Clash’s first two LPs that I would later enjoy too), but also a splash of reggae here and jazz there, and even a little disco/soul ditty at the end of ‘Lovers Rock.’ And, their commentary on the politics of England had broadened to include ideas about other places in the world as well, a theme they could continue on their next recording, 'Sandanista.' It was 'London Calling,' though, that would become their Magnum Opus. At a running time of over an hour, back then, it was long, an investment in time. And the late, great Joe Strummer and Mick Jones filled the music with tons of lyrics about people and places and events with which I was completely unfamiliar. Before that needle hit the record, I had to arm myself with dictionaries and thesauruses, maps and history books (this was waaay before the internet), Spanish to English translations- things I never needed while listening to Bob Seeger. And I’m intentionally using the word ‘armed’ because if 'London Calling' is anything, it is a call to arms, mostly concerning human and civil rights, but the title track even addresses environmental pollution. Clean up the world, the Clash were preaching, with a wide variety of applications. It has been said, famously, that ‘while the Sex Pistols wanted to destroy, the Clash wanted to unite people.’ Brings to mind John Lydon’s famous statement to the audience at San Francisco’s Winterland Ballroom at the end of what would be the Pistols’ final live performance. Closing with a cover of the Stooges’ ‘No Fun,’ Lydon addressed the crowd, ‘This is no fun, this is no fun at all.’ Then, when the song ended, right before he dropped the mic and walked out he stared down all the hippies and asked: ‘Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?’ I’ve been listening to 'London Calling' for four decades, 2/3 of my life, and it’s still fun. And I’ve never felt cheated

Karaoke night at the local pub. Creative writing class elective in High School. A cover band at the state fair. I worked for a couple of years in the early 1980s at a pizza parlor in Gainesville, FL, and was fortunate enough to often share a shift with a metal head named Kevin. He adored the Maiden. But probably not this particular one. Bruce Dickinson took over the vocalist’s duties beginning with their third LP, 'The Number of the Beast,' and THAT’s the Maiden he loved; and, the only one with which I’m familiar anyway. This one? Hmmm. Sounds more like Kiss, with Gene Simmons on lead vocals. I also felt an early Alice Coopery kind of vibe going on in ‘Remember.’ ‘Cept Alice sings better. The final and title track, ‘Iron Maiden’ sounded a bit Thin Lizzy. ‘Cept Phil Lynott sings way better. ‘Phantom of the Opera,’ the track I liked best, had some nice time changes back and forth from 4/4 to 3/4, and great instrumental work, reminiscent of early Rush. ‘Cept Geddy Lee sings better, and higher. And ‘Sanctuary’ had that same is-it-punk-or-is-it-metal fusion that always defined Motorhead, and their lead vocalist/bassist, the late Lemmy. Finally, someone Paul Di’Anno sings better than. So, there’s that. And then there’s the lyrics. I mean, ‘Charlotte the Harlot,’ really? Pretty rudimentary, both thematically, and rhythmically. The way I’m certain I rhymed when I wrote songs as a teenager. And to be fair, that was probably Maiden’s target audience back then anyway. (As a side, these lyrics reveal how gifted other poets from Dylan to Nas truly are.) Musically, Maiden’s already cooking. They just needed a little more time in the oven. Play that 3rd LP and see for yourself. That’s the Maiden that’ll satisfy your appetite for metal. Hey, sometimes a band’s debut LP is terrific. Unfortunately, Maiden’s is just ok. I’ve heard worse.

An open double album cover with stems and seeds in the bend. Billowing baby blue bong smoke. Fast food drive-thru. OK, just so you know, I’m probably going to give a five star rating to most of Pink Floyd’s recordings until 'Final Cut,' including the early Syd Barrett years. Pure Gold. Or should I say Columbian Gold? Because weed and Pink Floyd go together like Peanut Butter and Jelly. I was having a conversation with a group of friends and colleagues once when a fellow expressed that he just didn’t ‘get’ Pink Floyd. Another dude asked him if he had ever smoked pot? And when he replied in the negative, the rest of the entire gathered assembly suggested, in unison, ‘There’s your problem!’ That’s not to say you can’t enjoy the Floyd sober- of course you can. But… One of the first times I got really, really high was at a high school party in an expansive and beautiful house way up in the mountains of Snowmass, CO, and 'The Dark Side of the Moon' was playing on a quadraphonic stereo. They don’t have enough stars to rate that. I had transcended the fucking stars. The second occasion was in Houston. I was 18-19 years old, and attending a midnight movie at some theatre with a wild girlfriend who loved to have sex in my car while parked in random persons’ driveways (which was not really to my taste); but, more to the point, always had the best weed (which was to my taste.) The movie was 'Live at Pompeii.' I knew nothing about it, she had arranged the whole thing. She had said something about 'Wish You Were Here' being her favorite song, and I thought she was referring to the soft rock hit by Chicago, ‘Wishing You Were Here.’ So imagine my surprise, super-high, when the lights dimmed and the movie began. Obviously, none of this is really a proper review of 'Wish You Were Here'- Roger Waters’ continuing expression of grief over the loss of his friend and founding Floyd member, Syd Barrett, to mental illness exacerbated by copious amounts of LSD ingestion. So, here’s mine in a nutshell: How does one follow up 'The Dark Side of the Moon,' one of the greatest LPs EVER recorded? 'Wish You Were Here,' that’s how. I currently live in Denver, CO, the first of these United States to legalize recreational marijuana. And this ain’t your 1975 pot anymore. These young blood hipsters have taken things to a whole other level. Which can only mean that a random sampling of their reviews of 'Wish You Were Here' will surely reflect their enjoyment of it, too; and, perhaps even more than mine when I was their age… and high.

An odd sound in the middle of the night. The IRS tax code. 'Trout Mask Replica.' Sometimes, you don’t necessarily have to immediately or even completely understand what you’re listening to in order to enjoy it. The free Jazz of Ornette Coleman, for example. But sometimes you do, and if you don’t, then… well… I didn’t understand this LP at all. I liked the opening three tracks and the second to last well enough. The band is rocking and the vocalist has a unique voice (which frankly sounds better when she’s scream/singing rather than singing/singing). The lyrics lent themselves to a little pondering. The arrangements and production had some nice moments- I particularly liked the strings and chord progression of ‘Secretly.’ However, things took a downturn beginning with ‘Tracy’s Flaw,’ and never really recovered. Even the final track, following an ill-fitting Lynyrd Skynyrd-sounding guitar solo, just kinda petered out. The main issue for me is: either Skunk Anansie doesn’t know exactly who they are, or want to be, musically; or, I don’t. Either way it left me scratching my noggin. Still, I don’t think I’d go as far as to say that this Skunk stunk. Maybe more like a wet Dog?

Schrodinger’s cat. The movement of the Holy Spirit. The ending to most of the Coen brothers’ movies. I commented in my review preceding this one that sometimes you don’t completely or immediately comprehend an artist, where they’re coming from, what they’re trying to express, and it adversely affects your enjoyment. Other times, you don’t get it, and its ok. But in this particular instance, I neither immediately nor completely understood Julian Cope’s 'Peggy Suicide'; but, I loved it! He claims the whole thing is a meditation on humanity’s relationship with Mother Earth, and there are certainly songs that may be interpreted in that way. But I also heard him reflecting on a myriad of other things like birth control, police brutality, politics, religion- just to scratch the surface. And I’ve got a hundred questions that need answering: What/where is Cope’s promised land? Who’s the apostolic hag? What’s the significance of 1904? What is the meaning of the lyric, ‘Concentric circles running to the American lite’? Or, ‘It’ll all wash down when it rains’? And when he sings on the opening track, 'Pristeen' (spell check is now screaming at me), ‘How much can you take? ‘Cause your lying to me was your first mistake. Your trusting in me was your major mistake,’ is he singing about or as (and I’m guessing here) Mother Earth? This is a recording to spend some time with, to re-visit, on many occasions. And not just for the lyrics, which are rhymed and rhythmed masterfully. The music is wonderful, too. Passionately sung (and I loved the use of echo on his voice), unique melodies, a wide variety of styles and arrangements while at the same time keeping it simple in the best way, great supporting musicians, even better production (the sound engineer excelled.) There wasn’t a bad or even mediocre track in the bunch. And man, 'Hanging Out And Hung Up On The Line' is rockin’ the way rock oughta rock! I’d love to see this performed live. I was 32 years old and living in the very small town of Como, TX when this LP was released. Nirvana’s 'Nevermind' pretty much dominated my cassette deck back then, along with Metallica’s 'Metallica' (Black Album) and the Rollins’ Band, 'The End of Silence.' The sheer volume of those three no doubt rendered 'Peggy Suicide' inaudible to my ears. But that was then, and this is now. Yeah, this… is… now. (Your turn, Julian. What do you think I mean by that!?) At the conclusion of his musical meditation, he leaves us with this forlorn lyric: ‘I was born to entertain, so here I go. I was shown the door before I got to sing. Only to be now forgotten.’ Well, you know what they say: When one door closes, another opens. Uh, Julian, that would be my open door. And you’re welcome to visit anytime you want.

A baby’s smile. A litter of sleeping puppies. Your lover’s heart. Years ago, solely on the basis of Radiohead vocalist and lyricist Thom Yorke’s raving recommendation, I gave a listen to the Icelandic group, Sigur Ros. In addition to being every bit as wonderful as he had suggested, it also touched something much deeper in me than almost anything else I had ever heard before or since… until now. This is rarified air for me, reserved for the music of the Taize monastery in France, Russian Orthodox liturgical chants, John Lennon’s first two solo albums. These are works of musical art to whom I open my heart- no small thing. They always find me, and not the other way around, because they are looking for a heart too, to endure. ‘Joy is in the ear that hears, not the mouth that speaks,’ claim the race of giants in author Stephen Donaldson’s magnificent Chronicles of Thomas Covenant series. When the student is ready the teacher will come, say the Buddhists. The Flaming Lips’ 'Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots' have found me like a grace. “Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die? And instead of saying all of your goodbyes, let them know you realize that life goes fast. It’s hard to make the good things last. You realize the sun doesn’t go down, it’s just an illusion caused by the world spinning round.” Ok, I’m not going to quote anymore lyrics, because they really need to be heard with the music: tender, trippy, soulful, lovely. Just three of ‘em, these Lips: guitar (often acoustic), minimalist drum kit, bass and synth (incidentally, I have never heard a bass ‘flutter,’ until ‘Summertime.’ And then it gently, mysteriously just transformed into something synthesized. I’d call it remarkable if it wasn’t so… effortless? No, screw it, it’s remarkable. Just something that simple. Ok, I just said I wasn’t going to do this, but I changed my mind. Kindness, please. I’m still somewhat in a state of rapture. The lyrics conclude on the second to last song (the closer is an instrumental): “As logic stands, you couldn’t met a man who’s from the future. But logic broke; as he appeared, he spoke about the future: ‘We’re not going to make it,’ he explained how the end will come... I noticed that he had a watch and hat that looked familiar. He was me, from a dimension torn free of the future… ‘You and me were never meant to be part of the future.’ All we have is now. All we’ve ever had is now. All we have is now. All we’ll ever have is now.” ‘Ego Tripping From The Gates Of Hell’ (the title of the 6th track and, incidentally, sounding like a title ELP would’ve been comfortable with on any of their LPs)- the consequence of missing all the other gifted moments of life because of one’s desperate search for the one moment they want so badly to control. Or, surrendering victoriously into the eternal now, the eternal here, and being given every moment, out of control. This is the choice offered on 'Yoshimi.' This is music getting close to beyond music. This LP has no use for stars (rating). It lives among the stars already. But for our purposes, I’m giving it five. Five squared. Five to the fifth power. Add five more to that.

Batteries running low. A 20 year old water heater. My step-kids’ biological father. Yes, now I remember why I deleted so many tracks from this recording on my iPod. It’s not that 'John Barleycorn Must Die' is a bad LP. It just gets a little tedious. ‘Course, these were the days of extended jams. So, I’m willing to make allowance for that. And Steve Windwood is a mega talented instrumentalist, as well as a good vocalist, at least when he’s not slightly off-key, which is unfortunately often. (Flat or sharp, I can never quite tell.) Jim Capaldi is a great drummer, and Chris Wood gives them that nice jazzy sound with his sax and flute. I was 11 when this recording was released, but didn’t discover it until High School. The title track was the big seller in my day, that whole resurgent honoring of the ancient pagan ways among British musicians. (By the way, it’s interesting to note how many of Windwood’s musical colleagues were raised Anglican, but ultimately rejected Christianity in favor of practicing all of the eastern religious traditions, extraterrestrial veneration, and their own native paganism. Don’t blame this entirely on LSD, either. But this is another subject for another time.) But the title track is not really representative of Traffic’s usual sound. I remember thinking how unique the whole jazz/blues/rock vibe was that Traffic had going on. And it really ‘sparked’ on their next LP. This one, though, for me, is lacking a little flint. (Funny, too, how some LPs from that same period still seem to resonate with this listener- 'In The Court Of The Crimson King,' ie- while others no longer do.) It’s one of those grey, snowy days today in Colorado that typically puts me in the mood for something a little soulful, a little mellow. Theoretically, 'John Barleycorn' should do the job, but it seems to now be on the dole, at least for me. Maybe a nice glass of mead might help?

A Tibetan refugee from communist China. Someone who identifies as transgender. An ex-con. My temptation is to say that my best friend in middle school was black, as well as my girlfriend in college whom I almost married, that I grew up groovin’ to Motown and later what is now considered old school rap/hip hop, that I voted for Barack Obama as president, etc- all that shit that so-called progressive baby boomer whites always say in defense. But what I’m going to say is that Fugees are coming from a life experience so significantly different from mine, I almost have nothing to offer as far as a review is concerned. The few things I could authentically recognize and resonate with was the sample on ‘Zealots’ of ‘I Only Have Eyes For You,’ and ‘Knights In White Satan’ at the end of ‘The Mask,’ and, obviously Lauryn Hill’s tender cover of Roberta Flack’s beautifully mournful song, ‘Killing Me Softly With His Song’ along with Wyclef Jean’s take on my favorite Bob Marely song, ‘No Woman, No Cry.’ I was living in a rural town in north east Texas when this album was released, where segregation was very much alive and well. Not explicitly, of course. But it was there nonetheless. It’s always been. Still is. Probably will be tomorrow. So while I can’t honestly say I enjoyed this recording; Fugees, I’m sincerely making an attempt to listen, to understand. That won’t, and can’t, possibly settle the score. But maybe it’s a step towards reconciliation?

A torn and crumpled valentine’s card. A spilled bottle of champagne. Not nearly enough cocaine. Is there anyone who can sing a word like ‘murder’ lovelier than Morrissey? His voice is sweeter and smoother than a ruby red glass of sherry. Likewise, the rest of the Smiths, who soar with the best jingle jangle sound since the Byrds. However, I’ve never heard such delightful music (Johnny Marr’s) pared with such utterly doleful lyrics (Morrissey’s)… at least if I’m not considering the Smiths’ LP before this one. Morrissey seems stuck on the subject of unrequited love, which as a British gay man in 1987 was, I’m guessing, not an uncommon experience; not to mention dangerous- another theme running through his lyrics. Beatings, murder, suicide. On ‘Unhappy Birthday,’ he wishes death on his ‘evil,’ deceitful ex-lover! I’m not aware of Morrissey’s religious belief, if any, but every tradition I’m aware of mostly advises against this, witnessing to the dire consequences awaiting the wisher for such a wish. Here’s my main concern, though, and I’m speaking from my own experience. Morrissey falls in love at the drop of a hat. A smile and a wink from a pretty James Dean face, and he’s in seventh heaven. But in love has nothing to do with Love. Love without conditions, expectations. Love that Loves regardless, even if its unrequited, disrespected. The trick is to set one’s boundaries carefully and guard them diligently for one’s own protection, while still Loving the one pissing all over your broken heart. Whereas Morrissey answers the question, ‘… is life sick and cruel?’ with an immediate ‘Yes!’ I would have to disagree. Helen Keller, as one example, suffered in ways that would shame Morrissey and myself, yet pronounced life wonderful. She could have justifiably (according to our often flawed perception and limited human understanding) pronounced it sick and cruel, but intentionally chose not to. Ask yourself why? Morrissey, I hope you do find love one day. Maybe you already have. And I hope it brings you all you desire. But the kind I think you’re so desperately searching for will not ultimately fill that hole in your tender, aching heart. Only Love can, and will, do that.

Making the same mistake, ad nauseam. An entirely blank greeting card. Ennui. So very sad. Seemingly, so very little wisdom gained, or shared, from the experience. There’s the blues- that’s one thing, a wholly other thing. I would title this genre, the grays. Sorrow as an end to itself. Elliott Smith died at 34 of self-inflicted stab wounds following a row with his girlfriend, compounded by substance abuse. This recording feels very wrong, and I don’t ever want to hear it again.

Shiny, tight black leather. A loud, idling Harley Davidson. Amp volume level 11. I’m eager to review this because I panned Iron Maiden’s debut release from the same year a couple of weeks ago, and as I’m only 14 LPs into these 1001ers, my page reads that metal is my least favorite genre. And that’s not accurate. I actually like metal, just to clear the record. And this record clears it. I was 21 years old in 1980, nearing the end of my stay at one of Huntsville’s (Texas) many correctional facilities named Sam Houston State University. (By the by, it was never Sam Houston Institute of Technology, or S.H.I.T. – urban myth.) One of my very best friends was a head banger named Chris. I was still listening to stuff from the likes of Foreigner and Journey and such, and when introduced to a whole set of other groups like Dio, Iron Maiden, and Priest, it was a little much initially. Matter of fact, it was downright frightening- ‘Highway to hell,’ and all that stuff (which I later discovered was not a song about knock, knock, knockin' on satan’s door at all, strictly speaking). I was frankly surprised that 'British Steel' had not one single reference to the devil or hell. ‘Course you don’t really need that on an LP populated with Killer Robots (‘Rapid Fire’), marauding pagan hordes (‘The Rage’), general mayhem (‘Breaking The Law’), and rough, gay sex (‘Grinder’). And, Judas Priest is thoughtful enough to let you know exactly what you’re in for, where you will be traveling for the next hour, with the very first opening lines: ‘Pounding the world like a battering ram. Forging the furnace for the final grand slam. Chopping away at the source. Soon the course will be done. Leaving a trail of destruction that’s second to none.’ Metal has always had an exaggerated opinion of its’ own destructive power if one takes these kind of statements literally; which, they really aren’t, even if metal sorta thinks they kinda are? Well, such are the fantasies of Priest’s target audience: underage beer drinking, pot smoking, fast driving, sex craved teenage boys. Great riffs and Rob Halford’s soaring vocals (truly second to none, with the exception of Ronnie James Dio and Bruce Dickinson) make this a very enjoyable LP. ‘You don’t have to be old to be wise,’ snarls Halford. Couldn’t agree more. But you also don’t have to be young to be metal, for about the length of this recording, after which I could go for a lil’ nap.

Morning wood. Pitching a tent. Stimulus package. You’ve heard of mockumentaries, right? Well, I think this is the first mockcept LP I’ve ever heard. Digital Underground describes this as a concept album about a pharmaceutical substance called a Sex Packet that provides a good sexual experience ‘where the normal attainment of such experiences would be counter-productive to the mission at hand.’ Said Sex Packet is featured on the cover, glowing blue, and the final several tracks in particular laud its virtues. Indeed, the majority of rhymes on 'Sex Packets' are a celebration… no, more accurately, a congratulation of the artists’ own sexual prowess. On a couple of the other tracks, we find Digital Underground further boasting on their rapping skills. And finally, on ‘Underwater Rimes,’ they brag about both: rappin’ and humpin’! Look, this is what it is, and ain’t what it ain’t. Its intended as good fun, in the moment. There’s no consideration of the consequences of all this humpin’, nor any significant statements about their experience as African-Americans in 1990. It ain’t Public Enemy or N.W.A, in other words. But hey, there’s a place for that in hip-hop. I can only sustain, for a while, the kind of rapt attention that an artist like Bob Dylan requires. Eventually, I gotta pogo to a little Ramones, too, just for joyful relief. Lyrics aside, this is a funky, funky LP. Loved the music, loved the meter of the rhymin’, all that ‘New Jazz.’ Be great for a party, with the bass a thumpin’, and afterwards when I gets to the humpin’. 3 outta 5. Why not?

An Oreo and a Hydrox. Cheetos in the red bag and Cheetos in the blue bag. Pabst Blue Ribbon and Chimay Trappist Ale. I remember when I was a kid (1960-1970s) and the adults said that my music all sounded the same. And I guess to their uninitiated ears, Black Sabbath really did sound just like Grand Funk Railroad. But of course, you and I both know that those two really don’t sound like each other at all. Nor are they singing about the same things. Jungle Brothers are responding to their experience of being African-American at the end of the 20th century in quite a different way than, say, the infamous gangsta rappers. I think this is at least one of the reasons why some white people continue to purposefully mislabel this entire genre as crap rather than rap. They just don’t know any better, having spent virtually no time with it at all. In this way, rap is no different from country music- they’re both acquired tastes. I found Jungle Brothers to be a refreshing change from the violent, materialistic, misogynistic worldview of the much more publicized rap that white folks see on music videos and hear blaring out of car stereo speakers- that one can be authentically black in America without resorting to violent retaliation or irresponsible fucking or being high all the time. ‘The city’s a jungle,’ the opening track of 'Done By The Forces Of Nature' pronounces, ‘and we are the brothers. This so-called king of the jungle will run for cover. All of your minds have been set into a trance. So instead of fighting out your problems… we order ya’ll to dance!’ Dis it if you want. But have we even/ever given that a genuine try?

I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes, you’d know what a drag it is to see you. You’re an idiot, babe, it’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe. You say you’re lookin’ for someone… to close his eyes for you, someone to close his heart, someone who will die for you and more- but it ain’t me babe. ‘Mr Narrator, this is Bob Dylan to me. My story could be his songs. I’m his soldier child.’ So writes the late D. Boon- guitarist, singer/songwriter of The Minutemen- on ‘History Lesson-Part II. Surely, Elvis Costello is Dylan’s other soldier child. He possesses every characteristic that makes Dylan Dylan: brutal honesty (including self-assessment), civil/cultural/political/martial/ecclesiastical awareness/astuteness, humor; and, let’s not forget, a supportive backing band as good as any Dylan ever led (and he led some great ones.) Elvis and The Attractions are categorized as new wave, but that’s like labeling Dylan folk rock. Sure, sometimes. But artists like these (Neil Young, as another example) just don’t fit and remain in one place very long. Too melodic for punk, too deep for new wave, too modern for classic rock- look, I don’t care what you call it, 'Armed Forces' is just a great LP every which way you experience it. It might even sound good played backwards, or repeatedly beaten with a plunger. I bet your bangers and mash would even taste better if you ate ‘em off this LP! I sat on this CD once in my bare ass and then wrote three good songs. ‘For ye suffer fools gladly, seeing ye yourselves are wise,’ the early Christian evangelist Paul sarcastically wrote to one of his congregations. Elvis, though, like Dylan before him, really IS wise, IS speaking wisdom. And most certainly IS NOT suffering gladly fools or fascists, fortunate fledglings or feckless forbears. Elvis may have been willing to give his ‘Party Girl’ ‘anything but time,’ but as a lifelong fan (upon hearing his debut LP in college) I’m ‘pledging my time, to you (Elvis), hoping you’ll come through too.’ And you always do.

Tomato soup and a grilled cheese. Tools. A Friday night High School football game. Ah, Bad Company. Who pose such philosophical queries as ‘… wondering where my life is leading…’ and what ‘… keeps me from fading away,’ only to offer the answer: fucking. Which happened to be mostly what I was thinking about too, at 15, when this LP was released. No less than five out of the eight tracks on 'Bad Company' are about fucking, if you count ‘Movin’ On,’ which is technically about the stereotypical rock n’ roll nomadic lifestyle; but, fucking is certainly implied. Similarly on the title track, using the outlaw motif so popular to rockers. The final track was a bit confusing, in this context- a seagull flying free, until somebody shoots it down? I assume Paul Rodgers is really writing about himself, but I’m not sure what any of this has to do with fucking, so it shouldn’t even be on this L.P. ‘Movin’ On’ should have been the more obvious closer. With the exception of a couple of the hits repeatedly broadcast on the oldies radio station, I haven’t listened to the entire LP in quite a while. And over these many years since high school, I had forgotten two things about 'Bad Company': firstly, how many great hits it actually contained- ‘I Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love,’ ‘Rock Steady,’ ‘Ready For Love,’ ‘Bad Company,’ ‘Movin’ On.’ And secondly, how absolutely forgettable the other three clunkers are, numbers that you take advantage of, during the concert, to scoot to the bathroom before the next hit when the boys return with that particular rich, crunchy mid-70s sound for which bands like Bad Company are known and loved. The comfort food of rock. If I’m not mistaken, I believe the kids today have labelled this Dad rock. I wouldn’t disagree. This is Dad rock, and certainly not Mom. Or more accurately, Man rock. And not Millennial man, not hipster man. 70’s man, who takes ‘whatever I want, and baby I want you!’ (A disturbing and frightening thought, if taken literally.) Best experienced with a cheap, cold beer in hand, a cigarette dangling from your bottom lip, and a growing pain underneath your leather pants. So, I’m speaking exclusively to the fellas here: If you’re not ready for love (or at least aroused) by the time this one’s over, then you might be suffering from low testosterone, easily remedied by prescribed medication.

An Eagle’s nest. A red kite soaring in a blue sky. Music heard in the air. Is it safe to assume that the term Stank Love is referring to sex, the smell, specifically? I’m familiar with the similarly labeled, Stank Foot, defined as an offensive, unpleasant odor. However, the title track appears to be celebrating Stank Love, so I’m confused. Unless, perhaps, the lyricist enjoys a stanky bounce, and then… This whole LP found me scratching my head. Take this lyric from an early track (‘So Fresh, So Clean’) as but one example: ‘… you’re so Anne Frank, let’s hit the attic to hide out for ‘bout two weeks…’ (for the sole purpose, the lyricist concludes, of having sex.) I can only hope he’s unfamiliar with what Anne Frank actually endured up in her attic. Stank lyric, my brother. And while the commentary on 'Stankonia' is hardly confined to odiferous sex, any political/cultural/racial, etc. statements that were being made just got lost on me. Hard to listen for any potentially thoughtful ideas amongst the company of songs like, ‘I’ll Call B4 I Cum.’ Captivating rhyming and rhythm style, clever effects and quality general studio work, I’ll give you that. I wish I could’ve made more sense of the lyrics, though. No doubt a cultural diversity too large for an easy and immediate crossing by this listener. Or, it’s entirely possible that 'Stankonia' just stank.

A scoop of ice cream tumbling off the cone. Putting down a beloved old dog. Eleanor Rigby. In the mid-90s, the Smashing Pumpkins released an epic LP with a title Nick Drake could have considered for his own: 'Melancholy And The Infinite Sadness.' Nick Drake can out-bum out the bluest any other singer/songwriter from his generation has to offer. Even Joni Mitchell had a few, ‘Big Yellow Taxi(s)’ in her repertoire, for cryin’ out loud. Not Drake. Every song is a meditation on the unending truncheon blows of depression and other debilitating effects of isolation, exacerbated by the relentless impending approach of death. ‘Saturday’s sun won’t come and see me today,’ Drake concludes on the final track. ‘Saturday’s sun has turned to Sunday’s rain. So Sunday sat in the Saturday sun and wept for a day gone by.’ One of his songs has the word ‘cello’ in the title, quite possibly the saddest sounding musical instrument ever invented. (Banjo and Accordion tie for the happiest.) Even the title, Five Leaves Left, refers to a brand of rolling papers that carry a caution upon nearing the end. Drake was writing for his life here, apparently literally. But all this is not to say that I didn’t enjoy the album. To the contrary, I found it melodically rich, with uncommon (in the best way) chord progressions. Painfully tender, like a bruise, and approached carefully, respectfully, so as not to cause further damage. Songs best listened to, I imagine, on a rainy day, and best heard in the autumn/winter of one’s life rather than the spring/summer. Drake sings on ‘Way To Blue’: ‘Look through time and find your rhyme. Tell us what you find. We will wait at your gate hoping like the blind.’ We used to play an imaginative game as kids concerning which of our senses we would most miss. Sight was generally the favorite, and for good reason. Imagine the inability to a gaze up at a snow crested mountain against a clear blue sky, or down into the toothless grin of your infant child. I always chose hearing, though. Still do. And with gratitude for musical artists like Nick Drake, who have shown me, repeatedly, the ability of sound to bring vision, too.

Rejection. Revenge. Repeat, retarded. Archduke Franz Ferdinand Carl Ludwig Joseph Maria was the heir presumptive to the throne of Austria-Hungary. His assassination in Sarajevo on June 28, 1914 is considered the most immediate cause of the first World War. ‘His life, or at least the ending of it,’ recalls bassist Bob Hardy, ‘was the catalyst for the complete transformation of the world and that is what we want our music to be. But I don’t want to over-intellectualize the name thing. Basically a name should just sound good… like music.’ Drummer Paul Thompson followed up, saying, ‘I like the idea that, if we become popular, maybe the words Franz Ferdinand will make people think of the band instead of the historical figure.’ This never really worked out very well for my girlfriend in college who formed a country/funk fusion group, performed one live gig, and then promptly broke up. The Mary Queen of Scots were too far ahead of their time. This is a dumb name for a dumb band with a dumb sound. Nothing noteworthy here, save the absence of any instrumental breaks whatsoever. I didn’t hear one guitar solo, bass run, drum fill, piccolo trill, triangle shred… nothing. And lyrically? Well, here’s one really dumb example from the song, ‘Auf Achse’: ‘Now I’m nailed above you gushing from my side. It’s with your sins that you’ve killed me, thinking of your sins I die. Thinking how you’ve let them touch you, how you’d never realize than I’m ripped and hang forsaken knowing never will I rise again.’ A comparison upgrade, at least, from the Austrian Archduke. But a dumb one. Far as I can tell, this is an entire LP replete with unrequited love songs, each one dumber than the next (alleviating Hardy’s concern about any over-intellectualization.) But don’t feel too sorry for these boys. Their lyrics betray their own moral culpability in repeating the same dumb choices. Furthermore, it speaks volumes about the lyricist’s true feelings when he concludes a plea for her to ‘Come On Home’ with the lyric ‘But don’t forget to leave.’ That idea’s just plain… what’s the adjective I’m looking for?

A sigh. A shrug. A yawn. Often, classic punk rock offered solutions along with voicing concerns. Maybe Pulp carries the label post-punk because they’ve moved well past the point of offering solutions, and just don’t care anymore. This is the second and, I hope, final Pulp LP I’ll ever review. I simply don’t enjoy this group at all. The music is at least a little better here than the one before, but that’s not saying much. The Monkey’s second LP was a little better than their first; but, it didn’t significantly improve upon their general monkeyness. It’s not the music I’m really critiquing anyway. It’s the lyrics: ‘When you’re no longer searching for beauty or love, just some kind of life with the edges taken off, when you can’t even define what it is you’re frightened of, this song will be here.’ Sad, the prospect of abandoning the search for beauty and love. What would life be in their absence, I wonder? ‘I look like a big man, but I only got a little soul.’ I’ll say. Only two songs before, he counsels help for the aged, but not because it’s a caring, loving thing to do; rather, you’re going to be old someday yourself. So do unto others to insure that you’ll be done one in return. Purely reciprocal, which is fine as far as it goes, but hardly soul growing. At least he admits in ‘Dishes,’ that while he and Jesus share the same initials (first and last only, no mention of Jesus’ middle initial, H) he’s no miracle worker, just a man. From that he concludes that what’s real and common sensible are the tangible things here on Earth, and not the illusionary hope of Heavenly things. Exactly the opposite of what the first JC taught, cautioning that is the earthly, and not heavenly, things that are subject to theft and decay. ‘And if it all amounts to nothing it doesn’t matter. These are still our glory days.’ Really? All this disillusionment with modern ways, but with no actual alternative offered, this whole random, bleak, meaningless existence called human life- these are our glory days?! Does Pulp even know what ‘glory’ means? True glory is neither false nor fleeting, and rich with meaning and purpose, informing our days. Glory glories in Love. And, sadly, that appears to be beyond the reach of Pulp’s experience or understanding. Is there even a glimpse of either love or glory represented on the cover (an artist’s interpretation of perhaps the most unerotic nude woman I’ve ever seen)? I rated the prior LP I listened to with only a single star. I’m going to give this one a two, because I did enjoy the music a little more; but mostly, because I now suspect that Pulp is doing the best they can with the little they’ve been given.

The mist of hairspray. The smoke of fireworks. The dust kicked up from a pair of working dance shoes. As a Baby Boomer I am practically required by my tribe to like Michael Jackson . And, I do, to a point. I would probably like him even more were he not operating under a major disadvantage- too much airplay. Six out of these ten songs are hits; four, at least, major hits. ‘Man In The Mirror,’ alone, qualifies as a mega-hit. As fitting, the arrangements, production, etc are pretty over-the-top, ala Vegas Elvis, including a generous amount of big hair metal 80s rock squeezed in between all the funk. What surprised me, though, was how current it still sounded, and not nearly as dated as I was expecting. The groove endures. I mean, we are talking about the King of pop here. Yet another surprise, listening to this so many years later as an older man now (I was only in my late 20s at the time of Bad’s release) was the realization of how young this LP really is, and I’m referring to its energy rather than its chronological age. It’s chocked full of the kinds of experiences and emotions with which a young man would typically resonate: hot girls and fast cars, obviously. It’s certainly preachy enough (we can create a better world than the crappy one we inherited from our parents), possessing that marvelous blend of arrogance and ignorance so characteristic of youth. But young man Michael’s special sauce, above and beyond all that, is his badness. He’s bad. Really, really bad. But not bad bad. Note that Michael does not go the route of say, a Miles Davis or a James Brown. Michael is not a bad 'motherfucker'! That would frighten the whites too much. Michael is Black Lite- the full flavor of the funky experience but with a third less guilt. Michael wants to challenge you, all right, to get in your face, to take you outside into the back alley. But not to fight. To dance. Maybe later, to love. By the way, Michael’s love songs are truly lovely, ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You,’ for example, the duet with Siedah Garrett. Sweet and tender. Smooth. Or, ‘Liberian Girl’- again, what’s better than being in love? (Note that in this song, he’s not yet married to Miss Liberia. For what it’s worth.) The only two of the bunch that didn’t seem to work well in the mix was the duet with the usually great Stevie Wonder. Relationships aren’t always a smooth mix, the song observes. Neither are Michael and Stevie, at least on this number. And the final song, ‘Smooth Criminal,’ exploring the aftermath of a violent crime? Weird ending for this LP, and a bit of a bummer, frankly. I just came to do a little dancing and flirting. And thankfully, Michael mostly serves up a lot of that, and still better than most. A good time all around, 'Bad' is, in spite of that one accidental and unfortunate glimpse of myself (the man) in the mirror, donning not much more than an open bathrobe, and gyrating to ‘The Way You Make Me Feel.’ In my sincere effort to make the world a better place, rest assured I’ve already taken steps to ensure that no one need ever take a look at that.

Joan of Arc burning on the stake. Dogs playing poker. The back cover of 2112. Integrity. That’s what Rush has, in spades. And chops, man. Chops galore. And all accomplished with just three guys. Those other big trios- Cream, ZZ Top, Grand Funk- all undone by large servings of drugs/alcohol and service to even large egos. But not Rush. It took nothing less than the death of their drummer for Rush to rightly pull the plug. Let’s talk about prog rock for a moment. The early evangelists of punk rock did their best to convince me that I could not be a fan of both prog and punk. The battle line was drawn, they asserted. Choose one or the other. I think the major beef among the punks was that prog was just too hard to play! There were also some philosophical arguments involved about the music industry and censorship and such; but, initially, at least, the punks just felt that prog rock had lost all touch with the early rock n’ roll of, say, Chuck Berry. Hey, I can play ‘Johnnie B. Goode,’ and I could teach it to you pretty quickly, too. And our new little band would sound good enough to raise the garage door and play for the neighbors and passerby. Try doing the same with ELP’s ‘Toccata,’ off the 'Brain Salad Surgery' LP! You can’t. I can’t. But I still love ‘em both. I dig the fast tempo, three chord blitzkrieg of the Ramones, I really do. But I also never stopped loving the prog rock of King Crimson or Jethro Tull. It was my little secret. Another thing: music is math. It’s lot of other things, too, of course. But at a very fundamental level, it is math. And prog rock is music for math nerds. Like me. The ever changing time signatures so characteristic of prog give me a boner. I love figuring them out and then air-playing along with the band. Sometimes, though, prog ventures a little too far towards the math- Yes, being a great example- and too far away from the rock. Rush always got the balance right. They never let the prog overwhelm the rock. And that’s one of the reasons why they’re my favorite prog rock band. Geddy Lee can shred a bass like nobody’s business. And I don’t want to hear all that shit about how awful his shrieking vocals are. I happen to find his voice quite beautiful and melodic. (Listen to a little Motorhead if you want to hear a truly awful lead vocalist.) Alex Lifeson- why is he not mentioned in the same reverent company of guitarists like Hendrix and Clapton? And with the possible exception of John Bonham (THE greatest rock drummer of all time), who’s better, cleaner, faster, more creative than Neil Peart? Who even has as many drums on his kit? (Actually, I googled it and the answer is: Terry Bozzio, who played with Frank Zappa in the late-70s to early-80s. But Neil still has a lot of drums, too.) And then there are those thoughtful lyrics that Peart also wrote. Sure, he gets a little too preachy, at times, like on ‘With Hunt,’ cautioning against the dangerous effects caused by mob mentality. But mostly, his lyrics a tremendous sensitivity: ‘I feel the sense of possibilities. I feel the wrench of hard realities. The focus is sharp in the city (‘The Camera Eye’).’ Or the famous lyric from one of this LP’s big hits, ‘Limelight’: ‘Living in the limelight, the universal dream. For those who wish to see, those who wish to be, must put aside the alienation, get on with the fascination, the real relation, the underlying theme.’ You can’t get that kind of wisdom from the other top acts of 1981- Hall and Oates, or Pat Benatar, or REO Speedwagon. And finally, the bonus: Rush always look like they were having a ball; and, not at your expense, either, or anyone’s else’s. Certainly not the music industry’s nor the critics, who have yet to confess that they were just wrong, and you and I, the fans, were right. At this point in their career, even following the success of the LP prior to this one, 'Permanent Waves,' their label still wouldn’t cover the expense of 'Moving Pictures' intriguing cover, and Rush made up the difference from their own pockets! Good people, Rush- a band I would have loved to have been a part of, as small a part as mine would have been to play; that is, if I could only learn to play the castanets in 10/8.

Its always darkest before the dawn. Behind every dark cloud there’s a silver lining. This little light of mine, I’m a gonna let it shine. Doves. Never heard of ‘em. Wished I had before now. I think I love ‘em. NME called 'The Last Broadcast' ‘the most uplifting miserable album you’ll hear all year.’ I’m not typically a fan of Brit-pop, precisely because of the inordinate time the genre spends celebrating misery. That, and the music often sucks. But Doves have stopped me in my tracks. I found the music bright and joyful, almost effortless. And the lyrics, while a far piece from puppy-producing joy, were definitely more optimistic than the soul crushing bleakness of, for example, Pulp. Even on ‘Sulphur Man,’ who is described as ‘A soul in tatters, as black as coal,’ the lyricist still hopes ‘… you can find what matters.’ The other Brit-pops would advise suicide, right now, before the rest of this day ends up surely sucking even worse than yesterday. But even that doesn’t really matter, they say. Live, die, whatever. Who gives a shit? That’s not Doves, though. Things do matter. Even negative things. Maybe especially negative things. Or maybe more accurately, you matter. Negative things do not have the final word, they are not an end to themselves. On ‘Satellites’ you can actually hear the emergence from bad times into better times. Even the expression, ‘Sweet Lord,’ is sang with what sounds like a choir. There’s a lot of those kind of moments, cool little surprising sounds- tinkling chimes, pounding hammers- sprinkled liberally all over this album like jimmies on a donut, never detracting, but always enhancing the song. In fact, I felt as if I was back in college (late 70s) listening to this LP at the local video arcade, every song on 'The Last Broadcast' accompanied by the whirs and whistles and beeps and such emanating from Pac Man and Asteroids and Donkey Kong. (Have I completely lost the millennial readers?) I watched a recent series of conversations between the producer extraordinaire, Rick Rubin, and a musician named Paul McCartney (whom you might remember from Wings, not to mention a little band he was in before.) They spent the time in front of a mixing board console, Rubin manipulating the various tracks, highlighting the bass parts and asking questions about composition and historical context, etc. Well, he’d have his hands full with 'The Last Broadcast.' I mean, when’s the last time you heard a clarinet on a rock n’ roll record (‘Friday’s Dust’)? Then again, now that I think of it, McCartney used one on ‘When I Get Older,’ a track off of one of those LPs he did with the fellas before Wings (and you might of heard of this one too), 'Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.' But I digress. Dove takes their time with the intros and exits. I like that. Lots of echo in the vocals, giving the overall mix a dreamy sound, reminiscent of Syd Barrett’s Pink Floyd (‘The Nile Song,’ i.e.) I like that too. There wasn’t one bad, even mediocre, song in the bunch, including the two droning instrumentals serving as intros for the next songs. Oh, and check out their adaptation of King Crimson’s ‘Moonchild’ on the fourth track, ‘M62 Song.’ It took me until the very end before I finally consciously realized what my subconscious knew from the beginning. The fact that they even know who King Crimson are rates them a bonus star, don’t you think? There’s an oldies radio station here in Denver that advertises, ‘Remember when music was good?’ I don’t ever want to turn into one of those guys, yelling at the kids to get off my lawn, and grousing about how today’s music ain’t got the same soul, so start playing old time rock n’ roll. 'The Last Broadcast' is proof enough that good rock did not end with the turning of the century. Now if I can just figure out the significance of the album cover?

The last chance department at JCP. Appliance shopping at Sears. A graphic T display at Dillards. ‘If you want a lover I’ll do anything you ask me to. And if you want another kind of love I’ll wear a mask for you. If you want a partner, take my hand, or if you want to strike me down in anger here I stand. I’m your man.’ I believe this lyric sums up pretty much everything I don’t like about Leonard Cohen. I find his whole approach toward women and sex to be juvenile, and his unhealthy obsession with the end times and divine judgment tiresome. Unless this is all satire, and I’m missing the whole point. Any of which I might be willing to work past if the music was good. But the tunes on this LP mostly sound like department store muzak crossed with bad 80s new wave dance music. All that and a drab album cover, too. I don’t mind ugly art when its serving a higher purpose, conveying some deeper, heretofore illusive truth. I do mind dumb art, though. Look, I know that Cohen is the darling of the critics, as much as I’m aware of the devotion of his peculiar fans. I’ve just never quite figured out why, nor does this LP make me want to. ‘And I can’t forget,’ Cohen sings on the second to last song of this interminable recording, ‘but I don’t remember what.’ I can, Leonard. And I do.

A dying battery. A vegetable garden at the end of autumn. A human heart. What are the odds that immediately upon casting my vote of 1 star for Leonard Cohen’s 1988 release, 'I’m Your Man,' the very next assignment I received was another Leonard Cohen LP! The music review gods are fucking with me. That is, if you believe in said gods. One would gather that Leonard Cohen would advise against such indulgences for the greater sake of discovering the truth, no matter how sorrowful. But I don’t believe Cohen is the atheist people want him to be. In fact, I don’t think he’s an unbeliever at all. I think he’s a wounded believer. An unbeliever has no logical reason to address God, as Cohen does from the get-go (and has throughout his career) with a brashness so endemic to his peculiar tradition- Here I am, Lord. I can take as much as u can dish out. And in spite of lyrics like ‘I’m so sorry for that ghost I made you be. Only one of us was real, and that was me (‘Treaty’),’ the more accurate lyric from the same song seems to be, ‘I’m angry and I’m tired all the time. I wish there was a treaty… between your love and mine.’ Again, on the following track (‘On the Level’), ‘I heard the snake was baffled by his sin, he shed his scales to find the snake within. But born again is born without a skin, the poison enters into everything!’ Cohen’s on the other side of the remaining western (wailing) wall in Jerusalem, lamenting both God’s seeming abandonment of him, but more so his own of God, his loss of faith. Or, perhaps, the consequential loss that choosing to not believe any longer brings. And how the music is a perfect reflection of that, too, as if it’s aged along with Cohen’s human body, and retained only the parts necessary for essential functioning- a piano here, a guitar there. Gorgeous stringed instruments with a bit of a middle eastern/Mediterranean flare, in minor keys, of course. A banjo never even got close to this LP, thankfully. And be advised to have a box of Kleenex on hand for the closing lullaby. Leonard, from my own troubled faith, also not easily reconcilable with human existence, I believe I have not heard the cry of the needy on your prior recordings, and I confess to a missed opportunity to practice the understanding my discipleship requires. This is a deeply, profoundly moving work of art- and creativity beyond- that you have shared and I’m both humbled by and grateful for its passion. I still think 'I’m Your Man' is dreadful, but I doubt you care, nor should you. This one- 'You Want It Darker'- paradoxically, is the one that truly illuminates your gift. Leonard Cohen presumably died, integrity intact, rather than with/in the false, illusionary hope (and comfort) of his own faith tradition. Is that always the right course of action? The Rolling Stones, following Altamont, seemed to intentionally shed a little light into the prior darkness they had been nurturing, choosing against integrity for the greater sake of, quite literally, saving lives. Loving life, even. The next several years and LPs released remain their very finest period as well as some of the finest rock n’ roll records ever recorded. Who’s to say?

A fat lip. A throbbing head. A full heart. It is observed that the Tibetan people (whose country and culture remains illegally occupied and oppressed by communist China) are among the happiest on earth, despite their circumstances. Their recipe? A constant contemplation of the everpresent reality of death that becomes their catalyst for the enjoyment of every moment, this moment. It’s all gravy, they giggle. Understand? I’ve found the Irish possessing a similar ability to dance in spite of their shackles, but not of the same fruit of active detachment from the illusionary external world of which the eastern religious traditions bring awareness; rather, the Irish find/choose joy in the midst of their active engagement with the muddy world, as well as the spirits that abide in it: whiskey (ponder why, exactly, alcohol has been classically identified as a spirit), followed by a good dust up, and then another whiskey. At some point, a weeping, snot nosed, good cry is in order. And all accompanied with music and song, dance, and fall. Another round of whiskey! There is an intentional and unwaverable attitude of joy in the Pogues’ music and lyrics, despite the worst that life (or the devil and all his fallen angels, sometimes even God himself) can bring. The Irish don’t raise a glass to celebrate poverty and oppression. They toast the Irish spirit, the human spirit, who rages against and endures the worst that life brings. Who fight it tooth and nail. Whose dying words echo the concluding lyrics of this LP- even when the worms be crawling in and around your brain, ‘Be merry, my friends. Be merry.’ Sweet Mary, Jesus, and all the saints, can’t the Pogues wander, musically: from traditional Irish folk music amped up a might with a punk edge. Celtic sounds pared with Latin flare. When did a Turkish song of the damned ever propel a person to dance a jig to salvation? Or singing 'The Rare Old Mountain Dew' in the drunk tank on Christmas Eve ever transfigure into something as earthly-holy as the feeding trough in Bethlehem in which the baby Jesus slumbered? ‘Metropolis’ even introduced this listener, at least, into the genre of Celtic jazz! Lyrics? Where do we begin? I’ve not heard anyone, other than the Pogues, use both the words ‘fuck (ed, ing, er, etc)’ and ‘Jesus’ in the same song (‘Bottle Of Smoke’) and with reverence for the meaning and importance of both. As expected, there’s plenty of love for the immigrant experience and celebration for the promised land of opportunity in America. Irish are certainly among the most grateful immigrants of the freedom and opportunity America provides. But so are Latinos and Africans, for whom the Pogues also sing. This LP, this band, is so much more than only ‘Irish.’ And yet, nothing less, somehow, too. Hey, what do I know? I’m WUI anyway, from my home, on a snow day in Denver (2 feet and rising.) Is it happy hour, yet, across the Alantic, to the east? My great-grandfather, Papa Hall Delaney, was an Irish immigrant and worked on the western U.S. railroad, eventually settling in San Francisco before he died, forcing my great grandmother, Nanny, to move back to Pasadena, Texas, where she lived out her days in a small apartment above the garage in the backyard of my grandparent’s home. At 29, when this LP was released, I was barely even aware of my Irish roots. I was spirited enough, that’s for sure, and too familiar with spirits, but not yet spiritual, Celtic or otherwise, so I didn’t’ know shite. Over the years, I’ve become more than familiar with the best and worst Irish blood can bring: an unfortunate propensity to the overindulgence of alcohol, an exaggerated and sometimes violent reaction to fear and despair, an uneasy alliance with church and society; but, also, a love of hearth and song, a longing for reconciliation and peace with Creator and creation. Caressing the beads of a rosary in morning devotion, after fishing it out of the toilet where it accidentally fell the night before- the Word became (too?) flesh. This is Irish, for me, in a sentence. Better yet, I believe this lyric in ‘Sit Down By The Fire’ kinda says everything one needs to know about the Pogues, this terrific LP, and the Irish and/or Irish-American experience in general: ‘Remember this place. It is damp and its cold. The best place on Earth. But it’s dark and its old. So lie near the wall and cover your head. Good night and God bless. Now fuck off to bed!’ I’ll conclude with Ireland’s greatest and most loved and loathed (and so, soo Irish), writer, Oscar Wilde: ‘We are all in the gutter. Some of us are looking at the stars.’ And raise your glass (and if you don’t already have one full, we’ll wait………………………………………………………………………………………………………….) for this most famous of Irish toasts: May you be in heaven a full half hour before the the devil knows you’re dead. I love ya all- that’s Jesus and the whiskey talking (and so, me…), Mark.

All those kids. Not to mention all those animals. All that plastic surgery. OK, Michael Jackson, in addition to his giant entertaining talent, really is kinda weird. Again, like everything else the King of Pop was recording during his glory years, Thriller also includes lots of romance (albeit the irresponsible baby-making kind of ‘Baby Be Mine’), the sexy closer, ‘The Lady In My Life’(with this marvelously cheesy lyric: ‘Meet me in paradise, lay back in my tenderness’), and of course the famous duet with Paul McCartney, ‘The (doggone) Girl Is Mine.’ Again, Michael is in your face, with songs like, ‘Beat It,’ but most of the real fight is being waged down around the hips. Well, there is that other infamous fight with ‘Billie Jean,’ in which Michael claims that she’s ‘not (even) my lover. She’s just a girl who claims that I am the one. But the kid is not my son.’ I love Michael. He manages to even steer this whole train wreck of a relationship back to, yep, the dance floor, where it belongs! ‘For 40 days and 40 nights the law was on her side. But who can stand when she’s in demand, her schemes and plans? ‘Cause we danced on the floor in the round.’ And then, of course, ‘Thriller,’ the title track, perhaps Michael’s greatest, biggest hit, ever. And still fun. It’s the very first opening track that puzzles me, one of the… well, there were actually more hit singles on this LP than not! That’s Beatles’ territory, there, man. Anyway, Michael is, as usual, safely exercising his anger management training on the dance floor, asking the immortal Michael Jackson-esque question: ‘(Do you) Wanna be startin’ something?’ And then there’s all kinds of allegations made about someone, apparently, trying to start some shit with MJ. Get in line, dude (or dame). I’m betting there’s going to be a bit of a wait. In the meantime, we’re all gettin’ down, and then out of the blue this drops: ‘You’re a vegetable… still they hate you. You’re a vegetable. You’re just a buffet… they eat off of you. You’re a vegetable.’ WTF? LMAO. Yeah, Michael was a weird dude. So was Mozart. Perhaps that’s part of the cost for both his massive talent and global fame. Hey, I didn’t live with him, so what do I really know? Except that Thriller still thrills. That’s all I wanted to know anyway.

Frozen pizza. Store brand cereal. Day old donuts. When I was a kid (with the six years I had under my belt in 1965), we would taunt one another on the playground by one upping our fathers- Oh yeah, well my dad drives a tractor. So what, my dad’s a firefighter. And on it went until it was some poor kid’s turn whose father’s job was nothing to brag about, at which point the ace in the hole was played: Well, my dad could beat up your dad! And for some reason, and from that point on, that ‘dad’ became the standard. No offense intended at all towards Bert Jansch, a fine folk singer/songwriter in and for his time, but Bob Dylan just rendered you obsolete (as well as a lot of others). Anything you hear on this LP you may hear much deeper and fuller on any of Dylan’s first several recordings. My Dylan can beat up your Jansch. With one hand tied behind his back. (And, if you’re so inclined, contemplate the variety of meanings that illustration offers in a Dylan-esque way.) How is this a review of Bert, then, with all this Dylan talk? See, that’s the point. In a world where Dylan never existed, I’d give Bert a couple of stars, maybe three. Jansch’s acoustic guitar picking merits at least a star on its own. But for this listener, Dylan casts such a large shadow over his peers, all I can do is just gently, respectfully give it a single star and excuse myself from the table.

Tongue, Lips, Fangs. I always feel like I need a shower after a session with Duran Duran. Perhaps some therapy, too. And not concerning things exclusively sexual either, although this LP might as well come with a package of condoms tucked in each sleeve. The 'Rio' LP isn’t particularly about women. It’s mostly about the lyricist- which in this case is credited to the entire band- about his/their emotional digression, identically chronicled on both sides. A musically exciting opener- ‘Rio’ and ‘New Religion’- sides one and two, respectively, and we’re dancing across the Rio Grande; and, whatever the fuck is going on in ‘New Religion,’ I never figured it out myself. Great bass and synth, though, and complete with a crazy sax ending on ‘Rio.’ So far, so fun. Then, on the 2nd and 7th tracks we’re introduced to some kind of issue in the lyricists’ relationship, and on the 3rd track of side one his/their desire for the relationship to work. But things take a horrible turn for the worse on tracks 4 and 8, when he/they get as horny as a hungry wolf (‘I’m on the hunt, I’m after you’) and despite the lovely atmospheric music he/they plead, ‘Don’t say a prayer for me NOW. Save it ‘til the morning after.’ Finally, the sad denouement is revealed on ‘Hold Back The Rain.’ This dysfunction will probably continue unabated because the burning fire has somehow become too familiar and, perversely, more comfortable than putting it out. Like the opener of side two, I’m also not entirely sure what’s going on as the LP closes. Some drama being played out, imaginary or actual, between chauffeur and client, possibly a high priced prostitute? And exactly what does the lyric, ‘Sing Blue Silver’ refer to? Stranger still, check out the video for this last song. It only adds to the overall madness of the already awkward sounding music. Don’t be fooled by Duran Duran’s pretty boy looks and casual manner. Appearances can be deceiving. In a 1964 issue of 'Melody Maker,' a question was posed about that primordial pack of British wolves led by Brian Jones: Would You Let Your Daughter Go With A Rolling Stone? Well, if it’s a choice between them or Duran Duran on 'Rio,' I’m going to have to choose a Stone. The Stones merely sang about mayhem. Duran Duran seems to be actually executing it every night. Surely law enforcement and mental health professionals can join forces and arrange some kind of involuntarily committal to psychiatric care both for the band’s own sake and for the welfare of the rest of society. Shame, that bassist sure can play.

I was a fan of Joni Mitchell from the get go, back when she was sweetly singing good morning to Morgantown and such. But there was always a dark blue current moving underneath the surface of this petite woman, even then. 'Hejira' seems to have dug the well to that subterranean river. Musically, its gorgeously haunting. (Her cover art represents the same, visually.) Gone, are the gently sustained notes of the piano, replaced with ringing guitars, marvelously odd melodies and chord structures. Joni Jazz, which is not really jazz at all, but something else entirely. Nothing that can be exactly pinned down, mind you. Fitting for Joni’s (nomadic) lifestyle, (moody) temperament, (troubled) spirituality. 1976 found a lot of Joni’s 60’s comrades suffering under the excess of drugs like cocaine, which combined with her rolling and thundering along with Dylan’s infamous review for a while couldn’t help but further darken the gathering of Joni’s latent storm clouds. The opening song has her already confessing that she’s a prisoner of the white lines on the freeway, and not really fit for healthy companionship; that said, he’s only a randy coyote anyway, so fuck it! With some ‘Strange Boy, she gets ‘… high on travel, drunk on alcohol, and on love, the strongest poison and medicine of all.’ But it’s the title track that really seems to sum up who Joni Mitchell was at this time in her life, both professionally and personally (I would guess she doesn’t draw a distinction between the two): ‘There’s comfort in melancholy when there’s no need to explain. It’s just as natural as the weather in this moody sky today.’ And, ‘I’m porous with travel fever. But, you know, I’m so glad to be on my own. Still somehow the slightest touch of a stranger can set up trembling in my bones.’ The hejira that Joni mostly seems to be attempting is the one from herself. And that reminds me of that quote that says something to the effect of: wherever you go, there you are. I didn’t know this myself in 1976, entering into my senior year of high school, and suffered accordingly for years. I’m finally learning that one can be moody and prone to blue while nurturing an inner spirit of gratitude and even joy as well. Not to be too simplistic, but to a certain extent, it is a choice. Just like my choice to be careful with this recording, reserving it only for days when I have optimum emotional/spiritual health and clarity.

I had a friend in 1969 (I was 10 years old) who had an older brother (13, 14?) who turned me on to Led Zepplin, this particular LP. It blew my mind, as it did virtually everyone else that fall when it was released. You couldn’t tune into an FM rock station during any broadcast hour of the day or night and help but hear ‘A Whole Lotta Love.’ That same teen also introduced me to my first hit off a roach (nothing happened), and almost to being an accomplice to the borrowing of and subsequent joy ride in his mother’s car (where something did happen, but thankfully, I was not present.) That kid was trouble. I should have known it by his look, resembling the guys on the cover, and the way in which he carried himself with the same air of danger as one keeping company with a group of fellas I initially, mistakenly assumed were Hell’s Angels, but turns out are German pilots from the first World War. These guys were probably already smoking pot, I reckoned, and were eyeing the keys to the particular airplane they were getting ready to commandeer; no, boost. Any scenario you want to go with, to my innocent little ten years, the LP cover clearly communicated the message: open and listen at your own peril. Well, I did, and have, for over half a century! (Its befitting, by the way, to measure one’s listening history and enjoyment of the mighty, majestic Led Zepplin by centuries, rather than years or months or weeks.) At this point, I could analyze it track by track, the ebb and flow of the heavier songs into the softer ones, sometimes even both in one song (‘Ramble On,’ i.e.), but what’s left to say that hasn’t already been said. There are songs on 'LZ II' (‘Thank You’) that can gently rock you to sleep. And then there are some (‘Heartbreaker’) that can jolt you wide awake and right up out of bed. It’s about as flawless as an LP can get, with the exception of that awfully (too) lengthy drum solo on ‘Moby Dick’. Still, John Bonham deserves a pass here because he is, in my humble opinion, rock n’ roll’s greatest drummer, bar none. Please watch him live, sometime, on YouTube, and marvel in awe at the sheer power with which he pounds his drums. Furthermore, is not Jimmy Page, if not the greatest guitarist, certainly in the top tier, along with a very small few like Jimi Hendrix and Terry Kath. John Paul Jones really rounds the whole thing out with his incredible and underrated bass and keyboard parts. And back when Robert Plant could howl and moan like a sex deprived Viking on shore leave, you could hardly find a better front men. There’s not one over or under used band member. And everyone is disciplined enough to stay in their lane- no small feat when at least two, perhaps three of the four have fairly large, untamed egos. Alas, such is the special burden of rock deity. While fans may construct elaborate arguments for which LP is Zepplin’s greatest- the first, the 'IV,' 'Physical Graffiti'- for me it was always this one, 'LZ II.' From the highly charged electrical sword Page unsheaths in the opening seconds (Da-Doh Da-Doh Dumdumdumdum dumdumdumdum dumdumdumdum, etc) to the final harmonica note blown, teased, bent (Waaahhhwaahh), I stand with, and as countless pilgrims have before me at the foot of the misty mountain to pay homage to the denizens of the palace on its peak where the gods of rock eat and drink... and plug in. Oooooo, just talking about it puts the squeeze on my lemon.

Great title for this LP, Low. An apt description of my general disposition following its conclusion, not to mention the percentage of possibility that I’ll listen to this recording again. Admittedly, I’ve only been a casual fan of Bowie throughout his varied incarnations. I understand he’s a rock god. I’m just usually worshiping at another altar, that’s all, and so don’t have much to contribute to the litany. For what it’s worth, only two brief observations: 1) Listening to a Bowie LP with over half the tracks as instrumentals is like listening to a Hendrix LP minus the guitar solos. What’s the point? The primary reason I listen to Bowie is to hear him sing, damn it! I feel gypped. 2) This would make a wonderful soundtrack to a movie, a genre Bowie happened to be already familiar with at this point in his career. The only obvious problem, though, is there’s no accompanying film! Again, gypped. Straight up, I loathed side one: a sloppy, clunky, shrilly mess of a recording. Bowie’s lyrics aren’t much better, either, including a lame marriage proposal on track six?! Not that my displeasure took that long to coalesce. I wasn’t a minute into the second track before I started looking for some glass of my own to break. Side two was a little more tolerable. I am a fan of Brian Eno, and could definitely hear the influence he was already having on Bowie. Perhaps the musical ideas on the LP just needed to stew in the crockpot a little longer to get as tender and tasty as they would on later recordings. Or could it possibly have been the effects of Bowie’s new sober lifestyle, following years of prodigious cocaine abuse in the city of the fallen angels? That would cover a multitude of musical sins. Nothing much good has ever come from the union of LA and (B)'Low.' I’m just thankful Bowie survived it all; and, that this wasn’t his only recording. That said, (B)'Low' blew, for me. Would it have been too much to have allowed Bowie just a little bit of cocaine, purely for recording purposes? (He deserves one star just for his Bowieocity.)

Man, if you title an album the genius of your own self(!) you best bring the goods. And Ray sure did. ‘Course he had had six LPs before this to practice, close to a decade in the making for a lot of artists, some even longer. But Ray’s debut LP was released in 1957, a mere two years before this, his seventh! That’s Beatles’ territory. Except that Ray was there first. So, technically, the Beatles were in Ray’s territory. One of the things most noticeable about Ray Charles is his ability to make any song- no, any genre- his own. Give him a standard, and it’ll swing before Ray’s done with it. Give him a torch song, he’ll cook with it. Give him a country & western song, for God’s sake, and he’ll serve it as chicken fried soul food. And Ray opens right up with his signature swing on ‘Let The Good Times Roll,’ his anecdote to the blues, and with a number of options open, honey, including… you know. Rocking and rolling was originally a 17th century expression used by seamen to describe the motion of a ship on the sea. Eventually, though, it grew into a way of referring to a rhythmic movement of any kind. And if some of you young bloods have not yet learned this, there’s a time for rockin’ and then a time for rollin’. You’ll end up rockin’ if you begin by rollin.’ Doesn’t work the other way. Ray knows that. Now you do, too. Swinger . But these more upbeat, good time numbers are only supporting actors in this cast. The lead is the blues. We’ve swung a bit on side one, dipped our toes a bit in the blues already (but even ‘Two Years Of Torture,’ despite the title, was loaded with plenty of big band sparkle), and ended with a celebration of love, the answer to the question, ‘Do I need you, honey?’ ’Deed I Do.’ But by the time side two opens, lord have mercy. Ray must have known that by side two we’d be 2-3 drinks in, prepared emotionally for where the blues will take us. But again, not just any blues, but Ray’s special blend. When were the blues ever so smooth, so… delicious? God, if my blues could feel like ‘Am I Blue?’ sounds! On ‘Don’t Let The Sun Catch You Cryin’,’ have you ever heard someone dissed and dismissed, but served so scrumptiously, like a rich chocolate eclaire with a cup of silky French roast coffee. Luther Ingram had a big hit in 1972 with ‘If Lovin’ You Is Wrong, I Don’t Want To Be Right.’ Well, if being blue, the Ray Charles way, is wrong, than I don’t wanna be right either. And finally, the piece de resistance. Whereas the opening number offered the anecdote to the blues in the quest for a good time, he ends with another solution, and one that will ultimately conquer the blues altogether: Love. The genius of unconditional love, come rain or come shine.

Somewhere out there, among our music reviewing colleagues, a 20 year old black woman is doing her very best trying to make sense of Pink Floyd’s 'Dark Side Of The Moon,' but to no avail. Not her fault. That’s more of a 62 year old white guy’s jam. Her generation, along with her culture, race, puts her at a comprehensive disadvantage with an album like 'Dark Side Of The Moon.' Same thing with me on 'Like Water For Chocolate.' Too much of this experience simply went over my head, not the fault of Common and crew. But while my young friend out there and I struggle to understand each other, and these musical artists who represent us, it doesn’t mean that we still can’t feel what’s going on in each other’s world. 'Like Water For Chocolate,' to me, felt positively Afrocentric. Musically, mostly R&B flavored Hip-Hop, and lyrically exploring an alternative response to life in America among its Black citizens than what, for example, the gangsta rappers advocate. Common and company are fighting for a larger, selfless good, justice and righteousness, with counsel like: ‘… give back what you receivin (‘Time Travelin’’).’ On ‘Doonint,’ the claim is the spitting of ‘something different’ from the typical violent, misogynistic rap that seems to be normative- ‘I rap for the hungry and underprivileged,’ albeit, ‘with a chip on my shoulder.’ Common and company will not have you mistake their kindness for weakness. They are still just as dangerous, as deadly, as the gangsta rappers. For what has proven to be more deadly to the damaged status quo, wherever, whenever, and among whomever that occurs, than Love? Even Common’s father testifies to the positive, healing power of love on the final track, ‘Pops Rap III – All My Children,’ as the most successful solution to the issues confronting the black community. Again, I don’t really feel very qualified to review this LP, or rap in general, I’m discovering. That said, I do appreciate the amazing spoken poetry set to really cool music that this LP shares in abundance. These are talented and skilled artists, masters at their craft. My favorite vibe was actually on the very first track, ‘Time Travelin,’ with its quite unique and spell-bounding hybrid of R&B, Hip-Hop, and psychedelia, of all things! The strong echo/reverb put on the vocals truly gave it a psychedelic sounding component that I’ve never quite heard in this genre, and I liked it so much that I found myself increasingly disappointed that they didn’t use the entire LP to explore it further. Inagodadavi-vi-vida.

PSA, right off the bat, friends: I would not recommend this LP to anyone struggling mightily with depression, most definitely including thoughts of suicide. The title, 'In Rainbows,' suggests a colorfully optimistic experience. But, it ain’t. One reviewer describes Radiohead as: ‘pre-eminent doomsayers with an evergreen grimness…’ and this particular LP as ‘not the kind of thing one would play at a pool party.’ I would, however, recommend this LP highly and, if possible, while high. If not, then we’re looking for some kind of mood alteration on the down side. This is not crystal meth Motorhead time. Alcohol, perhaps? Its tricky, being both a depressant and a stimulant. As long as you’re more of a happy, docile drunk, then a few drinks might also aim you in the right direction. Right, with that taken care of… This is an LP of endings. The ending of relationships, of hope, the end of life, the end of all created life. Lyricist and vocalist Thom Yorke- alternating between moments of sheer soaring to stumbling, weary whispers- is a tortured and tattered dude, possessed by a longing for love while never being able to find it, or hang onto it when it is. I hope his therapist is steering the guided introspection towards what Thom might be bringing into these dysfunctional relationships: What are you attracting, Thom, by your past conditioning and habitual behaviors exacerbated by presumptuous misperceptions, all grounded in some childhood trauma that was left untreated? I mean, bless his heart: ‘I am all the days that you choose to ignore (‘Videotape’).’ Terrible self-esteem, this one. ‘Course, you’re also not going to get a lot of second dates with lines like this one, from ‘Bodysnatchers’: ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Your mouth moves only with someone’s hand up your ass.’ (Sounds like some apocryphal verse omitted from Bob Dylan’s relationship-gone-terribly-wrong-song, 'Idiot Wind.') Track four, ‘Weird Fishes,’ just speaks volumes: ‘Turn me on to phantoms. I’ll follow to the edge of the earth and fall off. Yeah, everybody leaves if they get the chance. And this is my chance. I get eaten by the worms and weird fishes. Picked over by the worms and weird fishes. I’ll hit the bottom… and escape.’ Musically, of course, Radiohead is magnificent, as always. Wonderful sense of dynamics, with the songs taking time to develop and often building to a crescendo. Not a lot of rock bands are hip to this. There are some other prog rock characteristics, interesting time signatures popping up here and there, for example, but I wouldn’t really call it prog. It’s a far piece from ELP. Radiohead, in their own way, is loose and groovy, like the Stones in their heyday (not the sound, necessarily, but the feel), but also with a very post-modern edge and vibe, including techniques like scratching, along with generous amounts of wonderful, dissonant synth and guitar shit (that Sonic Youthy sound is a sure way to this listener’s heart); or ‘Videotape’s final moments of that surprisingly splendid bit of percussion oddity. (As an aside, what rock band do you know that can insert a song like ‘Nude’ into an LP, and it works?) Echos on the volcals are employed with just the right amount of restraint, only enhancing the experience and understanding of Thom’s natural voice, and giving the whole thing an ethereal quality. I know that’s an overused adjective, but I can’t think of a better one. ‘Weird Fishes,’ for example, sounds underwatery! -only to then suddenly surface with a funky-ass drone (I’ve never seen those two paired together either) concluding the last two minutes. 'In Rainbows' is chocked full of these kinds of moments, sometimes the golden nugget being the entire song: ‘Faust Arp’ sounds like ‘Eleanor Rigby’ for Generation X. Perhaps following all this self-loathing and bitter rejection from others, and lord knows what other psychic damage done to this poor chap, there might still be hope, even while temporarily remaining disoriented: ‘You’ve got a light. You can feel it on your back.’ Prevenient grace? And then, finally, ‘Videotape’ in its entirety: ‘When I’m at the pearly gates this’ll be on my videotape. Mephistopheles is just beneath and he’s reaching up to grab me. This is one for the good days. And I have it all here: In red, blue, green. You are my center when I spin away out of control on videotape. This is my way of saying goodbye. ‘Cause I can’t do it face to face. I’m talking to you before. No matter what happens now you shouldn’t be afraid. Because I know today has been the most perfect day I’ve ever seen.’ Suicide note? Or, perhaps a more positive surrender, one born not from silent, bitter resignation or simmering anger, or despair, but a letting go of a preoccupation with getting so as to be able to better receive what is being given instead. In…THE... Rainbow.

‘Elvis was a hero to most but he never meant shit to me. Sucker’s straight up racist, simple and plain. Motherfuck him and John Wayne.’ – Public Enemy’s Chuck D and Flavor Flav ‘I saw him in concert, Vegas, a few months before he died. He was obviously drugged, very overweight, sweaty and struggling for breath. But he still put on a great show!’ – my mom Ah, the many faces of Elvis: the Vegas incarnation, for sure, with full sequenced cape. Karate Elvis. Graceland Elvis, of course. There’s movie Elvis, gospel Elvis, Elvis in the military, DEA Elvis! But the 1001ers charge is to review just the one particular LP given- in this case, rockabilly Elvis, as yet unfouled by fame and fortune Elvis. The cover reveals it all- just stripped down, pure rockin’ Elvis and the boys. Well, at least on most of the tracks. I could personally do without the sappy numbers like ‘I Love You Because,’ or the dreadful ‘Blue Moon.’ Roy Orbison, sure. Elvis, hmm. But when the joint gets jumpin’ with ‘Blue Suede Shoes,’ and ‘I’m Gonna Sit Right Down And Cry,’ this Elvis and this combo could fit very easily into a daylong punk rock jamboree. Still… you know… people whom I adore- John Lennon, as a great example- seem to always adore Elvis just as much. And, at the expense of bordering on rock n’ roll blasphemy, even rockabilly Elvis sounds just ok in this listener’s ears. Just ok. Rock n’ roll can be served up as a fancy, multi-course affair, dinner candles and such. And that’s fine when you’re in the mood. But other times, when you just wanna piece of deep-fried chicken and a biscuit, then 'Elvis Presley' will fill you right up… at least temporarily.

Whew. Lemme towel off. That was 50 minutes, and then some, of pure, unadulterated R&B/Soul/Gospel (yes, Gospel) seduction (yes, yes, seduction). Oh, and we consummated the relationship… several times. Yeah, this LP carries a Parental Advisory tag for Explicit Content, and for good reason. It’s a grown-up experience, for sure. The kids couldn’t handle this. 'Brown Sugar' needs to be played loudly, headphones are fine, too. If you like Soul music- no, forget that, if you recognize any good music when you hear it, regardless of genre- then you’ll dig this LP. I sure did. How have I not heard of this cat? With the exclusion of the stringed instruments- which, by the way, are used with such subtle restraint that you hardly know you’ve been listening to them, like the aftertaste of an herb used in the sauce, never standing out, but only contributing to the overall flavor- D’Angelo plays virtually every instrument on this debut recording. That’s Prince territory, brother. His bass parts ala Paul McCartney’s, that wonderful wah-wah guitar sound so important to R&B/soul, his tasty little jazz piano solo on ‘Smooth,’ or the pure funk beat on ‘Alright,’ with a bonus gospel sound that blow in and out like the seemingly capricious movement of the Holy Spirit. (By the way his father was a Pentecostal minister.) On ‘Shit, Damn, Motherfucker’ (and more on that in a moment) he pays homage to a Marvin Gaye-like groove. He actually (re)covers Smokey Robinson’s 1979 hit, ‘Cruisin’,’ and makes it his own. Smokey Robinson. He’s not as good a singer as Smokey, but he’s got his own perfectly fine chops, including the lilting falsettos. On ‘Jonz In My Bonz’ he creates this wonderful bubbly, underwatery, and syncopated xylophone (I think) kind of sound that runs throughout the underneath of the song. I’ve never used this term, but here goes: prog funk. D’Angelo just gave it birth. Musically, so subtly smooth. Lyrically, about as subtle as knocking on the door to your blind date with a large, ebony strap-on. D’Angelo has one thing, and one thing only, on his mind: he wants to make sweet, chocolate love to you. ‘Your skin is caramel with the coco eyes,’ he purrs on the title track. How delicious does caramel skin sound? On ‘Me And These Dreamin’ Eyes Of Mine’ he describes her love as ‘the cherry in my chocolate covered dreams.’ Ok, we get it, D. brown skin is sexy. But he overdoes it a bit on ‘When We Get By,’ which begins as a nice date, dinner, movie, etc, but then of course, ends with sex, D’Angelo proposes, ‘We could make love in the shade, sip some chocolate(?) lemonade.’ But I get it. He’s a young, good looking dude, this one. I can’t imagine getting consent has been much of a problem for him. And good thing, too, cause this guy’s so horny the crack of dawn isn’t safe. At the time of this recording, he was 21. So, say no more. But to be fair, and this is noteworthy, the content is presented romantically, albeit erotically. Every song, save one, is about seduction, with the final track, ‘Higher,’ a celebration of good news, complete with the gospel genre being the primary influence here. But the good news of this sexy service is not quite what one typically gets in church. The salvation here is that D is getting some: ‘Just like an angel watching over me (your protect me from my fears). I once was blind but now I see (ever since the day you appeared.)’ This is not a reference to the grace of God in Jesus, either. It’s not that he’s disrespectful at all of gospel music, or church, sincerely referencing prayer and such. But D’Angelo’s just as likely to bend the choir director over the pew and have a go as he is to use it for prayer. I’ll not give it a way, but on the afore mentioned, ‘Shit, Damn, Motherfucker (it’s honestly cracking me up to type that title),’ D catches his girl with another guy in bed, and things end horribly. I won’t give it away, but I found myself actually a bit frightened as the song progressed. I loved this LP, especially the instrumentation which was conceived, written, edited, and performed with style and taste. I would add one last adjective to describe 'Brown Sugar': sophisticated. This is dress up soul. Tuxedo and evening gowns. Just make sure you’ve got some sexy negligee on underneath for later.

Soul karaoke, anyone? I’ll have another glass of Hennessey, please. Despite the obvious fact of Otis Redding’s passionate vocals and the streamlined, workingman’s backing band, Booker T. & the M.G.s, the sonorous tones of the Memphis Horns, and none other than Isaac Hayes on the piano, I was left underwhelmed. Of the 8 of 10 songs covered on 'Otis Blue,' I much prefer the originals from Aretha Franklin and Sam Cooke and B.B. King and the Temptations. The exception being Solomon Burke’s ‘Down In The Valley,’ which Otis really funked up in a good way. The two songs attributed to Otis Redding’s pen were two of the best on this LP: the opening track, ‘Ole Man Trouble,’ with a great little guitar part (an unusual chord choice or variant?) played by Steve Cropper, and ‘I’ve Been Lovin’ You Too long.’ The real surprise for me was the closer, ‘Satisfaction,’ (yes, that one that you can’t none of.) I was kinda dreading it because it’s one of my lesser favorite and terribly overplayed Rolling Stones’ numbers. But I ended up liking it better than the Stones’ original. Otis really gave it a soul counter to the Stones’ more rock version. Wonder what Otis could do with some of their other, funkier songs? He could have (probably should have) replaced Mick Jagger for the entire 'Black And Blue' LP, and it would’ve worked much better. Mick can keep singing the real rockers like ‘Gimme Shelter,’ and ‘Bitch,’ and let’s give Otis stuff like ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want,’ and all those wonderful gospel numbers on 'Exile On Main Street.' Tag team vocals. This might have seemed like a groovy idea in the mid-sixties (including that ridiculous cover with the same young, blonde haired Cali woman who was every advertiser’s dream back then), and it sure put Otis on the charts. Unfortunately,' Otis Blue' just put me to sleep. Just a quick nod halfway through ‘Wonderful World.’ And when I awoke from this brief respite, it was with a vision: Jim Nabors covering today’s charting pop singles: 'Gomer’s Pyle: Jim Nabors Sings Pop.'

This is glam, glam, and more glam. Wham glam, thank you ma’am… with your 5 o’ clock shadow and all. (If 'Aladdin Sane' doesn’t share a proud place among folks like T. Rex and Slade and Queen on the national Pride Day’s playlist of rock selections, then I don’t know who should. I don’t know if I’m buying the offered interpretation of that dollop of liquid on Bowie’s shoulder as a tear drop, are you?) I lost count on the number of sub glam genres Bowie explored in a mere eleven tracks : Glam rock, of course, right off the bat on ‘Watchin’ That Man,’ but also the classic glam rock hit, ‘The Jean Genie,’ complete with what Bruce Springsteen lyrics would have sounded like had the boss put on a little eyeliner. Bowie served up some exotic glam jazz on the title track that eventually morphed into a jazzy drone, very Roxy music. And who besides Bowie can get away with lyrics like ‘Sadden Glissando Strings’? Come to think of it, what other lyrics would you expect on this LP? ‘Drive In Saturday,’ a glam 50’s do wop song in 3/4 tempo made an appearance along with the shot of glam western saloon on ‘Time.’ And, for the record, Bowie does not like ‘Him,’ Time. I guess no proper glam artist would. Time can’t seem to shake his tag-a-long kid brother, Age. There was a bit of tribal/world glam on ‘Panic In Detroit,’ complete with a tasty addition of maracas, ala 'Beggars Banquet' Stones (I’d love to hear a Rolling Stones cover of this). Glam punk smacked us across the face on Bowie’s re-do of another Stones’ hit, ‘Let’s Spend The Night Together,’ with Bowie’s version actually out-sexing the Stones more subtle original! Frankly, I’d be more scared to spend the night with this Bowie than with those Stones. By ‘Prettiest Star,’ the seventh track- which could have resided easily among the other tunes on Queen’s 'A Night At The Opera' LP- I was starting to get a little camp-weary. A little bit of this sparkling shooting star Bowie, as glorious as that is, goes a long way. That said, though, this LP was a winner, from start to finish. And how about that finish- glam latino? I imagined this as a score to a Spaghetti western movie, if Sergio Leone had ever come out. ‘Lady Grinning Soul,’ was the perfectly exotic ending to this romp through the many glam lands of the expansive reign of Bowiedom. And what traveling company, too: the legendary Mick Ronson on guitar, who does one of the coolest little variants on a traditional rock chord progression I’ve ever heard; and, in that playfully sassy, trashy, slutty, nasty, crunchy guitar sound for which he was identified. Don’t forget players Mike Garson and Ken Fordham on wild piano and crazy sax, respectively (‘Aladdin Sane’). Incidentally, Aladdin Sane, just like Ziggy Stardust, was yet another persona of Bowie’s. Apparently, he felt Ziggy was too polished, so Aladdin was born to move more towards the more unpolished sound of, again, the Stones. And it works, baby, it works. It rocks AND rolls. Sometimes it even rolls and rocks. I could quote a whole laundry list of lyrics like, ‘You sold me illusions for a sack full of checks. You’ve made a bad connection ‘cause I just want your sex.’ What’s more glam than that? But here’s the defining one for me, and it was on the very first track. I couldn’t help but wonder if Bowie was dissing someone else, or perhaps, if this was actually autobiographical. Either way, its still very much… uh huh… glam: ‘Watch that man! Oh, honey, watch that man. He talks like a jerk but he could eat you with a fork and spoon. Watch that man! Oh, honey, watch that man. He walks like a jerk but he’s only taking care of the room.’ I was entering my freshman year of high school in 1973- awkward, not enough knowledge of self to even know what to esteem, horny, lonely, disaffected, moody… you know, pretty normal for a new teenager. I don’t think I had much exposure or was especially drawn to glam, although looking back on it my love for Elton John’s 'Goodbye Yellow Brick Road' should have served as a sign that my musical orientation might be a little more curious than I had considered. Bi-curious, by rock standards. I enjoyed every song on 'Aladdin Sane,' and several even more than that. Don’t know how this one remained in my closet. Glad it’s out now.

This LP is mercifully brief, as will be this review. Things started off well enough, musically, with two of Aerosmith’s big hits from the first half of their career: ‘Back In The Saddle,’ and ‘Last Child.’ If only the lyrics could have matched the music. The first song featured rock’s tired-est, saddest stereotype involving the lonely, thirsty, horny traveler whose issues are solved in a saloon and a one night stand; and the second, a dream involving the remembrance of younger days, when the band was lonely, and thirsty, and horny. And these were two of the more erudite lyrical offerings the boys offered. Things went downhill fast from here on out. I’m certain that Stephen Tyler and Joe Perry must have had some childhood trauma that went unattended and, exacerbated by their prodigious drug abuse, it stunted their emotional maturity. Thus, lyrics like, ‘… hot tail poon tang sweetheart…’ I loathe this LP for two reasons: Firstly, it’s trite. And secondly, the final cut, “Home Tonight,’ gave us a glimpse into the future direction Aerosmith was headed, with all those sappy rock ballad numbers that have dominated the second half of their career. The sober half. Proving that Aerosmith on drugs is actually better than Aerosmith off drugs. But both Aerosmiths still suck. Curiously, Kurt Cobain, James Hetfield, and Slash are among many who cite 'Rocks' as one of their favorite and seminally influential LPs (in Slash’s case inspiring him to learn guitar.) So, something good came of it. Aerosmith lead guitarist, Joe Perry, calls it the ultimate garage band record. I find that an insult to the entire garage band genre, of which I happened to be quite fond. You could take a rock and chunk it at a pile of discount dollar bin LPs at your local record store and hit any number of garage bands that rock better and cleverer and, frankly, with more fun, than Aerosmith: Count Five, ? and the Mysterians, the Sonics, the Troggs, to name a few. Then retrieve that same rock and smash any copy of this LP you come across from here on out. Even with a generous share of teenage ignorance at the tender age of 17, I had already moved on from Aerosmith’s debut LP (their only good one) to other bands by the time 'Rocks,' their fourth was released. You should too, unless the only thing you’ve got rumbling around in that noggin of yours are a bunch of rocks.

Tropicalia was a Brazilian artistic movement that arose in the 1960s, characterized by the influences of both traditional and avant-garde music. This particular LP is one of the very first of this genre, and attempts the union of an eclectic assortment of instruments- imagine a psychedelic fuzz tone electric guitar, a pandeiro, and a French horn, with some whistles, rattles, and a church pipe organ thrown in for good measure- demonstrating the antropofagia, or ‘artistic cannibalism’ of the Tropicalia movement. As the vocals were all in Portuguese, I had to make use of a translation app, and to the best of my ability (and the apps) I believe Senor Veloso was mostly describing and celebrating Brazilian society, and even adding America to the fiesta on track number 10, ‘Soy Loco Por Ti, America (I’m crazy for you, America).’ Lyrically, Caetano is quite poetic. Tender, at times. Musically, however, it was a big mess, like a bowl of caruru. His vocals were ok, and some of the songs worked better than others: ‘Clarice,’ for example, was an interesting and clever composition, seemingly a successful attempt at antropofagia. Same with ‘Algeria, Algeria,’ the big hit of the LP, which Veloso compares to the Rolling Stones’ even bigger hit, ‘Satisfaction.’ I believe that the comparison was intended to be one of popularity and sales rather than sound. The aforementioned ‘Soy Loco Por Ti, America’ was the most traditional Brazilian sounding number, and was frankly a relief following the several before, like track number 6, ‘Anunciacao.’ I’m going to assume Veloso is a Catholic Christian, but ‘Anunciacao’ was most certainly not a reference to Mary and Jesus. I’m not entirely sure who or what he was referencing. The second to last track, ‘Ave Maria,’ actually was the ‘Ave Maria’ lyrics you know and love, but was unfortunately offered in an awful ‘praise and worship’ ala Brazil style. And for some bizarre reason, the vocals reminded me of the Cuban, Ricky Ricardo. I love Lucy. Ricky, not so much. The very last track, ‘Eles (They),’ began with a sitar, and badly played. The sitar is not just another stringed instrument but is considered among Indians to be used in worship and meditation. I’m giving the Beatles a pass because they’re my favorite band, as well as George Harrison’s love and appreciation for Ravi Shankar and all things Hindu. But most of the other 60s-70s classic rock bands unknowingly misused the sitar spirit when they worked it into their own compositions. And ‘Eles’ concluded with, again, some psychedelic guitar. P.S.A: The ingestion of hallucinogens before listening to Caetano Veloso would be ill advised. Then again, I was as sober as judge when I heard it and I still had a bit of a bummer trip. It took an extended thirty minute live jam of the Grateful Dead’s ‘Dark Star’ to get back to a nice head space. Well, at least Caetano got the LP cover art right. If that ain’t the 1960s I don’t know what is. In closing, I wonder: is artistic cannibalism a sustainable art form? Ultimately, wouldn’t it end with one bloated figure- like the Monty Python sketch where the waiter pleads with the morbidly obese gentleman to finish his meal with just one thin dinner mint? Spoiler alert: He explodes all over the restaurant. One of most disgustingly funniest things I have ever seen. For me, Caetano Veloso, was one thin dinner mint that I do not with wish to partake again. Obrigado Deus, I still seem to be intact. En nao gosto disso.

This wonderful LP just kind of sneaks up on you, filling the heart more and more with each song. Lyrically, we are deep within love’s grasp. And it’s the best kind of love to be in, too, where one lover invites another to ‘Bring me your free soul and I’ll make your heart sure,’ on the terrific opening jazz number, ‘Stay.’ (Incidentally, this is the polar opposite of the very thing Bob Dylan is singing about in ‘It Ain’t Me Babe.’) And then there are the more wistful songs like ‘Misty Roses,’ (you’re) ‘… too soft to touch, but too lovely to leave alone.’ In ‘My Foolish Heart’ we discover that Astrud’s heart is forever overriding her brain, which is a blessing joyfully received but comes with its own cost, too. Musically, I don’t know when I’ve last heard such a magnificently tasteful and oh, so subtle accompaniment. From the fluttering flute on ‘Stay,’ mimicking the singing skylark of the lyrics, to the high tinkling of the piano perfectly capturing the mood of ‘Misty Roses,’ each and every number is a glorious samba between the band (and orchestra) and the vocalist, always complimenting one another. I’m a sucker for standup bass, and Ron Carter won me over from the first number. I also can’t say enough about Eumir Deodato and Don Sebesky’s outstanding arrangements and conducting (again, just so subtle, so elegant.) Oh, and a surprising duet between mother and child, literally, on a super sweet cover of the big Lovin’ Spoonful’s hit, ‘You Didn’t Have To Be So Nice.’ And finally, Astrud Gilberto’s vocals. Technically, I think it would be fair to say they are average. She’s no highly trained opera singer. Doesn’t pretend to be. Doesn’t need to be. Because Astrud oozes integrity, genuineness, affection. And so beauty, once more, is in the ears that hear and not the mouth that sings. Which, for this listener, raises her vocals to the level, and enjoyment, of other vocalists I love (also technically average) like Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Janis Joplin, and so on. And, as I keep repeating, like everything else on 'Beach Samba,' her voice just kept gradually filling me up until I found myself unexpectedly filled with joy! There's nothing to add to the perfect closer, in the Big Band Samba style, ‘Nao Bate O Coroca,’ where no stops are left unpulled. As the last song faded, I was desperately craving some cachaça (Brazil’s national alcoholic spirit), a pair of polished black dance shoes, and my arms around Astrud’s waist, if she’d have me. Oh, ‘My Foolish Heart.’ Look, people. I like to rock and I like to rock hard. And I’m giving 'Beach Samba' five stars?! Let those with ears hear, irmaos e irmas.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw this photo. I had the original leather bound cover (remember?) purchased proudly with the earnings from my newspaper route down at our local Peaches Records and Tapes. I wanted nothing more than to grow my hair long and wear that beautiful fringe jacket that David Crosby often wore, but my parents had different ideas about how their children should look. They were Nixon supporters. I haven’t listened to 'Déjà Vu' from beginning to end in a long time. But I played it so often it’s embedded in my memory. I was more curious if it still resonated with my heart. The answer is yes. Both for the glorious music but also for the spirit. Dylan prophesied a hard rain coming in 1963, and by 1970 he was already seeking shelter from the storm. CSNY filled the void, took up the mantle, like Elisha following Elijah. But this is another subject for another time. Back to the matter at hand. There were a couple of new things that surfaced for me during this particular listen, the first being that Neil Young is not really so much an equal partner with CSN on 'Déjà Vu' as he is a special guest on a few tracks. I couldn’t detect any Neil at all on the first two tracks, finally some guitar playing on the third. And then, of course, his own composition, ‘Helpless,’ and ending side one with his searing guitar solo on ‘Woodstock.’ But when side two opened with the title track, seemingly Neil had again taken five, and didn’t come back until the second to last song, another of his own compositions, ‘Country Girl.’ And he’s heard clearly on guitar rockin it up on the finale, ‘Everybody I Love You.’ Perhaps this is revealing of Neil’s divided commitment between his own solo stuff (which would ultimately triumph) and this super group. Truthfully (and I say this as a fan who thinks Neil sits at the right hand of only the Beatles), I don’t think CSN really needed Y. He certainly didn’t them, and ‘After The Gold Rush,’ ‘Harvest,’ ‘On The Beach,’ and the rest of his couple of dozen LPs following are proof. Even the cover photo features CSN in a perfect triangle, and faces up and illuminated; whereas Neil is on the furthest fringe, head bowed and darkened. Too Sergeant Pepper? And secondly, in addition to these songs being written mostly about the weal and woe of human relationships, might they also be referencing, if even subconsciously, the state of the baby boomer generation at that time, still very much in the midst of anti-war and civil rights demonstrations but losing the optimism that so permeated the summer of love three years before? Could not ‘Carry On,’ for example- an encouragement to keep struggling for love and not succumbing to despair following a breakup- also be heard as a call to the younger generation for the same resilience against the unjust, ruling status quo? ‘Teach Your Children’ becomes an appeal to both generations (young and old), both political parties, to learn to love one another. David Crosby pleading on ‘Almost Cut My Hair’ to not give in to fear as we figure out where to go from here as a country? Neil Young’s ‘place in north Ontario’ mirroring the distress of their American neighbors to the south? And ‘Woodstock’ speaks for itself, including the line ‘bomber death planes riding shotgun in the sky, turning into butterflies above the nation.’ I’ve always heard bomber jet planes, and had to stop the recording and listen again. In Joni Mitchell’s original lyrics, she just sing ‘bombers.’ I wonder which of the quartet added the word death? Side two opens with Crosby’s ponderings about ‘what’s going on under the ground? The anti-war underground movement? ‘Our House,’ a delightful song about hearth and home, has a hint of melancholy because that innocence Graham Nash is so wanting to hold onto is, on a national level, rapidly slipping away. ‘4 + 20’ finds Stephen Stills in such despair over his loss (of a lover), or perhaps the loss of actual lives both abroad in southeast Asia and also in the embittered civil rights battlefields of America’s deep south, that he ends the song wishing that his ‘life would simply cease.’ Neil’s ‘Country Girl,’ an invitation to leave the city and the other guy, and come to the country and be with me… might the other guy be Uncle Sam? And in the grand finale, ‘Everybody I Love You,’ when the whole gang fervently sings ‘You expect for me to love you when you hate yourself, my friend,’ to whom are they addressing, one American or the whole country? Again, I’ve been listening to this LP, off and on, for over 50 years, and am very familiar with the material. Or I thought I was. Funny how you can sometimes hear a song like ‘Teach Your Children Well,’ for years, and still, sometimes, hear something new. There’s no doubt it’s a good song. it’s just not one of my favorites, at least partly due to its popularity. I’ve simply heard it played too much. And so, by the time Nash begins the final verse I’ve already emotionally moved on to the next track with Crosby almost cutting his hair for cryin’ out loud! But on this particular listen for this review, I was reading the lyrics as if for the first time- Nash’s appeal at the end of the song to all Americans, young and old, hawks and doves, to trust in the power of love to affect reconciliation; or as the late Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr said so famously, ‘Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend’: ‘And you of the tender years can’t (possibly) know the fears that your elders grew by. And, so, please help (and not hurt) them with your youth. They seek the truth (like you/we do) before they can die.’ (Italics are mine) Musically, what can I add? You’ve got Crosby singing both his heart and angelic voice out on ‘Almost Cut My Hair,’ Nash’s high register, and slightly British accent throughout, not to mention his underrated song writing talent, both Stills and Young’s unique lead guitar playing (two great tastes that go great together.) But please don’t let the famous quartet overshadow the workingman drumming of Dallas Taylor, and most especially, the incredible touch of Greg Reeves, playing bass parts that rival Paul McCartney’s own melodic, creative roaming. And of course, Jerry Garcia famously drops right in and sits right down at pedal steel on ‘Teach.’ Sure, CSNY are all old and fat (except for the fountain of youth Graham Nash), and sometimes cantankerous and crotchety and such, now. But if you just could have heard them then, if but for a brief moment… Ah, that’s a déjà vu I would welcome today ‘… with all of you.’

Jesus, Billie Joe, and I’m not talking about the phony one in suburbia either, but the real one full of truth and grace and love. Billie Joe Armstrong is clearly hurting, as I’m certain are his devotees, probably an army of likeminded disaffected ‘youth.’ Armstrong is now 50 himself, so he would have been 32 at the time of 'American Idiot.' I’m a baby boomer, and at 32 I was already well invested in my particular vocation. My parents even more so, their parents more still, and so on. And American life in the early 20th century, not to mention the vast history of human civilization, was a whole lot tougher than anything myself or, I’m guessing, Billie Joe endured. While my grandparents were fighting WWII and my generation was trying to advance human and civil rights, yours (and I know its not all of the gen Xers) Billie Joe’s just blames their trials and tribulations on mom and dad (‘Homecoming’). ‘Welcome to a new kind of tension,’ Billie Joe announces in the title and opening track, ‘all across the alienation where everything isn’t meant to be ok. In television dreams of tomorrow we’re not the ones who’re meant to follow.’ That kinda made me sad, it really did. My heart went out to him for whatever wounds he had occurred that led him to this belief. Likewise, on the next track, ‘Jesus Of Suburbia,’ he bewails, ‘And there’s nothing wrong with me. This is how I’m supposed to be in the land of make believe that don’t believe in me.’ Again, initially, I was really hurting for the guy. Until he then threw himself to the floor- at 32, mind you- and flailing his arms and legs (and guitar picks) he cries like a bitch ass toddler: ‘I don’t care if you don’t care!’ over and over and over again. Green Day is a good, tight combo- pure power chord, no frills, locomotive pop punk. I like their sound, their energy. Hard rockin’, yet melodic, kind of reminiscent of Nirvana. But, lyrically, and conceptually… Billie Joe is in need of a good spanking. After close to an hour of bitching and blaming, I didn’t find one positive, helpful solution offered. Apparently, Billie Joe doesn’t have enough emotional/spiritual maturity to even go there. He just wants ‘America (everybody else)’ to fix it, and then ‘Wake Me Up When September Ends.’ Even then, after waking from his nice lil’ nap, he’d probably still bitch about the boxed juice you gave him: ‘Billie doesn’t want apple, he wants grape!’ 'American Idiot’s' message seems to be: America, we are only the fuckups that we had to become to survive out there on the boulevard of broken dreams you built. America, you created us. Now deal with us, or else. A message they unfortunately share with one, Charles Manson.

I hope the '1001 LPs' folks led you to the same YouTube channel that I just enjoyed while listening to 'In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.' A bonus visual of multi-colored lights pulsating from within the two large orbs on the cover, recreating the feel of the liquid light shows that were characteristic of psychedelic rock concerts in the mid to late 60s. And this particular group possessed one of my favorite band names, again so reminiscent of the times: Iron Butterfly. Strawberry Alarm Clock is not even close. Moby Grape? Getting there, but not quite. 'In-A-Gada-Da-Vida,' Iron Butterfly’s second studio album, outsold every record in the history of recorded music to that time- 8 million copies. No doubt on the strength and success of that famous title track, all 17 minutes of the entire second side! And if you haven’t heard it in its entirety, do yourself a favor and drop the needle. It’s worth the time; that is, if you like this particular genre of music, which according to Wikipedia is labeled, variously, as hard rock (no), heavy metal (hell no), occult rock (huh?), and finally, acid rock (we have a winner!) But side one has been virtually overshadowed by the title track, and sadly, I fear, forgotten; while, I find it just as enjoyable, maybe more so. Don’t go searching for anything profound here, lyrically speaking. With the exclusion of ‘Mirage (I’m guessing an LSD inspired song),’ and ‘Termination (either the death of material life, or possibly the death of one’s ego experienced during an LSD trip?),’ the two openers and the closer on side one are all about the joy of being in love. And a sweet, innocent joy it is: ‘I met a pretty girl on a date last night… I kissed the pretty girl, and I held her tight. And let me tell you now, she was groovy (‘Are You Happy’).’ And while he’s not exactly T.S. Eliot, Doug Ingle can sing- an interesting voice for a rock singer, deeper than most and with a slight, undiscernible accent, but sung with the unmistakable happiness of just being young and alive. But the real reason why we listen to Iron Butterfly is not for the lyrics, but the music: bright, tenor organ contrasting the thundering walking bass and pounding tribal drum beats. And, the integral part to every good acid rock band: that fuzz tone, distorted, wahwah pedal, bending notes, loud (very important) psychedelic guitar. If you’re not burning some patchouli incense and dancing like a whirling hippie dervish until your love beads get tangled up in the flowers adorning your long hair… then Iron Butterfly just isn’t your bag. But don’t get hung up on it, man. Admittedly, for many (most especially, the many who weren’t there in ’68), this band is an acquired taste. But hey, so’s caviar and cabernet. I believe my favorite part of the whole LP comes at about the two minute mark on ‘Termination.’ The music takes an abrupt stop, and then for the remainder of the song (about another minute) there is the most tender, almost mystical duet between guitarist Erik Brann’s lovely, soft fingerpicking of his electric guitar (sans distortion) and I’m guessing drummer Ron Bushy on tinkling wind chimes. That little minute, for me, always takes me back to the late 60s of my childhood and, if only for a brief moment in American history… allow me to defer to a real poet from the same generation, Paul Simon, on 'Bookends': ‘Time it was and what a time it was. It was a time of innocence…’ There was an awful lot of corruption back then, too, of course. But I was nine years old when 'In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida' was released, and mostly still innocent myself. Well, I certainly lost mine a long, long time ago- that’s for sure (and shame)- but I’m still able to find it, rediscovered, in this remarkable LP. And that makes me very happy, even despite the lack of a groovy, pretty girl with a pair of luscious lips to kiss and some curvy hips to hold tight. Just as Doug Ingle lets us know on this LPs opening song that ‘Most anything that you want, girl, is all right by me,’ I’m letting them (and you) know that most anything that Iron Butterfly wants to play, boy, is all right by me, too.

Years ago, while living in Texas, I would join forces with likeminded folks crossing the border from El Paso and on into Juarez, Mexico for the purpose of building very simple homes made of concrete blocks and stucco for extremely poor working families. I didn’t mind the physical labor, the heat, the camp food; but the trash? That was another matter altogether. Juarez, situated in an otherwise quite beautiful desert landscape, is entombed in litter. This distressed me worse than being offered a glass of water drawn from one of the crude cisterns they had made from old steel drums of the sort shown on the cover photo of 'Cypress Hill.' Rather than collecting water, Cypress Hill is using theirs to burn garbage. And I guess if I lived in Juarez permanently, or an environment like the one captured on the cover of this LP, then I might be plenty pissed off, too, like Cypress Hill. Or, maybe I’d just get really high and ‘feel one with the earth,’ as they rap about in conclusion. But both at the same time, together? Conflict of interest, in my experience. And Cypress Hill’s not just plain pissed off, either. They are ready and willing, even eager to destroy. Most of this LP is, if not a celebration, certainly an approval of violence (mostly firearms, but there are other methods offered, like prison rape) for the purpose of retributive (perceived) justice, territorial defense, preemptive strike, and because I just feel like it motherfucker. These vatos mean business, bad bidness. In 2005, a Canadian pop singer named Daniel Powter scored a huge hit with, ‘Bad Day.’ I’m sure you know it (and loathe it, or love it- there’s virtually no middle ground on this one): ‘ ‘Cause you had a bad day. You’re taking one down. You sing a sad song just to turn it around. You say you don’t know. You tell me don’t lie. You work at a smile and you go for a ride. You had a bad day. The camera don’t lie. You’re coming back down and you really don’t mind. You had a bad day.’ This is Powter’s response to times when ‘the system goes on the blink and the whole thing turns out wrong.’ I’m guessing that a cover photo of his neighborhood would look a lot different than Cypress Hill’s. No doubt Daniel’s more measured response to adversity is due, at least in part, to a good dose of white privilege. Or maybe he managed to escape any significant childhood trauma, and was mentored by loving parents who taught him how to deal maturely with adversity. It’s possible that it might just be too cold in Canada to stay angry for too long. Who knows? What I do know is that ‘Bad Day’ is a terrible (albeit, catchy) song with a sweet message. 'Cypress Hill' samples some sweet music over which to rap; but their message inspires far more terror than the sappiest sounds of Powter’s crooning. During this month of America’s honoring of black history, I’m reminded of The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s warning that, ‘If we do an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, we will be a blind and toothless nation.’ I fortunately, gratefully escaped 'Cypress Hill' with nothing more than a black eye, one loose tooth, a couple of ringing ears, and a broken heart for anyone whose life experiences have been such that they feel a smoking gun with a stream of bullets, and a stream of smoking blunts before, during, and after the killing, to be their only recourse.

Coincidence or providence? Interesting that this LP came up for review today. I’m working in a job that I don’t particularly enjoy very much anymore, but I’m dependent on for paying the bills and carrying insurance and such; and, my marriage is completely broken to the point that my wife and I occupy the same house, but different rooms. We seldom eat together. Our conversation usually ends in a fight. I’m not technically in prison (and cannot begin to imagine the horrors of that atmosphere), but I do very much feel imprisoned by the consequences of my own bad, habitual behavior. Long story short: I was never taught, never mentored, never learned how to deal with adversity maturely, and instead unfortunately took it out on my wife in the form of emotional and verbal abuse. And I could feel it was going in a more physical direction if I didn’t get some help. I did, and am, but there’s been a lot of damage done, and there are consequences I must now bear. The chickens have come home to roost, as they say. So, in my own way, I listened to 'At Folsom Prison' as a prisoner, along with the rest of the live incarcerated audience on this recording. And the vast majority of these songs- I would categorize them as country blues- are about life in prison, including even death in prison, either by planned execution or in a failed escape attempt. Even the second to last cut, the country classic ‘Green, Green Grass of Home,’ concerns a poor fellow dreaming he’s back home only to awake and find he’s still in prison. The only way he’ll make it back home is when he’s dead and they lay his body to rest underneath that green, green grass . This is Johnny Cash at his most comfortable because of his own personal familiarity with prison life. These are truly his people, probably for the most part poor, uneducated, underprivileged, abused, traumatized, and genetically predisposed to things like alcoholism and drug abuse. The sort most of us model citizens wouldn’t want anything to do with. But the final song is when Johnny segues from entertainer to evangelist, and the audience becomes his congregation. The prison church, ‘Greystone Chapel,’ is described as ‘a flower of light in a field of darkness.’ And the lyricist testifies that ‘it’s given me the strength to carry one. Inside the walls of prison my body may be, but the Lord has set my soul free.’ One’s material body may be ‘stuck in Folsom prison,’ but one’s spirit does not have to share in the bondage. I’m reminded of the early disciples of Jesus who also found themselves imprisoned, sometimes severely beaten; but chose to sing hymns of thanksgiving and praise to God for the release of their spirits. Their inner freedom was universally expansive, far beyond the exterior movement restricted by chains and barred cells. God’s even in prison, too, Johnny shockingly testifies, and offers you a share in the salvation that has snuck in like a file smuggled in a loaf of bread. There is hope. Johnny Cash has never really been my bag. I appreciate the talent, but the music is pretty hokey and dated, and Cash’s nervous energy is, at times, distracting. And listening to this LP isn’t going to magically make my job better, nor will it miraculously save my marriage. It’s a very cold, snowy day today where I live, with most outside movement at a standstill. I’m currently stuck in my room, alone and lonely, isolated, abandoned, and looking through the blinds/bars across my window, contemplating how and why I ended up in this place. Like most prisoners, I want to cry foul, unjustly accused, and all that. But in my heart I know the truth. ‘I know I had it comin’,’ as Cash sings on the opening song. And having been tried and convicted I’m now serving my sentence, with no release in sight. But 'At Folsom Prison' does give me hope in the possibility of spiritual rehabilitation even while I’m paying off my debt.

Little (adjective) = small in size, amount, or degree (often used to convey an appealing diminutiveness or express an affectionate or condescending attitude). Little girl (noun) = a female child, especially younger than 10 years of age; a weak-willed person. What is it with these classic rockers that they keep singing about little girls? ‘Come On, Come On,’ for example, features the lyrics (no need for a dictionary here): ‘Come on, come on, I know you can do it… there ain’t nothing to it, etc… I need you, I want you. Come a little closer to my face. Oh little girl I need you now.’ Same thing in the next song, ‘Lookout,’ where the singer warns the lonely little girl, to lookout, because he’s coming. Man, that’s creepy! I blame all this on Jerry Lee Lewis when, in 1958 at the age of 22, he married his 13 year old cousin, Myra. I’m not accusing the members of Cheap Trick of pedophilia. I’m just creeped out by the usage of that term, that’s all. Not that Cheap Trick puts a lot of thought or time into their lyrics. With the exclusion of ‘Surrender,’ these are pretty trite, stereotypical 1970s stadium rock thoughts and feelings. Sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. Except that Cheap Trick doesn’t really do any rolling. Just a lot of rockin’. Proof of that is on their cover of the great Fats Domino hit, ‘Ain’t That a Shame.’ Fats’ original is sweatin’ with Louisiana bayou roll, while Cheap Trick’s version is just plain rock. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just the difference between an average rock band and a great rock band, like the Rolling Stones, who most definitely rock AND roll. I was actually a little surprised at how average they really are. I think guitarist Rick Nielsen’s visuals (if you’re actually watching him perform live or on YouTube) are so entertaining that you don’t realize until you just listen to 'At Budokan' that he’s just ok. Interestingly, it’s on ‘Ain’t That a Shame,’ that he delivers his best solo. But hey, he’s still better than me, so upturned cap’s off to the guy. And the rest of the boys follow suit- not bad, not great, just ok. I think this LP captures more of the feel of what it was like in 1978 to be in attendance at one of classic rock’s big stadium bands concerts than it does chronicling Cheap Trick’s own sound. This could just have easily been any number of live 70s stadium rock bands with the screaming 'little girls' who open and close the LP, the long intros and outros, audience sing-a-longs, etc. Hey, it is what it is. I’m familiar with Cheap Trick. I had a good friend in college who loved this band and this particular album. Played it all the time. I knew what it was going to be, and not. It’s a fun album to assist your mundane housekeeping chores or to motivate you to exercise. And, I suppose a couple of drinks (or a couple of hits off of one of mom & dad’s ‘numbers’ they were rolling on the couch while listening to Kiss) would render the listener a little less picky about things like lyrics or guitar solos. This is probably why former first lady Nancy Reagan was not a Cheap Trick fan. You know, the whole ‘Just Say No’ campaign back in the day. That, and she was no 'little girl' herself in 1978. The little girls who were there, though, for the two shows at the end of April at the Nippon Budokan venue in Tokyo, well, let’s just say that there could have been a few babies born in January of 1979 who were half Japanese and half American. And whoever coupled with the singer and bass player on the cover pic got some good looking kids. The guitarist and drummer’s children, on the other hand (and google their pic on the back cover of At Budokan)? That would be, genetically speaking, a real cheap trick.

'World Clique' is an LP featuring music primarily of women, by women, and for women. And men, if you’re down with feminism, you’re welcome to join in the dance party, too. ‘I can’t read your mind,’ Lady Miss Kier implores on ‘Try Me On… I’m Very You,’ ‘So you got to let me know all the time how it feels for it to be real.’ If that’s not feminine to the core, I don’t know what is! One of the things I like about this recording was the positive energy it promoted. The titles are filled with words like 'good' and 'smile' and 'love.' Oh, and don’t forget 'groove'; but, we’ll get to that in a moment. On the second to the last song, ‘Who Was That,’ someone broke into Kier’s house, took a bath, ate some food out of the fridge, just generally helped themselves to a B&E hotel for the night. And, had this happened to, say, the gangsta rap group Cypress Hill, they would have hunted that motherfucker down and given him a dirt bath. Kier’s reaction? Not even a hint of anger or retribution. Rather, radical 'hospitality', a word not found in any of the song titles, but could be. Positivity aside, the lyrics only play a supporting role to the lead, the real star of 'World Clique': the groove. If you’re feet aren’t tapping in the first 30 seconds, then you’re either deaf or dead. Subtle, but prominent use of piano and horns, steady drumming and heavy on the bongos (in a good way). Lots of electronica. And with the legendary bassist (for both James Brown and later Parliament Funkadelic) Bootsy Collins joining in the fun on several tracks, the groove is most definitely in and at the heart of this whole LP. The title track, 'World Clique,' celebrates both individuality and our global communion. Hence, the ‘world is our clique.’ And the members of Deee-Lite even incarnates that vision with two DJs- one from Russia, the other, Japan- and Kier, a multi-talented artist from Ohio. No doubt they draw from the other five continents for roadie assistance and sound engineers and promoters and such. My best friend, who turned me on to this whole '1001 LPs' exercise in the first place (& for which I am truly thankful), recently posted a review of a group he criticized as unrelentingly repetitious. And while my response to him is that I often like that- given the right genre- I must confess that 'World Clique' was, for me, a little too repetitious All of these songs are just too long to listen to, but none of them are long enough to dance to. I did not listen to the bonus track (not on the original LP), ‘Build the Bridge,’ but my suggestion for Deee-Lite is that their good electronica dance music could greatly benefit with a few well-placed musical bridges here and there. Then again, what do I know? I dance like a hippie at Woodstock. And Santana’s ‘Soul Sacrifice’ still grooves the shit outta me.

Thanks a lot, Ike Turner. I blame this on you. And don’t take my word for it, either. YouTube the Ike and Tina Turner Revue’s performance of just two songs: ‘Nutbush City Limits’ and ‘Proud Mary.’ Then, listen to 'Private Dancer,' and on the mega hit ‘What’s Love Got to Do with It’ when Tina sings, ‘Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken,’ that’s my heart she’s breaking with this awful, awful LP. Sure, it contains two other smash hits- ‘Better Be Good to Me,’ and ‘I Can’t Stand the Rain,’ as well as, I believe, a minor hit with the final title track. Sure, it was her big comeback following some lean years after her breakup with Ike. Sure it features one song written by David Bowie and another by Mark Knopfler, not to mention two guitar solos by Jeff Beck. Sure, it was selected by the Library of Congress for preservation in the National Recording Registry. But they’re all wrong. They’ve all made a terrible mistake. Bowie’s song, ‘1984,’ no doubt works when Bowie does it. At least I hope so, because Tina’s version was painful to listen to. Knopfler’s song, ‘Private Dancer,’ was more tolerable. At last until the interruption of a horrendously bizarre guitar solo, squealing like a cat with his tail pinched under a rocking chair; likewise on the song before, ‘Steel Claw.’ Two of the worst guitar solos I’ve ever heard. And then to discover they were played by Jeff Beck!!! Ohhh, who needs a heart when a heart can be broken? In spite of the fact that I do enjoy some of the 1980’s bands and their LPs, for the most part I hate with a burning hatred one general thing about 80s music: the drum sound. Following an upbringing in and adoration for the full, rich sound of acoustic drumming in the 60s and 70s (John Bonham is a great example) I simply cannot tolerate that tinny, trebly, crashing sound of the electronic drums of the 80s. Like the drums on 'Private Dancer.' I don’t really have much more to add, except for my own theory that the wounds she incurred from Ike seem to run like an underground current on the the entire first side! You listen and tell me if I’m wrong. On second thought, reverse my suggestion at the beginning of this review, and listen to 'Private Dancer' first. Relive whatever good memories you have from the year 1984. Then, YouTube the Ike and Tina Turner Revue and lament over what was and what could have been. '1001 LPs' personnel- you ‘better be good to me’ when you send me the next recording to review. My heart just can’t take another experience like this. ‘Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ on a river. Do do do do dup do do do…’ (sigh)

Imagine one part traditional Celtic folk music, one part American west coast bay area psychedelia, and one part progressive rock, and voila: Fairport Convention, one of the greatest groups I’ve never heard. American folk rock emerged in the mid-1960s combining the energy of electric rock music with the lyrical depth of acoustic folk music- the Los Angeles quintet, The Byrds, being a prime example. Bob Dylan, who many crowned the King of folk rock when he went electric, hated the term himself, rebuking any attempt to define his new sound with this genre. But it stuck nonetheless, and off it went, spawning groups like the Mamas and the Papas, and the Lovin’ Spoonfuls. All that is to say that American folk rock is one thing, while folk rock emanating from the UK is a whole other matter. 'Liege & Lief' is one of the first major folk rock LPs from this tradition. Most of the songs are free adaptations of centuries-old British and Celtic folk material, containing a wide range of lyrical themes- werewolves seducing maidens, lovers’ rescued from the Queen of Fairies, humans in the form of ravens whose true identity is revealed in death- but delivered in such a way that any reasonably intelligent American with no knowledge of UK history would be able, easily, to follow the plot. One does not have to know that ‘The Deserter’ is concerned with Britain’s Recruiting Act of 1703 to understand the song’s general meaning. Musically, every member of the group possesses talent and passion, yet not without skilled restraint. The ‘jams’ are never over-prolonged, the vocals carefully synched, the arrangements tasty and tasteful. If there were any rogue egos at work here, I didn’t hear ‘em. Fairport Convention plays as a cooperative unit. Here’s the bonus, though: Fairport Convention manages to retain the authenticity of the original ballads while at the same time infusing them with a bit of Jefferson Airplane (NOT Starship, please). And then, to make things really interesting, from time to time they even toss in some changing time signatures, ala prog rock. ‘Tam Lin,’ a traditional Scottish ballad, is a great example. I doubt the bagpipers of old ever changed back and forth from 3/4 to 4/4, with a little double time 6/8 throw in for good measure. On the third cut, ‘Matty Groves,’ just when you think the downtempo ballad has come to an end, the band breaks into an uptempo jam, an electric hoedown, Grateful Dead style, but also seasoned with the flavor of Jethro Tull. Don’t hold me too tightly to any of this, though. It would be a mistake to affix any permanent boundaries defining Fairport Convention, at least on 'Liege & Lief.' This LP rambles over hill and dale, and down many winding roads. ‘So come all ye rolling minstrels,’ invites lead vocalist Sandy Denny on the opening number (and one joyfully extended, encouraged even, to you and I to become part of the chorus, a surprisingly clever technique that draws the listener in immediately), ‘and together we will try to rouse the spirit of the air, and move the rolling sky.’ That’s a tall order, lads and lasses. And Fairport Convention serves it up throughout this terrific LP, at times steaming hot like a plate of corned beef and cabbage, and other times creamy cool like a foamy pint of Guinness. An eight course/track delightful and satisfyingly filling meal.

I don’t know what to do with you, Elvis. I do enjoy your rockabilly stuff, ‘Make Me Know It,’ ‘Dirty, Dirty Feeling,’ ‘Girl Next Door Went A-Walking,’ as well as the blues numbers, ‘Like a Baby,’ ‘It Feels So Right,’ ‘Reconsider Baby.’ But the other half of this LP, all those sappy songs about romantic love found and lost… I don’t want 'that' Elvis back. That Elvis should re-enlist. Ahhh, this isn’t an album for me anyway, or most of you, maybe none of you. This is an LP for all the teenage girls in the late 1950’s who pined for Elvis while he served his time in the military. And I’m sure they wet their panties when they saw this cover- all sexy-eyed and coifed hair. Doggone dreamy, this Elvis is. The Jordanaires are here again, doing their doo wop best. Backing band, The Blue Moon Boys, are also back, rockin’ and playing the blues. Not that we hear much from them. Guitarist Scotty Moore is seldom allowed to tear it up. The reigns are loosened up a bit for pianist Floyd Cramer and saxophonist Boots Randolph on the last two numbers. But this is really all about Elvis. And his voice is in fine form, maybe it’s best, at times growling and barking, while other moments just as smooth and soft as a milkshake. If you like Elvis, you’ll enjoy this LP. And, if you’re not a fan (and I'm not), then there’s nothing here that’s going to change your mind. It is what it is: Elvis Presley. And he’s back. But baby, he never really left your aching heart in the first place, did he?

After the Beatles proved they could rock n’ roll on their first several albums, they began to expand their musical repertoire with a more eclectic array of sounds and lyrics. By 'Rubber Soul,' the ‘four headed monster,’ as Mick Jagger often called them, were more than just a rock n’ roll band, much more. The Rolling Stones, however, seldom ventured into other lands (like 'Their Royal Satanic Majesties Request,' or 'Black and Blue'), but instead remained true to the spirit of the pioneer blues and rock n’ roll artists they loved and grew up listening to. So, while the Beatles, I believe, are the greatest band of all time, the Rolling Stones are the greatest 'rock' band of all time. And 'Sticky Fingers,' I will further argue, is the greatest rock LP of all time. This is pure Filet mignon. No fat. Unless of course, you like fat (as I very much do), and in that event then let’s go with a lovely Ribeye. And we’ll just let the fat be the final track on side one, ‘You Gotta Move,’ which is my way of saying that even that little number is still super tasty following all that luscious beef you’ve already consumed in the four songs prior. Save plenty of room for the rest of the meal, though, side two. You’re going to want to dip a fresh buttered roll or two into all that juice dripping off of ‘Bitch,’ and dig into those other three side dishes before finishing with desert, ‘Moonlight Mile,’ the Crème brulee of album closers. While my first musical memory was of the early Beatles- ‘Please, Please Me,’ ‘Can’t Buy Me Love,’ ‘A Hard Day’s Night,’ ‘Help,’ and the like- the very first riff I recall that literally struck me down like Saul blinded on the road to Damascus was not from John and Paul, but Keith Richards’ opening guitar chords on ‘Brown Sugar.’ I later discovered that utterly unique chord sound he got was due to a variant string tuning. Simple as that. This explains why no one nor their brother could ever duplicate it entirely using traditional tuning. Anyway, Keith’s opening riff clutched my heart and the fingers stuck. And they never got unstuck. God help me, I still love that damn song- the sound of it, I mean- in spite of the troublesome lyrics. While the Stones contend it is merely a description (and not a glorification) of the horrors of slavery, still… the general musical composition of the song, and especially the rousing ‘I said yeah, yeah, yeah… woo!’ part at the end, isn’t exactly a lament. And then there is the racist stereotype that all black girls ‘dance so good.’ And other stupid shit. We know it. They know it. But that riff, man. That’s righteous, at least. As is the other straight ahead, flat out rocker, ‘Bitch.’ Flavor it up a little with some jazzy ‘Can’t You Hear Me Knocking’ or some swampy ‘Sway.’ Or, maybe you prefer the more traditional blues, down & dirty, ‘I Got the Blues,’ (go figure!) ‘You Gotta Move.’ Country fried rock? ‘Dead Flowers.’ Perhaps you’d like it unplugged, acoustic. You have your choice of the light ‘Wild Horses’ or the dark ‘Sister Morphine.’ And finally, how about that drive down the ‘Moonlight Mile’- rock symphony? Doesn’t hurt, either, to have Bobby Keys blowing his big ol’ raunchy Texas sax, or the roots master Ry Cooder on slide guitar. And three, count ‘em three- Nicky Hopkins, Jack Nitzsche and, of course, the 6th Stone, Ian Stewart- tinkling the ivories. And, of course, the Stones themselves. I’ve only a couple of things to add to all we already know: 1) While diehard fans bewail the death of founding member Brian Jones, claiming his lineup to be the only authentic Rolling Stones, most of the rest of us would agree that the Mick Taylor lead guitar years are the best Stones. And it hard to argue the facts, the sustained body of work beginning with 'Let It Bleed,' and continuing through 'Sticky Fingers,' 'Exile on Main Street,' and finishing with 'Goat’s Head Soup' (which, while not equal to the other three is still a pretty darn good LP, too, better than the best of loads of other good bands.) 2) If you forget the giant personalities of Jones, and then Jagger and Richards, and just listen to the music for its own sake, there was always a sense in the Stones’ musical performances that the train was close to coming off the tracks at any moment. Few bands sounded as loose, relaxed as the Stones without then falling apart at the seams in the process. And whereas lots of other, maybe most bands strive to sound tight, perfect, like Steely Dan, for example. But the Stones had that rare feel for sounding gloriously sloppy, while actually being quite proficient. Musical scholars have suggested that the reason for this is that bassist Bill Wyman played just a hair before the beat, while jazz loving drummer Charlie Watts, always played a tad behind the beat, characteristic of jazz tempo. ‘Course, Keith Richards would say they’re just making sure the roll was also in the rock. You listen, you decide. I’ve had sticky fingers from ice cream on a cone dripping down my hand on a hot summer day, sticky fingers from changing the oily chain on my bicycle, sticky fingers from the resin I put on my hands to grip a baseball bat; and, even sticky fingers from a pack of cigarettes I once liberated from a neighborhood convenience store in the very year this LP was released. I was 12 years old. And that very same year I also got sticky fingers from the sweat on my hand when I was invited to go to second base with a girl named Stacy, an early developer. The sticky fingers I suspect the Stones are mostly referencing, and none too subtly. I mean it is right there on the cover, out in the open, so this should not be a boner of contention.

Make sure your suits are buttoned up tight and your oxygen tanks are full- and you better bring some extra canisters- because you’re invited to dance amongst the stars with two of Techno’s finest space ambient artists: the English duo Orbital. I love me some Ambient music, man. And while mine leans more toward the likes of the non-tempo sort (Steve Reich, ie) I still enjoyed this LP very much, beats and all. And that’s really where 'Orbital 2' is coming from, it’s all about the beats. Seems to be a bit of a concept album, too, bookending the space rave with words on loop (‘Time becomes’), but subtly morphing into a slightly different phrase (the opening number ended with the words, ‘For time becomes a loop.’) The technique itself, in which two identical samples are repeated at slightly different speeds, was coincidentally popularized by Steve Reich. Thus, the entire LP seems to be a very creative artistic representation of ‘the theory of the Mobius, a twist in the fabric of space where time becomes a loop.’ And that’s what you get, in spades/space, on 'Orbital 2': lots of synthesized beats, excellent syncopation (‘Lush 3-1,’ ie), good use of dynamics (wish there had been just a bit more, but I’m just being picky), some great drone instruments like sitar and didgeridoo, echoed vocals, and all looped into one dynamite techno package. Orbital indeed. I’ll certainly loop back around to this one again.

Is it possible to control, chaotically? Perhaps. Your use of electricity, or possibly raising children! But is it possible to control chaos itself? And if you were to order disorder would not the disorder cease to exist altogether? Controlling chaos is like Christian Black Metal- two things that cannot occupy the same space without one of them losing their existence. In physics, however, chaos is defined not as ‘complete disorder and confusion,’ but used to indicate ‘behavior so unpredictable as to appear random…’ 'Here Comes The Warm Jets' has been critiqued by music journalists in a wide variety of ways, but I think Cynthia Dagnal of Rolling Stone probably said it best when she called this LP ‘a very compelling experiment in controlled chaos.’ Which is what I believe Brian Eno is up to here- music so unpredictable as to appear random- utilizing avant garde techniques like free word association including nonsense syllables (apparently he dissuaded fans from reading too much into the lyrics, claiming they were ‘written in less time than it takes to sing’), different vocal stylings, purposefully inviting sixteen guest musicians to play on the basis of their musical incompatibility with each other ‘just to see what happens…’ Well, here’s what happens on 'Here Comes The Warm Jets': Eno’s vocals, while not technically good, are not bad either. In fact, I find them rather interesting. What he lacks in pitch, for example, he makes up for in a variety of style. And it mostly works for me, even the yelping dog background vocalise on ‘Dead Finks Don’t Talk,’ not to mention the aural cadence of soldiers on the march. The backing musicians (Roxy Music’s Phil Manzanera and King Crimson’s Robert Fripp, as two examples) are, of course, fantastic. Adventurous, noodling guitar solos exploring the fret for notes off the beaten path with the fervor of Lewis & Clark and including lots of effects (the final and title track got its name from Eno’s description of the distorted guitar sound), solid bass and drums, complimentary synthesizer bits. The lyrics, as expected, given Eno’s experiments, are odd, that’s for sure. And sometimes I had no earthly idea what he was talking about: ‘Curl me up, a flag in an icecap (‘Driving Me Backwards’).’ But in spite of the apparent nonsense, they seemed to work. The second track, for example, concerns an actual 19th century African American gentleman in Paw, Paw Michigan, who claimed pyrotechnic abilities. In Eno’s song he’s competing for Eno’s lover, and Eno warns her/him to be careful and not get burned. Weird, but kinda clever. Speaking of weird and clever, the longer I played 'Here Comes The Warm Jets' the more it began to take on a very Syd Barrett vibe, both lyrically and musically. Syd was the founding member and leader of the Pink Floyd that some of you might not even know- the Floyd before the excellent David Gilmore years, and way before the later mediocre David Gilmore years. There’s no mention of Barret’s influence in anything I read about Eno. A lot of David Bowie influence, obviously. But for me, this LP is much more of an homage to Syd. My only critique is that some of the songs (intro, middle, or outro) could have benefited from a little editing. That said, even a couple of the so-sos (‘Baby’s On Fire,’ a bizarre 1950’s redux?, or ‘On Some Faraway Beach’) weren’t so bad as to make me want to skip ahead to the next track. And if your tastes run to strange shit like the inclusion of echoed Grandfather clocks and Hawaiian(?) slide guitars (and, at the end of ‘Dead Finks Don’t Talk’ a sound similar to the one a corrupted computer driver makes when a song is playing), then you’ll dig this LP. The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a typewriter keyboard for an infinite time will almost surely type any given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare. In fact, the monkey could conceivably type every possible finite text an infinite number of times. The probability of that occurring, however, while technically, not zero, is extremely small. Well, I think the monkey might have finally gotten real damn close to a pretty damn good LP! Good thing, too, given that neither you nor I have infinity to wait. At think, least I not.

If I’ve ever taken for granted the good fortune of being born in 1959 and growing up listening to the music recorded in the sweet, still innocent 60s, the hard rockin’ 70s, the post punk/new wave 80s, and the grunge of the 90s… then 'Fever To Tell' is my catalyst for repentance. When I read that Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs represented a garage band rock revival, my heart skipped a beat. And then I actually listened to this LP myself, and my heart broke. Count Five, The Electric Prunes, ? and the Mysterians this ain’t! Not by a long shot. Where to begin? Three-piece combos can present a challenge (Yeah Yeah Yeah’s are devoid of a bassist- a rock band without a bass!!!), unless you’re Jimi Hendrix and the Experience, or Cream, or ZZ Top, or Grand Funk Railroad, or the James Gang, or Rush, or ELP, or the Police, or… OK, so maybe three-piece bands aren’t necessarily as challenged as I first thought. Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs sure are, though. Musically and lyrically tedious. ‘No No No’ was the only song that featured a mildly interesting change in tempo and melody (although the listener will be hard pressed to actually hear a melody in the first place). Furthermore, I missed it’s significance, other than offering a welcome relief from the general sonic monotony. (Not that I don’t enjoy a good hour’s worth of Nadja in all it’s cacophonic sameness; but again, this ain’t Nadja anymore than the Kingsmen.) Mercifully, 'Fever To Tell' only clocks in at a brief 37 minutes. I’ve endured a lot worse for a lot longer. And before I forget, Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, can you please explain your use of sleigh bells to conclude this LP? I don’t know which was worse: Karen O’s nasally, whiney (think female Jack White; although, yet again, I love Jack White) vocals, or the repetitive themed lyrics, attributed to the entire band: I met a dude, I fucked a dude, I think I really like this dude, I’m losing/lost this dude. And here’s a kicker: on two songs (‘Black Tongue’ and ‘Cold Light’), this ‘dude’ happens to be the singer’s sibling! ‘Cold light, hot night, be my heater, be my lover, and we could do it to each other, well, like a sister and a brother. Go go go go go! ... Ride, Daddy, ride.’ This out-creeps my grandmother on mom’s side of the family addressing my grandfather, affectionately, with the name, ‘Daddy.’ In this increasingly hypersensitive culture of 2022, I’m going to go out on a limb here and pronounce incest as wrong, wrongy wrong. (By the way, let’s go ahead and add Jerry Lee Lewis to the list of who this band is not.) I hope singer Karen O’s current relationship fares better than the others about which she sings. ‘Y Control’: ‘I wish I could buy back the woman you stole.’ That’s awfully sad. And my heart genuinely goes out to her. Don’t tell her what I’m about to tell you, ‘cause I don’t want to kick someone when they’re already down; but, I wish I could buy back the 37 minutes I spent listening to this dreadful LP.

I was just a lad in 6th grade when, during a school assembly in the auditorium, we were treated to a performance of three numbers by a quartet of upperclassmen 8th graders. I think their name was similar to the 1960s psychedelic blues band, Blue Cheer (coincidentally based out of San Francisco, same as Creedence.) I cannot recall the other two songs the boys played, but I will never forget their closer: ‘Proud Mary.’ The minute I heard the opening riff, I was spellbound. Lord, I wanted to be in that band. It was all I could do not to jump on stage, body check the singer, and grab the mic myself. And while ‘Proud Mary’ is not featured on 'Cosmo’s Factory,' a shitload of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s other hits sure are, and just as good. There are more hits off this LP than there are mosquitos in the bayou at dusk. Out of the eleven songs, no less than six were hit singles. And if you throw in ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine,’ that totals seven. And, with the exclusion of ‘Ramble Tamble,’ every single song on 'Cosmo’s Factory' written by band leader John Fogerty was a hit. Every single one! Just let that sink in for a moment. One of the main reasons why I rarely listen to our local ‘classic rock’ radio station these days is because of the programmer’s insistence on taking artists like Creedence, picking just a few of their hits, and playing them over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. I’ve heard ‘Lookin’ Out My Backdoor’ so many times I don’t really like it that much anymore. It’s a good song, but it’s suffered from overexposure. So, when I listened to 'Cosmo’s Factory' in its entirety, I was unexpectedly and pleasantly surprised at how great the non-hits are. The overplayed-hit-single Creedence I’ve grown a little weary of was born again while listening to the non-hit Creedence offerings, like the two late 50s/early 60s rockabillies ‘Ooby Dooby’ and ‘My Baby Left Me,’ or the traditional blues number, ‘Before You Accuse Me,’ or Motown’s ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine.’ Marvin Gaye had a bit of success with this one, too, for those of you who are hip to that genre. Creedence is a genuinely fine band. Don’t be fooled by their seemingly simple sound. While they may come across as loose, unrehearsed even- like the Rolling Stones- they are most certainly not! In fact, the LP’s title is a reference to how long and hard Fogerty near daily rehearsed his band, inspiring drummer Doug ‘Cosmo’ Clifford to dub the rehearsal space, ‘The Factory.’ And while the band may have suffered under their taskmaster, 'Cosmo’s Factory' sure benefited. ‘Course, Fogerty himself is really the star shining brightest. Oh me, oh my, that swampy, filthy mud-caked waders vibe he gets on his heavily reverbed guitar is as signature a sound as B.B. King’s or Jimi Hendrix’s or Neil Young’s or Eddie Van Halen’s. When 'Cosmo’s Factory' opens with ‘Ramble Tamble,’ and the listener hears that guitar, there is no question who’s putting pick to strings. And wow, that opening number: beginning with a slow, brackish groove before then launching into double time and then a rambling tambling ‘down the road’ we go! The next number, ‘Before You Accuse Me,’ reveals Fogerty not only playing down and dirty blues on his guitar, but piano as well. Who knew he played piano? Or saxophone?! That’s right, on the final, ‘Long as I Can See the Light,’ Fogerty does a nice little sax solo, too. Three songs, three comments: 1) ‘Run Through the Jungle,’ referencing the Vietnam war in which America found itself entrenched in the year 1970. Again, I’ve heard this hit a zillion times, but I was struck this time by the poetic lyrics (yes, Fogerty is a talented writer, as well): ‘Over on the mountain, thunder magic spoke. Let the people know my wisdom. Fill the land with smoke.’ The devil was most certainly on the loose, and Fogerty is radioing the soldiers to get their ass outta there, di di mau, run through the jungle, and ‘don’t look back to see.’ It’s hard to imagine any veteran of the Vietnam war not vividly recalling their own experience upon hearing this song. Very powerful. Evoking an emotion such as this is song writing at its finest. 2) ‘Long as I Can See the Light,’ features rhythm guitarist Tom Fogerty and bassist Stu Cook on harmony duties complimenting Fogerty’s melody, but in the spirit of full SATB parts, including a prominent bass harmony, something rarely, if ever, heard in rock music, and more often in a church congregation singing old gospel standards. 3) ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine,’ clocking in at eleven minutes, the last eight of which are Creedence just jammin’ away like their fellow San Franciscan mates, Grateful Dead. The snobby music critic Ralph Gleason wrote that Creedence is an example of the Third Generation of San Francisco bands,’ with the meaning that they weren’t as good as the Dead, for example. And Creedence was definitely doing something very different from the other bay bands (Jefferson Airplane, Quicksilver Messenger Service, and the like.) But their cover of ‘Grapevine’ may be understood as a big ‘fuck you’ to Gleason. We can jam, too, just like the acid rockers; but, in our own way. And that, and everything else about this terrific LP allows me to replace my middle finger likewise extended to Gleason with a more positive thumb up for Creedence and 'Cosmo’s Factory.'

You don’t always have to understand art to appreciate and even enjoy it: Stanley Kubrick’s '2001: A Space Odyssey,' or Jackson Pollock’s abstract ‘drip’ paintings. Or, 'The Love Below,' the second half of OutKast’s double LP. (More accurately, this is not so much a double album as it is two separate LPs.) Other than the general theme of love/sex, I couldn’t make much sense out of Andre 3000s lyrics. Nor did I understand the inclusion of so many other things besides rap, like the seemingly random snippets of conversations (‘God [Interlude]’ or ‘Where Are My Panties.’) He actually ends the LP with an unfinished rambling stream of consciousness number including the statement, ‘and that’s as far as I got.’ And I’m not even going to ask what a ‘macaroni’ n-word is. On ‘Love Hater,’ he sings that ‘everyone needs someone to love,’ but then in the chorus, ‘Love hater, hater of love.’ So, which is it? And is Andre the love hater, or someone else? Hmmm… Again, while much of Andre’s lyrics were lost on me, I very much enjoyed the general sound he creates in the background- trip hop. Spacey, cool, and very danceable. Yeah, I dug it as much as a 62 year old middle class white guy living in a suburb of Denver can. I was already familiar with the LP’s big hit, ‘Hey Ya,’ and it’s a hit for a reason, one of the best offerings of the bunch. (The video is pretty clever, too.) I’m also a fan of John Coltrane’s free jazz so I really enjoyed the sampling of his astounding tenor sax version of ‘My Favorite Things’ with an equally fantastic piano solo, all set against a superfast synthesized beat. Now, Big Boi’s (the other member of the OutKast duo) side one, 'Speakerboxxx' (triple x rated, get it?), that’s a whole other matter. I did understand much of what Big Boi was rapping about, unfortunately: sex (with no mention of love), violence, substance abuse, prison. Big Boi highlights some of the issues concerning 21st century black Americans, but never offers any helpful solutions. More unfortunately, he sometimes glorifies the sex and violence. On the positive side, though, his side also contained some lovely harmonies (‘The Way You Move’) ala the mighty 1970s R&B band, Earth, Wind, and Fire, and a generous amount of tremendously vicious beats. Every bit as danceable as Andre’s side, albeit with a much darker edge. In addition to the massive amount of lyrical content and sampling throughout, this double LP is also loaded with guest artists (too many to name, but the R&B diva Patti LaBelle is the first to appear) that pop in and out like the little creatures in the whack a mole game. Be sure you have plenty of time to listen to this recording. You might even want to make a sandwich or two to have on hand. Take the dog out first. A catheter might be helpful. I have a friend who is a priest in the Eastern Orthodox Christian tradition who gave me some advice concerning the massive amount of words chanted during the Divine Liturgy. ‘It’s too much to comprehend,’ I complained. ‘Too many words coming too fast for too long a time!’ His advice? ‘Just let all those words wash over you, and listen with your heart rather than your mind. The service is not about comprehension as much as experience, a foretaste, of heavenly glory.’ Maybe that’s good advice for listening to 'Speakerboxxx/The Love Below,' as well, on its own different terms. And that’s as far as I got.

If the Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, and Lynyrd Skynyrd had a menage a trois, The Black Crows would be the result of their coupling (well, actually, tripling.) I’ll let you assign gender roles, and which will be actually carrying the child. My vote for the mom is, of course, the Stones, because they already have proven to be more than comfortable wearing women’s clothing and makeup. Lynyrd Skynyrd not so much, being pretty much all men, and southern ones to boot. Stephen Tyler? Anyone’s guess. Opening with a simply nasty, crunchy guitar, that sustains throughout 'Shake Your Money Maker' (curiously, a song not included, although performed often by The Black Crows), and soon to be joined by the rest of the flock, this is all 'Sticky Fingers' and 'Exile On Main Street,' paired with any and all of Aerosmith’s first four albums, and with a dash of southern flavor, including slide guitar, that would fit in easily on any Lynyrd Skynyrd recording. But the Stones cast the largest shadow here, with riffs from guitarist Rich Robinson and Jeff Cease imitating (albeit not as good) Keith Richards on virtually every song on the first side except the opener, and most on the second. The bluesy ‘Sister Luck’ sounds like right off of 'Exile,' and you tell me if ‘Seeing Things’ wouldn’t fit perfectly on 'Sticky Fingers,' a sibling to its brother, ‘Sway.’ What’s not to like here: joyfully nasty rock n’ roll guitars, crisp drums, howling vocals. Speaking of, I do have one critique for vocalist Chris Robinson: it would benefit the final moments of your songs to just let the band play out, minus your voice. Less is more, my friend. Even Mick Jagger showed a little of this restraint with his band, an action seldom used to describe the lead singer. What did work, and work well, was background singer Laura Creamer’s harmonious contributions, particularly on ‘Seeing Things.’ Here’s the special sauce, though, and an incredible coincidence further highlighting the similarities between The Crows and The Stones: keyboardist Chuck Leavell who, while not a member of the band, flaps his wings all over this LP, and without whom 'Shake Your Money Maker' would still fly, but not soar. Remember a fellow named Ian Stewart? Probably not. Even the demure Charlie Watts, drumming away behind the larger than life personalities of Jagger and Richards was more recognized than pianist Stewart, often even playing off stage! (It was simply a marketing decision- Stu’s countenance was not as cool as the rest.) Stewart, like Leavell, was never technically a band member, but what would ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ or ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want,’ or dozens of other Stones’ songs sound like without his piano? On 'Shake Your Money Maker,' Leavell boogie woogies the ivories on ‘Could Have Been So Blind,’ strokes the organ to climax on ‘Struttin’ Blue,’ and does double duty on both during ‘Seeing Things.’ Man, this guy can play the kind of blues that would bring a smile to Greg Allman’s face. And he can rock n’ roll on the piano like Little Richard. Shame on you both, Stones and Crows, for not making your keyboard players official band members. Well, shame has no place in rock n’ roll, does it? Even ‘a crime in the wink of an eye,’ as Chris Robinson sings on the opener, ‘Twice As Hard.’ While he may be singing about the double pain of losing a love to drugs in life, and then ultimately in death, my own interpretation concerns the omission of Chuck Leavell as a full-feathered Black Crow. ‘Cause I’m seeing (and hearing) things for the first time…’

Long story short: Years ago I was working through some stuff related to my spiritual life, and wrote music and lyrics to an entire LP that I never necessarily intended to see the light of day. Well, it did, and not on my terms, and the final product was personally disappointing and left me angry at the people who forced it. That was a long time ago and I’m over it now. But it gives me reason to wonder if a similar thing wasn’t going on in the creation of 'The Marshall Mathers LP,' the self-professed anxious, angry thoughts of a man trying desperately to work through, and out, his own shit: betrayal from family and lovers, the extraordinarily excessive demands and expectations of fame, the hypocrisy of the music industry and virtually every cultural institution one came name in 21st century America. A friend of mine told me once that one of the first things one can do, finding oneself down a deep hole, is to at least stop digging! Eminem’s alternative strategy on 'The Marshall Mathers LP'? To keep digging ‘till he hits China, and then take it over the top… way over… from the beginning all the way to the graphic end: ‘And I am whatever you say I am. If I wasn’t then why would you say I am… Then attack Eminem ‘cause I rap this way. But I’m glad ‘cause they feed me the fuel that I need for the fire to burn and its’ burning and I have returned!’ And again, from the same track, ‘The Way I Am’: ‘I’m so sick and tired of being admired that I wish I would just die or get fired… And I’m thankful for every fan that I get, but I can’t take a shit in the bathroom without someone standing in it.’ Am I to blame for all that’s bad in the culture, Eminem asks on ‘Who Knew?’ Are rappers (or head banging metal heads) the root cause of tragic events like school shootings, or shouldn’t that responsibility rest more on the parents of the shooters? Interesting, too, that on ‘I’m Back,’ the song in which the Columbine school massacre was referenced, YouTube chose to censor the words ‘children’ and ‘Columbine,’ but apparently felt no discomfort about leaving in the line about Eminem fucking his mother ‘with no rubber and come inside her!’ Look, this LP is ugly, and for a reason. I think Eminem just threw his hands up at this point in his career and said if you’re going to come at me with pitchforks and torches like the mob that tried to destroy Dr. Frankenstein’s monster, then I’ll just super-size that motherfucker to Godzilla-like proportions and really give you something to target. I think taking any of this literally is absolutely missing the point. Extreme? Definitely. Too extreme? I wouldn’t be comfortable rapping it. But it’s not my recording, is it? Neither is it my journey. Forget the lyrics just for a moment if you can, if you dare, and listen to the enormous talent of this guy, an extraordinary rapper. One in a million. He spits out rhymes in an insanely unique fashion. At least give him that. And with the assist of Dr Dre’s signature West Coast sound (the coolest groove around) and traveling with a posse of like-minded artists (Snoop Dogg probably being the best known), this is a great LP. For adults. Not for kids. Or maybe it’s a perfect LP for parents and kids to listen together and learn about things like hyperbole, for example. Not to mention the danger censoring art holds for freedom of speech, the very first amendment to the American constitution. ‘I’m a criminal,’ Eminem closes 'The Marshall Mathers LP' with, ‘Cause every time I write a rhyme these people think it’s a crime to tell ‘em what’s on my mind. I guess I’m a criminal but I don’t gotta say a word. I just flip ‘em the bird and keep going. I don’t take shit from no one.’ It’s not that Eminem shouldn’t have written all of this, every goddamned word, or that it shouldn’t have ever been recorded. Rather, the problem was that a lot of folks should have never heard it. And when they did, if they weren’t emotionally mature enough to understand the kind of art it truly is- a specialized work, not meant for mass consumption- then they became the problem, the real insult, not Eminem. And don’t you dare think for a minute that Eminem isn’t bearing his own consequences for his art. But that’s his shit. You bear your own- which will be more than enough work to occupy the remainder of your time on earth- and shut the fuck up about his. ‘Ha ha (‘Slim Shady’), I guess there’s a Slim Shady in all of us.’ ‘Blessed are the merciful for they shall be shown mercy.’ I’m only talking to you right now, listener. I’ll talk to Eminem later, if I ever get the chance.

I reckon that the mega decibel, psychedelic hard rockin’ of Cream, the intensely extended jammin’ of Blind Faith, and the soul wrenching blues of Derek and the Dominos would wear out any poor soul. And adding the colossal amounts of alcohol and drugs Eric Clapton consumed during those years, including a mighty heroin addiction that precipitated a several year hiatus from performing, it’s a miracle he even lived to return to the studio. But when he did, '461 Ocean Boulevard' was recorded and released, introducing a very different kind of Clapton. On the positive side, Clapton’s voice (which was never great, sometimes straining beyond the breaking point, forced, if you will) sounds much more gentle, rested, and relaxed. The whole tone has changed, not dissimilar to Bob Dylan’s own remarkably different voice on 'Nashville Skyline.' (Dylan claimed it was the result of quitting cigarette smoking.) I think Clapton’s was more intentional, a purposed change. His voice and, in fact, the entire LP sparkles with cleanliness and good health. Warm and sunny like the south Florida location in which it was recorded. And while the sunshine state might be infamous for cocaine, Clapton sure wasn’t snorting any. Quite the contrary. Instead, I think the heroin must have still been leaching out of his body because this LP is mostly downtempo. But it’s also quite lovely. And a great deal of the sound of '461 Ocean Boulevard' has to do with three musicians in particular: background singers Yvonne Ellian (known for her role as Mary Magdalene in Jesus Christ Superstar), who we’re introduced to on the reggae-meets-the-blues ‘Get Ready,’ and Tom Bernfield who joins in the fun on the beautiful acoustic number, ‘Please Be with Me’ with harmonies rivaling Crosby, Stills, and Nash, as well as the anthemic ‘Let It Grow’ (which, incidentally, sounds like a song Clapton’s best friend George Harrison could have written, with its striking transition between the minor key verses to a major key chorus right as the words, ‘Plant your love and let it grow’ are sung.) But it’s organist Dick Sims who truly gives '461 Ocean Boulevard' its signature sound. Pianist Albhy Galuten plays a riff ala Leon Russell on the Robert Johnson cover, ‘Steady Rollin’ Man,’ and some marvelous little tinkles here and there on the LPs big hit, the Bob Marley tune, ‘I Shot the Sherrif;’ but it’s Sims’ organ playing that would have made Marley proud. And, his versatility shows throughout, particularly on the confessional, ‘Give Me Strength.’ Sims must have had working knowledge of and experience within the African American Christian tradition, because his organ on ‘Give Me Strength’ sounds like ‘chutch.’ (Black comedian Steve Harvey teases white folks for calling it chuRch. When you’re black though, he jokes, its pronounced, ‘chutch.’) This is almost as much Sims’ LP as it is Clapton’s. On the minus side, '461 Ocean Boulevard' almost completely lacks Clapton’s greatest asset, the reason why Cream’s cover of ‘Crossroads,’ for example, is one of the finest live recordings you’ll ever be fortunate enough to hear: The Guitar Solo. I fidgeted in my listening seat, growing in impatience with each passing track- surely this will be the one where Clapton tears it up. Nope. Allright, gotta be the next one. Uh uh. C’mon, Eric, give it to me, man. Make that guitar wail. Maybe he’ll wait for the LP’s closer to let loose? If there ever was a number to shred on, ‘Mainline Florida’ would be it. And when we finally do get some soloing on that last song, it comes across a little lackluster. Clapton still plays some good slide guitar on the opener, the traditional ‘Motherless Children,’ and Willie Dixon’s ‘I Can’t Hold Out,’ throwing a little dirt on the pickup. But his rare soloing is subdued. I’d like to use the more respectful adjective, ‘subtle,’ but I think ‘subdued’ is a better descriptor. Or maybe most accurate of all, just plain slow. It’s not that his playing is without passion. His vocals, while also softer and more mellow- close to a whisper on a couple of occasions- at other times do rise in volume and intensity, on the songs I suspect he most enjoyed or meant a little something more to him personally. Would that his guitar solos have risen to their occasion a time or two as well. That would have made this good LP great. But it’s still pretty good nonetheless. Maybe he was purposefully trying to distance himself from the ‘Clapton Is God’ days? Could be. I dunno. All in all, though, good vibes. Inspirational sing-alongs, feet tappin’ reggae, groovin’ rockers and tearful blues. Journalist Robert Christgau dubbed it, respectfully (I think), ‘Sleepy postjunk funk.’ I say it would be a terrific LP to listen to just as the sun was setting over the Atlantic Ocean, relaxing in your lounge chair planted on the white sands of the Florida beach, while sipping on an icy cold Pina Colada. Well, a virgin Pina Colada. We don’t want to throw Eric off his sobriety.

Well, if the title doesn’t warn you of the approaching storm that is Public Enemy then the air raid drill-sounding siren that opens up this LP sure will. The prophets of rage are back in black, P.E.’s in the house once again. Firstly, this ‘white devil’ (P.E.’s words, not mine) is actually a fan of P.E.’s first three LPs, which I found to be not only an important voice to be heard from a segment of the African American community, but also an enjoyable genre of music in its right. I’m a fan. I like their sound. I appreciate and sometimes even agree with their expose of racial injustice in America, the roots and consequences. On a purely musical level, Chuck D’s authoritative, passionate bass voice only makes the listener listen even more carefully. Likewise, Terminator X scritch scratches the records on his turntable with the deftness of any skilled instrumentalist. Flavor Flav? Eh, a little goes a long way; but, he’s not overdone. And, his goofy ass does add a certain humorous counterpoint to the intense seriousness of Chuck D’s rapping. My concern is that the first three LPs were so strong, so tight, that in comparison, 'Apocalypse 91… The Enemy Strikes Black' was just ok. Even Chuck D seemed to be off his rhyming game. According to The Bomb Squad’s Hank Shoklee (producer), the original recordings were stolen and never recovered. In retrospect, he believed the loss ‘stunted [Public Enemy's] growth. We never really recovered after that. We was on a roll—I was on a roll, and to lose that material set me back so hard.’ And, I’m sorry, the collaborative re-recording of ‘Bring the Noize’ (originally on the searing, 'It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back’) with thrash metal’s Anthrax was just awful. Peanut butter and anchovies do not work well together. Rather than complimenting one another, they just clash to the extent that neither one can be appreciated. Anthrax’s thrash metal beat just doesn’t match Chuck D’s funky groove. Its too fast, for one thing. (In fact, much of the LP sounded too fast, as if the music reflected P.E.’s rush to make up for all the lost time redoing everything after the unfortunate loss of the originals.) ‘Bring the Noize’ also sounded too ‘straight’ 4/4, if that makes sense. Chuck D’s 4/4 is more funky. Anthrax just threw his whole meter off. Lyrically, though, it’s still P.E., whether you agree or not with their assessment of Black America: that everything wrong about America’s race relations is the direct result of slavery. And after much thought over many years, I’m not so sure they’re wrong. ‘Can’t Truss It’ is the best number on this LP, and speaks to this very thing. Two things though, Chuck- and remember, I’m pretty much agreeing with your premise- it’s not helpful to refer to me and all white Americans as ‘crackers’ and ‘devils.’ Some of us hold similar opinions to yours regarding racial injustice. And secondly, I think Jews would take great exception to your suggestion that Blacks are still being persecuted, while post-holocaust Jews are not! You can’t tell me that in your hometown of NYC you do not see daily evidence of anti semitism continuing to abound. Jews and African Americans should be uniting to combat white supremacy rather than fighting one another about who’s been treated worse. I think everything one needs to know about Public Enemy’s sincere evangelism for racial justice (again, whether you agree with it or not) can be summed up in the sample from Malcom X at the very beginning of ‘Can’t Truss It’: ‘Being non-violent in the face of the violence we’ve been experiencing for the past 400 years is actually doing our people a disservice. In fact, it’s a crime.’ There is hard truth there for whites to just take in while resisting the immediate need for rebuttal. Non-reactive listening often assists in healing. It wouldn’t hurt for us (whites) to show a little more humility with regards to both the history and the ongoing present unjust suffering and prejudice that beats down our black brothers and sisters right here in America, where it is professed that ‘all are created equal… (and) endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights.’ But Chuck, from the bottom of my heart, I hope you’re also making room in your heart to consider that other Black American, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, who before both his and Malcom X’s assassinations, were actually beginning to find common ground in their previously incompatible core values and identities. Rev King, adding to the conversation said, ‘Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend.’ I want to be your friend, P.E. Help me to be your friend.

Apparently, in the mid 1990s, while I was listening to Smashing Pumpkins’ 'Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness'- a really great album- I entirely missed the king of melancholy, Paul Weller, and this, his even greater album, 'Wild Wood.' Man, oh man, this LP opens (‘Sunflower’) with the cleanest, tightest little trio you’ve ever heard: Weller on guitar, Marco Nelson on bass, and the stupendous Steve White on drums. (And a super cool little bridge, to boot. Weller has a nifty way with chords.) This is the way an LP should be recorded and produced. Look, I’m a sucker for old school punk, often (sometimes purposefully) played without a lot of skill, and unfortunately often recorded poorly. Weller, by contrast, has all the passion of punk but delivers it with elegance, a quality virtually unknown among punk rockers. Weller offers variety and versatility throughout, mixing crisp rockers with gorgeous acoustics, and little bits of jazz-folk and British tinged R&B thrown in for good measure. In fact, it’s the little bits of synthesizers and horns and organs and background vocals and such sprinkled tastefully here and there (but never too much, no wasted time or energy, nothing unnecessary) that really give this LP an extra pop. That, and drummer Steve White, who is simply extraordinary. There is simply far too much music going on here to possibly cover in a brief review. I could listen to this LP for the rest of the day, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and keep discovering hidden treasures, spotting new stars winking in the sky. You like Led Zepplin’s acoustic stuff? It’s there on ‘Country.’ How about Tom Petty? ‘Has My Fire Really Gone Out?’ Traffic? Check out the flute and horns on the reprise of ‘Holy Man.’ God, I love this album! Paul Weller is a triple threat. #1. An excellent guitarist, and instrumentalist in general, not unlike Paul McCartney; again, elegant, tasteful. #2. A rich, strong, deep voice that I so love in rock music but don’t often hear. His versatility is admirable, singing tenderly one moment, and then erupting with fury the next. The listener never doubts for a moment that he believes what he’s singing. His vocal integrity is beyond reproach. And, he’s on pitch. And, his diction is so clear that it’s unnecessary to have a copy of the written lyrics on hand for clarification. And, #3, how about those wistful lyrics? Allow me to offer a smattering of lines I would be proud to claim as my own: (‘Wild Wood’) ‘Day by day your world fades away, waiting to feel all the dreams that say: Golden rain will bring you riches, all the good things you deserve now… You’re gonna find your way out of the wild, wild wood.’ (‘Country’) ‘I feel the time we’ve yet to reach is not within our own belief. But I feel sure the time’ll come… ‘ (‘Foot of the Mountain’) ‘Sometimes a great notion can lead you astray, so weak to devotion, so strong to desire… At the foot of the mountain, such a long way to climb. How will I ever get there? Though I know I must try.’ (‘Shadow of the Sun’) ‘… chasing dreams across the fields in the shadow of the sun.’ (‘Moon on Your Pyjamas’) ‘Was that a shooting star I saw? It’s rare for me to make a wish at all. Because I feel that I can only hope, these dangerous times, we are barely afloat. And I hope the world will heal itself, and our worn out souls along with it, so that you will get the chance to say that you have seen a better day. You’ve got the moon on your pyjamas and the stars in your eyes. Sweet child, you’re a dream in disguise. Angels on silver strings hang from above. Let love and laughter shine wherever you go. Through your new eyes I’ve come to see how beautiful my life can be. And I’ll keep this wish this time, I think. And blow it in with a kiss upon your head.’ (Thank you, reader, for indulging me on that last lyric. It was just too beautiful to edit.) God, I love this album! Did I mention that already? And in case there’s any doubt left… I really, really love this album. I even love the cover pic of Weller and his guitar in the dark foreground, but set against a background of colorful, healing lights offering him solace from the troubled thoughts that keep (refer to last track) ‘hanging him up.’ 5/5 x 5 more (because I love this album)

I was a latecomer to the Metallica party, invited to their head banger ball with this LP. Prior to 'Metallica,' Metallica was an underground thrash metal band with an extremely rabid and loyal fan base. All that came to a crashing end with this LP, a massive seller, with the smash hit ‘Enter Sandman’ even receiving radio airplay- a sure fire way to really piss of thrash metal fans. Metallica’s die-hard fans hated this LP, and its popularity. What is it about metal heads (and punks) that causes them to they stop liking bands when they become popular? Anyway, 'Metallica' still found Metallica thrashing with the same fervor before on ‘Holier Than Thou,’ ‘Through the Never,’ and the album’s scorching closer, ‘The Struggle Within.’ Musically, if you like this genre (and I do), it is quite enjoyable. And if you dig the extra heavy, (and I do): ‘Sad But True,’ ‘The God That Failed,’ and ‘My Friend of Misery,’ the latter featuring a terrific duo harmonic guitar solo by James Hetfield and Kirk Hammett ala Thin Lizzy, followed by Kirk shredding it up himself, wah wah pedal to the metal. And, then there are the two numbers Metallica’s prior fans loathed the most: ‘Unforgiven,’ and ‘Nothing Else Matters.’ Undeniably, not thrash, but not bad either. I really liked this LP when it was released, being a still relatively young age of 31. Wore the cassette(!) right out. And I resonated with it not only on a musical, but a lyrical level, too. Because just like James Hetfield, I too was emotionally stunted, further exacerbated by alcohol (and drugs when I could get them, which in rural, far North East Texas in 1991 was next to impossible.) It’s always interesting to read the random comments people post about music, and most folks seemed to agree that ‘The Struggle Within’ is concerned with the suffering a self-defeating personality brings upon oneself. Very Buddhist, although I doubt Metallica’s fans have any truck with that. Buddhists are too non-violent. ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ kinda punches the Buddha right in the face. However, there was one smart ass who commented that ‘The Struggle Within’ is about constipation! Typical juvenile scatological humor. And, sometimes, that ‘shit’ is funny. But the commentator actually stumbled upon a truth that I suspect James and I share: the lack of appropriate and consistent mentoring by our parents, particularly in the area of responding maturely to the disappointments encountered in one’s life. One could label this as emotional constipation, and I suffered from this for years, inadvertently causing great harm to myself and my marriage. Thankfully, with help, and lot of ongoing work on my part, my emotional age is finally beginning to catch up with my chronological age. Hetfield is only four years my junior, so I sincerely hope that he’s making similar progress. I do know that for years, he self-medicated with alcohol (Metallica used to refer to themselves as Alcoholica), and as of a few years ago apparently got that under control. Lyrically, there’s really nothing here for anyone over the age of, let’s say, 18. Just a lot of self-loathing and/or blaming and judgment of others for one’s problems (organized religion being an obvious and easy target, particularly for metal), unwillingness to forgive, violent retribution, etc. On the second, and super heavy track, ‘Sad But True,’ Hetfield’s completely untamed, unrestrained ego has completely overpowered his (holy) spirit with (unholy) thoughts of forever being a victim to one’s past, the future being already determined by one’s regrets and fear, etc. Sad, but true, Hetfield laments. And that makes me sad to hear it. I’ve been sad too much for too long already. I much prefer being happy. That’s my new truth. Loved 'Metallica' back in the day. Appreciate it for what it is today, musically. But I don’t really care to listen to it anymore. There are other, wiser, and actually more helpful selections of metal to bang my head to today that bring a smile to my face.

Alchemy is defined as ‘the medieval forerunner of chemistry, based upon the supposed transformation of matter… and concerned particularly with attempts to convert base metals into gold…’ Or is it? Alchemy may also be understood as a spiritual or mystical conversion with base metals and gold symbolic of, perhaps, one’s inner conversion. Moby, I believe, on several tracks of 'Play' seems to be attempting a musical form of alchemy, transmuting prior recordings primarily of mid-20th century African American gospel and folk singers like Bessie Jones, Vera Hall, and Bill Landord and the Landfordaires. And the result is quite enjoyable. The rest are his own techno creations, mostly downtempo, also very pleasurable. I particularly loved the downtempo offerings: ‘Inside,’ for example, with it’s scuba diving synthesized feel, or ‘Everloving,’ beginning with Moby on acoustic guitar (in the left ear of one’s headphones) then filling both with soothing downtempo gloriousness. Moby, incidentally, plays virtually all the instruments on 'Play,' and plays with talent. His guitar work, especially, on ‘South Side’ is really good. I spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out the players in this musical theatre: ‘Porcelain’ is Moby’s (who’s actual name is Richard Melville Hall) transmutation of the song, ‘Fight For Survival,’ by Klergy, Danny Burke’s altar ego… or, at least I think so. Frankly, I’m still not certain I’ve put all the pieces together correctly. After a while this began to take me down the rabbit hole with Alice, so to speak, so I simply surrendered to the sound and enjoyed the lovely trip. Not being completely unfamiliar with the hallucinogenic experience myself, I thought it would be a wonderful LP to have on hand as one was coming down from a trip, or definitely to the accompaniment of some of Denver’s legal, recreational weed. That said, the listener may enjoy it just fine while completely sober as well. Your freedom, your choice. I happen to love to dip my French fries in mayo, but I have a good friend who can hardly sit at the same table with me while I’m doing it. Either way, French fries are still mighty tasty. And so is 'Play.'

Oh, Amy… 'Frank,' Amy Winehouse’s debut album, refers partly to the quintessential crooner Frank Sinatra, one of Amy’s earliest influences. A couple of tracks in I heard more jazz/blues singer Billie Holiday than Sinatra. Although I would not title Amy’s LP 'Billie' because Ms. Holiday, despite her own problems with men and drugs, had so much more depth (where would one drop ‘Strange Fruit’ among the collection of songs on 'Frank'?), both in voice and lyrics, a multi-dimensional artist in comparison to Amy Winehouse and her singular lyrical focus: hooking up with the bad boys. Every single song on 'Frank' (save one about the death of her pet bird, Ava- ‘October Song’) is about Amy’s desperate and shallow pursuit of masculine affection. Comedian Chris Rock once commented that a father’s main goal in raising a daughter is to keep her off the (stripper) pole. Amy’s mother and brother are briefly mentioned on 'Frank,' but no reference to her father, so who knows what went on there? I have no information nor do I even want to pronounce any kind of judgment on their relationship. Just wondering. I happen to like strong, independent women. And that bleeds over into my musical preference. One of my favorite female artists is Liz Phair, who has made a career out of unashamedly affirming and asserting her own sexuality. One gets the impression from her songs that her family origin might have had its own dysfunction that affected, for example, her ability to choose healthier relationships with men. But Amy is damaged in a way well beyond Liz. On the opener, she cruelly says to her man, ‘You always wanna talk it through, I don’t care… You always wanna talk it through, I’m ok. I always have to comfort you every day. But that’s what I need to do, are you gay?’ Other songs have her sleeping with married men, boasting about it even (‘What Is It About Men’), and then brutally criticizing slutty girls who just want to score a good looking sugar daddy (‘Fuck Me Pumps.’) On ‘I Heard Love Is Blind‘ she excuses (blames, even) her own cheating on her man by asking what did you expect, I was drunk, and he looked like you! But hey, at least ‘I was thinking of you when I came (with the other guy).’ Amy Amy Amy’ features the background singers in chorus pleading with her to get her shit together, but to no avail. Amy is cursed with her attraction to the kinds of dudes who apparently are great in bed but rotten elsewhere. And then there’s the hints of alcohol and substance abuse. Several of the songs have Amy hungover, so the drinking has already begun. The drug abuse, of course, was not far behind, and eventually took her life. Despite the competent jazz players who earn at least a star themselves on 'Frank,' Amy’s sickness just taints the whole thing, at least for this listener. I’m no stranger to the blues, musically or otherwise, but the sadness I feel for Amy is even more pronounced by what could have been. It’s very clear on this LP where she’s headed and the consequences that catch up with all who stumble down her path. ‘I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself,’ she sings to one of her ‘bad boy’ lovers, unknowingly prophesying her own demise. Would that Amy had listened to her own advice.

Houston… I mean, San Francisco, we’ve got a problem. ‘You can do whatever you please, the world’s waiting to be seized,’ co-vocalists Marty Balin and Grace Slick sing on the opening number, ‘She Has Funny Cars.’ Then, ‘Your mind’s guaranteed. It’s all you’ll ever need.’ Hmm. Sounded real groovy in the youthful idealism of the 1960s, especially 1967’s summer of love, and most especially in San Francisco. Turned out, though, the mind was not so guaranteed, and it wasn’t all we ever needed. Grace Slick reprised that idea, and then some, in 'Surrealistic Pillow’s' second to last song, ‘White Rabbit,’ when she further advised to ‘feed your head’ with magic mushrooms, at least. The problem being: the mind is ravenous, and fully capable of eating its host’s body and spirit. Ms. Slick found that out herself, eventually, when she developed an adult addiction to both hard drugs and alcohol. But you can’t necessarily expect youth, then or now, to be fully receptive to adult wisdom. They sometimes just have to figure it out for themselves, trial and error, just like their parent’s did (or didn’t). On ‘We Can Be Together,’ the opening number of Airplane’s final LP, 'Volunteers,' they further affirm (sneeringly tongue in cheek, sorta) to be ‘obscene, lawless, hideous, dangerous, dirty, violent, and young… And we are very proud of ourselves.’ (And then they proceed to shove the untrustworthy motherfuckers over 30 up against the wall before then tearing it down. Their words, not mine.) But I digress… Ok, that’s the problem, and I don’t have to tell you where all that kind of mindfulness led. If the 1970s are any indication of the consequences of doing whatever one pleases, with a money back mind guarantee, then I want my money and mind back. No wait, that’s partly what got me into this jam in the first place. Am I even making any sense? What did that sneaky dormouse feed me? Uh oh, my mind just starting leaking out of my ears. Hold on, I need to drink some orange juice and go for a walk in the forest. I’ll be back later Ok, where were we again? Oh, yes. The problem. Identified. But our clever Jefferson Airplaners offer a solution on the second song (which incidentally, the Beatles were working on that same year with ‘All You Need Is Love,’ but seeing as how they were in England and the Airplane were on the west coast of the United States, it’s anyone’s guess who arrived at it first): ‘When the truth is found to be lies, and all the joy within you dies, don’t you want somebody to love? Don’t you need somebody to love? Wouldn’t you want somebody to love. You’d better find somebody to love!’ Love, not mind, is the real guarantee. And fortunately, 'Surrealistic Pillow' ends up offering love in spades. Trial and error. Hey, give ‘em a chance to figure it out. They’re young. The two big hits of this LP, ‘Somebody To Love,’ and ‘White Rabbit,’ have not endured the test of time for no reason. Grace Slick’s uniquely powerful, Wonder Woman-esque vibrato combined with the psychedelic sound of the band, particularly Jorma Kaukonen’s trebly (in a good way), note bending clean of the fret, fuzz tone, wah wah, acid rockin’ (stylistically similar to the dual guitarists of another Frisco band, Big Brother and the Holding Company) lead guitar playing, truly create a mood, man. ‘White Rabbit’ isn’t just a song. It’s an experience. I still get chills when I hear it, accentuated by that infamous made-for-television (plastic fantastic lover), after school, anti-drug movie that scared the shit right out of me as a kid, 'Go Ask Alice,' where the formerly sober teen freaks out on LSD to the tune of ‘White Rabbit.’ You baby boomers out there remember? Gen X-ers and Millennials, no worries, a viewing is hardly necessary. Just listen yourself to drummer Spencer Dryden’s marching cadence that, along with the chord structure, builds to a tremendous climax as Slick sings, full on vibrato, ‘Remember what the dormouse said: Feed your head!’ You’ll see what I’m talking about. Wait a minute, did I just taste that one of those quarter notes, smell that measure? Hold on, the sheet music is asking me a question… No, I don’t have any Cheetos. How would you eat ‘em anyway? You’re paper. Hmm. Might need to go for another walk. Be back in a moment. Whew. Next review, half a dose. I’m guessing what would surprise those with a causal knowledge of Airplane most about this LP is the depth of sound on the remaining non-hits. The very Simon and Garfunkely ‘Today’ and ‘Comin’ Back to Me,’ the former a musical recreation of the wandering, searching youth in the late 60s and the latter more of a wistful vibe. Or the signature jangle guitar sound of the Byrds on ‘D.C.B.A.-25,’ or a near Allman Brothers acoustic instrumental on ‘Embyronic Journey.’ Even when little snotty nose Paul Kantner sings tenderly, ‘O, how my heart beats…’ when he sees a beautiful girl on ‘How Do You Feel,’ I can’t help but smile. I didn’t mention Marty Balin much, but his vocals throughout simply soar. And the rascally Jack Casady walks his bass on the acid rockers like a dog straining on its leash. Finally, just in case you forget its 1967, some cat (I thought) kept popping in and out with a flute on the softer, acoustic songs; but, lo and behold when I checked the credits, it was Ms. Slick on an even more classic 60’s woodwind: the mighty recorder. I proudly played one of those suckers myself in 1967. (Grace plays better.) Perhaps that explains why the YouTube channel I was playing 'Surrealistic Pillow' on listed the musical genre, in addition to folk and rock, as children’s music!? Look, I’m starting to come on down now, so I’m gonna go stretch out for a bit. I’ll be on more solid ground for the next review. Let’s just hope it ain’t Grateful Dead’s 'Anthem of the Sun' or 'Aoxomoxoa.' My mind is already sated.

The Times-News in Hendersonville, North Carolina, ran a joke in their June 17, 1991 issue that eventually got a lot of publicity. Q: What do you get when you play a country music record backwards? A: It stops raining, your wife and dog come back home, you get your pickup truck out of repo, and your mom gets out of prison. Ah, the world of Dwight Yoakum’s 'Buenas Noches From A Lonely Room' (somewhat of a country themed concept album- think 'Dark Side of the [Harvest] Moon'), in which Dwight finds himself in prison right along with mama. Furthermore, he’s on death row, one angry son of a bitch who favors execution in comparison to a life filled with heartache over his cheatin’ gal. ‘What I don’t know might not hurt me,’ he sings on the third track. ‘But if I find out you’ve been cheatin’, what I don’t know might get you killed.’ Shoo wee, boy. On the LP’s title track, one of the best on this surprisingly good LP, the thrice repeated verse endings ‘she wore red dresses’ reveals 1) ‘…and told such sweet lies,’ 2) ‘…and left the wounded (Dwight) behind,’ 3) ‘… but now she lay dead (‘cause Dwight put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger.) Valuable takeaway on 'Buenas Noches From A Lonely Room': don’t cheat on Mr. Yoakum. The LP actually begins with a bouncy love song, featuring Pete Anderson on brisk, clean as a whistle lead guitar: ‘Hey, I know my life seems a mess. But honey, things to me still look real swell ‘cause I’ve got you to see me through.’ And the whole thing wraps up with a terrific blue grass gospel number (c’mon, it’s country, obligatory to give at least one shout out to the good Lord above), ‘Hold On to God.’ Good harmonies, except a strong, deep bass would’ve really put the gravy on this chicken fried steak of a tune. Fiddler Don Reed, though, makes up for things, as well as a mean Dobro offering from Al Perkins. My toes were a tappin’ and I was sangin’ my be-hind clean off. In fact, I sang along with most of the LP. A lot has been made about Dwight Yoakum’s nasally, yodeling vocal style, but I found it rather pleasant. He’s got a great tone, pitch on point, and at times- like on the opener, ‘I Got You’- displays an unusual, sophisticated(?), almost syncopated phrasing, somewhat uncommon in country, especially this neo-traditional hillbilly country that Yoakum has revived. It’s very different from, say, Garth Brooks, who I loathe. Most of today’s country sounds like more like the Eagles than Buck Owens, Dwight Yoakum’s mentor. But I happen to prefer Hank Williams and George Jones to Carrie Underwood and Keith Urban. But back to the LP’s theme: as I wrote above, all’s well at the beginning and the end. But, boy, that middle! Things go south, and in a hurry. Dwight’s gonna need him some grace and mercy and the salvation offered through Jesus on the closer after all that killin.’ Along the way, he does redeem himself a bit on ‘I Sang Dixie,’ a real tearjerker about a drunk homeless fellow he cradled on a city street as he lay dying and people just passed on by. The bridge is a super clever redoing of the traditional ‘Dixie’: ‘Way down yonder in the land of cotton, old times there ain’t near as rotten as they are on this damned ol’ L.A. street.’ But, unfortunately, he’s right back to his sinning on the next number, an upbeat duet with Buck Owens, ‘Streets of Bakersfield.’ But he also reminds you not to judge too quickly unless you’ve walked those same streets the way he has. ‘Judge not lest ye be judged.’ Jesus sang that one on his debut LP, ‘Buenas Dias From the Kingdom of Heaven.’ Shoot, the players on this thing don’t get much better: In addition to the above mentioned (another shout out to lead guitarist Pete Anderson, all over this album with great fill-ins, like George Harrison’s crucial bits with the Beatles), Tom Brumley on pedal steel (I’m a sucker for good pedal steel- like cilantro on your street tacos, you gotta have it), and Flaco Jimenez on accordion (& I’m likewise a sucker for that and it’s muy caliente in his nimble fingers, too.) Love the sound, the production, the song placements, the movement of the whole thing. Pretty bleak lyrical themes but pretty lush musical accompaniment. This is some good drinkin’ music, if you’re into that. I’d say you should start with an ice cold beer and then move right to whiskey, until that final gospel number (and you’re going to need an orthodox Jewish pal for this) in which you take a stone water jar, the kind used for ceremonial washing, holding approx. 20-30 gallons… well, for those of you who are in the know… you know. The rest may refer to the second chapter of the gospel according to John in the New Testament of the Holy Bible for the surprise ending. 5/5 (& this from a dude who thinks the Ramones are the best thing since sliced biscuits.)

Well, about two minutes into the second track, ‘My Mate Paul,’ well, about two minutes into the second track, ‘My Mate Paul,’ well about two minutes into the second track, ‘My Mate Paul, well about two minutes into the second track, ‘My Mate Paul,’ well, about two minutes into the… Get it? One word description of David Holmes’ techno LP, 'Let’s Get Killed'? Repetitive. Little, to no music, in the sense of melody, or lyrics, or any of that old fashioned stuff. Mostly random street conversation upon which electronic beats and synthesized sounds are layered. My dog, Boo, and I could have replicated ‘My Mate Paul,’ for example, had I played one piano chord over and over and over again to the repeated beat of a drum machine, while Boo randomly stepped over the buttons on a synthesizer emitting various odd sounds. The only two tracks that came close to music in the traditional sense were ‘Rodney Yates’ and ‘Don’t Die Just Yet,’ with a pretty nice performance from Keith Tenniswood on vibes and lead guitar on both, and the London Session Orchestra on the latter. (I’m not counting ‘Radio 7,’ basically a cover of Monty Norman’s James Bond theme.) “Rodney Yates’ had an Aphex Twin kind of feel, an ambient artist I enjoy. So, I don’t necessarily need melody, lyrics, etc. But upon a first listen, 'Let’s Get Killed' just didn’t take. But for some unknown reason, it started to get under my skin a bit. So, I gave it another listen. I’m generous that way, sometimes. And then I started to get what Holmes was trying to do to as an artist, via his techno genre. Growing up in Belfast, he had an opportunity to visit NYC at 17, and taped a bunch of random conversations, traffic noises, and such, the sounds one would imagine to hear in such a setting. Ten years later, voila: ‘Let’s Get Killed,’ thusly titled after he and his associates were chased through the South Bronx by a group of thugs who wanted his expensive audio equipment. He took some lemons and made lemonade, some lemons and made lemonade, some lemons and made lemonade, some lemons and made lemonade… And you know, when I listened to it as a techno concept album, I found a new appreciation, and even enjoyment, for the thing. And that’s sans Ecstasy/Molly, or alcohol, or anything. Well, I was drinking a cup of straight up black French Roast coffee in my Bob Dylan Highway 61 mug, but I don’t believe it altered my consciousness too significantly. I was going to be mean and comment that the second to last track, ‘Don’t Die Just Yet,’ was David’s plea for the listener to hang in there, its almost over; and, that I had already died way back at the beginning (and I’m sorry I couldn’t use it, ‘cause that’s a good line, right?)… but I kinda dig it a little more now than before. Besides, I once sang lead in a new wave band that covered a certain Clash song at a gig where the audience was more than tired of us. And in our youthful ignorance, we ended with their big hit of the 'Combat Rock' LP, ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go.’ I spent the next three minutes bombarded by the audience response: ‘Go, you #*@#, go!’ I was humbled. Still am.

Los Angeles’ Jane’s Addiction is to rock music what French impressionist Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec is to painting: (w)hol(l)y dissolute, sordidly sacred, gloriously grotesque. Listening to Jane’s Addiction is like participating in a veneration of pus (pus being defined as a product of the immune system’s fight against invading bacterium.) Pus is, well, gross. But only because something much grosser has invaded your body in the first place. The body has to find some way to expel the infection, so out it spurts, and oozes. Likewise, Jane’s addiction knows how to spurt and ooze. And one can only imagine what/who has invaded singer and lyricist Perry Farrell’s system. Certainly, fundamentally, parental abandonment- ‘Had a Dad,’ the emphasis being on the word had. I know a thing or two myself about parental abandonment, and its unfortunate consequences: perceiving the world as threatening and fearful, lack of self-esteem, inability to trust and be trusted, difficulty in making healthy attachments to others, emotionally immature/stunted, prone to deceit, manipulation, control, etc. FUCKED UP! Smiley the bartender, a fella I once worked under years ago in Aspen, imparted some street wisdom to me one day when I tried to pull one over on him: ‘Son, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter.’ Perry, I’m afraid I know you. I am you. This is very difficult for me to write, to admit; but part of my own long recovery out of the hell similar to the one Perry was burning in when he composed these songs necessitates brutal honesty. And I’ve reason to believe that Perry is not the same man now as he once was, at least given some of the things I’ve heard him say and witnessed from his actions more recently. But in 1988? FUCKED UP. That said, in addition to some of his uglier expressions- ‘Sex is vio-lent (‘Ted, Just Admit It…’)’ and ‘C’mon, kiss you, motherfucker. Fuckin’, suckin’, take it. Forget the rule. Idiots rule. (‘Idiots Rule’)- he also possesses the gift of painting extraordinarily lush and quite beautiful images like ‘I wish I was ocean size… no talking, all action (‘Ocean Size).’ He desires to break, naturally, like a wave, quite the opposite of the other horrors in his life that have broken him in other unnatural ways. Or, on ‘Summertime Rolls’ describing his girlfriend with a nose ‘painted pepper-sunlight.’ It’s a lovely song in many ways, a rare glimpse of the more tender, loving side of Perry. Still, this ain’t no John Denver Annie love song. ‘Jane Says,’ of course- for those familiar with Jane’s Addiction- is the big hit off 'Nothing’s Shocking,' kind of their ‘Hey Jude’ or ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want.’ Perry, in four simple words, summarizes the tremendous power of addiction to pummel the victim’s sincere best intentions: ‘I’m gonna kick tomorrow.’ Anyone listening who has entered the ring with addiction for a round or two or ten or twenty will resonate with this on a deep level. Furthermore, Perry quotes the prostitute for whom the song and the band is named in one of the saddest lyrics I think I’ve ever heard: ‘Jane says, ‘I’ve never been in love, don’t know what it is.’ She only know if someone wants her.’ Like Toulouse-Lautrec, Perry knows his subjects, too, intimately. As far as the music is concerned, guitarist Dave Navarro is Jimmy Page to Perry’s Robert Plant. Navarro can shred on his electric one moment, and then softly fingerpick on his acoustic the next. The waves of his guitar thunderously break and then recede, non-stop all over this thing. Why he’s not recognized with the likes of Page and other greats, I don’t know. Perry’s vocals are outstanding, if an acquired taste, with unique phrasing, meter, and melodies (‘Summertime Rolls,’ i.e.) Not to get too technical, on ‘Jane Says,’ at the same time the chords are moving from a G major to an A major, he sings an A note down to an F sharp thus creating an unusual variant on the G major chord. It’s just this shy of dissonant, but not, and really adds to Jane’s Addiction’s interesting sound. Furthermore, the entire band understands the force of dynamics in music, the yin/yang of loud/quiet. The utter silence on ‘Ted, Just Admit It,’ right before Perry howls ‘… sex is violent’ takes the listener’s breath away. Totally unexpected. Shocking. Riveting. And then when the band rips into a rapid fire musical expression of the crazed, twisted mind of a psychopath like Ted Bundy… again, this is high art, evocative. In fact, to describe this LP as provocative (the cover art alone would probably cause most nice folks to pass it right over for a safer Taylor Swift LP instead) would be to completely misunderstand 'Nothing’s Shocking.' (I’d like to thank my good friend, David, for helping me understand the difference.) Hey, from a gentle soul who dearly loves the sacred chants of Russian Orthodox Christian hymns and the sweet innocence of the Mamas and the Pappas ‘California Dreamin’’ and the smooth as buttermilk vocals of Glen Campbell’s ‘Wichita Lineman,’ I also love to rock, and rock hard, as my friends and family know. And when I get the jones (are you hip?) to rock, I most certainly do not go to REO Speedwagon (I mean no disrespect). I go to Jane’s Addiction. One of the best hard rock bands I have ever had the good fortune to stumble upon back in the day. Perry, I know that your father’s leaving was the catalyst for your ‘… funny feeling (that) God is dead, he’s not there at all,’ but I want to thank the God I feel (beyond my rational understanding, and through and beyond my wounds, similar to yours) that your music is recorded for posterity; if for no one else, at least for me to listen to and learn from and love. 5/5 (and I’d give you 50 more if I could)

I occasionally listen to an ‘oldies’ radio station on my short drive to work. I’m not sure when my music or myself became old, but as the great songwriting duo Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen observed in their enchanting tune (famously covered by Frank Sinatra) ‘The September Of My Years’: ‘One day you turn around, and it’s summer. Next day you turn around, and it’s fall. And the springs and the winters of a life time, whatever happened to them all?’ Just for the record, I’m rather enjoying growing old. But back to the matter at hand, this ‘oldies’ station I sometimes enjoy. Now, I’m not talking about 90s grunge oldies (um hum, that’s 30 years ago, friends), or 80s new wave oldies, or 70s classic rock oldies. I’m talking the rock n' roll and R&B of the 60s and 50s. The real shit. And, unfortunately, often recorded/produced like shit. Because that’s the way things were back then. The studio technology was still pretty rudimentary, as well as the songwriting, and performances. A good friend of mine, hundreds of LPs ahead of me on this project, argued the value of Buddy Holly and the Crickets for its historical significance, and I agree. But he also honestly confessed that the record still sounds like shit, and on both sides of the studio glass, performance (including lyrics) and production. One has to remember context, though. For its time, Buddy Holly and the Crickets were revolutionary. And that’s where I’m going with Run-D.M.C. and 'Raising Hell.' I double dog dare you to listen to the likes of Kanye West or Eminem and then to this LP. Run and D.M.C. brag (and this LP is nothing if not bursting with braggadocio) about ‘Perfection’ on the last track of side one. But with elementary rhymes and missed beats (the fellas are too quick on the mic relative to Jam Master Jay’s scratching), this is hardly perfection. They should’ve named the song, ‘Deficient;’ no that’s a little harsh. How about ‘Middling,’ or in street vernacular, ‘middlin’.’ That would even rhyme well: Middlin- I’m just a chillin- I’m a superhero, I’m not a villain. I never claimed I could rap. Nor did you pay to read this review; so, clam up. (How’s that for an old expression?) The best thing on this LP is the production by the two very talented, and now famous (and getting old themselves) gentlemen, Russell Simmons and Rick Rubin. Rubin’s credits now include a tremendous variety of artists from Johnny Cash to Slayer! His work on Tom Petty’s 'Wildflowers' is exquisite. Listen for yourself. So 'Raising Hell’s' at least has that working for it. The worst thing: a close call between the sad, tired, drugged out Aerosmith collaboration on, ‘Walk This Way,’ (credited as the first rock/hip-hop fusion to significantly chart, but it would take another five years for LA’s Rage Against The Machine to show us what this should truly sound like), or whoever (maybe Jay, maybe Rubin?) is playing the horrendous lead guitar on ‘Raising Hell.’ When the devil and his minions popped up in Queens and heard Run-D.M.C.’s ‘Raising Hell,’ they took their pitchforks and went right back down to their demonic hood to wait for Slayer’s release that same year, 'Reign in Blood.' Slayer literally knows how to raise hell. I’d call the guitar playing on Run-D.M.C.’s song pure garage band, but that would be an insult to a musical genre I happen to love. ‘It’s tricky to rock a rhyme, to rock a rhyme that’s right on time, it’s tricky,’ affirms Run-D.M.C. No argument here, guys. Your record’s proof enough. 1/5 (and that ain’t no jive, I’ve heard more buzzin from an ill behive)

My grandmother, Cookie, and I used to sit up late on Saturday nights in her Galveston beach house and watch the local ABC affiliate’s weekly broadcast of 'WEIRD,' mc-ed by a campy host in a black cape who introduced whatever horror movies they were running that evening. This was in the 1960s mind you, so the horror flicks were mostly things like ‘Day of the Triffids,’ and ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers,’ stuff like that. And, of course, the classic unholy trinity of ‘Frankenstein,’ ‘Dracula,’ and ‘The Werewolf.’ I was always scared, yet not really. It was different than the time a neighbor’s dog chased me down the block on my Schwinn nipping at my heels, or the time I ran home fast because a perv in a van (honest to God) offered me candy for a ride. That was legitimate, real life fear. The monster movies were only pretend fear, and served the purpose of a cathartic release, a confrontation of terror with the goal of a purification at the end. You may not buy this, finding no value whatsoever in the horror genre of literature and film, but for those of you who do, who have had a similar positive experience to mine, you will love The Cramps’ 'Songs The Lord Taught Us.' (Incidentally, the significance of the title of this record is lost on me. I would’ve gone with the more obvious 'Rock Around the Shock,' or something of that nature, but anyway…) It would come as no surprise to me that many folks will hate this record with the kind of distaste one feels immediately upon realizing that they’ve stepped in dog shit. So, allow me to address that group. Forget all the horror imagery and think of this record, instead, as satire. I believe that’s the real and greater intent of The Cramps than to simply terrorize us. Satire, as I understand it, involves the use of exaggeration, often in humorous ways, to expose and critique things in the general culture. Listen to some of these lyrics, ignoring the horror, and concentrate on what the lyricist might be trying to satirize: ‘I was a teenage werewolf, braces on my fangs… You know, I have puberty rights, and I have puberty wrongs (‘I Was a Teenage Werewolf’).’ ‘I been seeing you for months coming to this place. Now what I wanna know is, honey, when can I see your face?... Ooh, let me have a look in here… Eeeeeek! Well, curiosity killed this cat, sorry I ever asked. What I don’t know can’t hurt me as much as what’s behind the mask (‘What’s Behind the Mask’).’ ‘Mystery Plane,’ about a woman impregnated by an alien: ‘Now I just can’t identify with this world so I don’t try. Square pegs don’t fit into round holes, and I can’t fit into these clothes. My daddy’ unidentified. My mom says I just appeared inside. Looks like a case of hit and run, but off the record it’s no fun.’ Or my personal favorite, ‘Sunglasses After Dark’: ‘I got something to say to you and you better listen. I’m’a tell ya how to be cool in one easy lesson. Sunglasses after dark… Went out last Saturday night. Got myself in a knife fight. Everybody got cut includin’ me, ‘cause not one of us cats could see!’ Musically, The Cramps have arched completely over the swing set bar, a full 360 degrees, and turned inside out as a result; meaning, that they’re so bad they’re good. Oh, how they need a standup bass, though. That would really give their thrillbilly sound a good bottom. And I could play it, I know I could, even with no prior experience. I’d need about a weekend’s practice, and then I’d be good to go. Nick Knox is appropriately pounding away on this toms signaling the zombies to rise from the dead and shuffle on down to the dance hall. Bryan Gregory and Poison Ivy Rorschach on guitars take everything wonderful about the interplay between Keith Richards and Mick Taylor’s guitar work in the Rolling Stones’ glory years, and toss it out the window to it’s death. At times, many times, Poison Ivy’s lead guitar seems to be purposefully playing in a different key entirely to the one in which Gregory’s playing. But, in a good way, strange as that may sound. And it does. And Lux Interior’s vocals are kind of like Elvis on meth, while still chewing on a peanut butter & ‘nanner sandwich. In fact, the entire band sounds like a cross between Bill Hailey & the Comets, and The Munsters, on a Red Bull bender. It’s one rollicking mess. I mean, when you begin an LP with tribal drums, followed by pure garage guitar with heavy echo (and the uniquely squeaky sound of a hand on the fret board changing chords), and then lyrics like: ‘Oh baby I see you on my TV set… I cut your head off and put it on my TV set. I use your eyeballs for dial on my TV set. I watch TV since I put you on my TV set,’ you pretty much know you’re traveling off the beaten path. This ain’t Toto by a long shot. Oh, and when the next verse describes his baby’s other parts dripping all down the radio, I think they were actually turning a radio dial randomly back and forth for a solo! A radio dial solo! This is a first for me in listening history. When they play ‘Tear It Up,’ they don’t mean it figuratively, like most rockabilly bands. They really mean tear it up, accentuated by Poison Ivy’s screaming in the background for the entire song. I imagine all of these songs were all one-takers in the studio, and the whole thing from recording to release might have occurred on a Saturday, with time left over to do the live gig that evening. And that’s a good thing. The Cramps would suffer from too much practice, too much studio polish. They’ve got the attitude. Just turn the amps up and let ‘em rock n’ roil. Great fun. True originals. A band that might even twist a chuckle out of the otherwise dour belly of Leonard Cohen. They sure showed me a good time. And isn’t that one of the reasons why we love to rock anyway? 5/5 (for entirely different reasons than the 5/5 I gave the Rolling Stones’ Sticky Fingers)

Author and spiritual teacher, Eckhart Tolle, writes in his intriguing book, 'The Power Of Now': ‘Unless and until you access the consciousness frequency of presence, all relationships, and particularly intimate relationships, are deeply flawed and ultimately dysfunctional… The reason why the romantic love relationship is such an intense and universally sought-after experience is that it seems to offer liberation from a deep-seated state of fear, need, lack, and incompleteness that is part of the human condition in its unredeemed and unenlightened state.’ This is, I believe, the fundamental flaw in the theme of The Divine Comedy’s otherwise musically luxuriant 'A Short Album About Love.' Opening with a moment of rich, deep horns, courtesy of the Brunel ensemble in an enticing chord progression, they are just as quickly replaced by the fast strumming of an acoustic Irish guitar… and off we go in an exuberant musical explosion accompanying the lyricist in his ‘Pursuit of Happiness.’ The song builds to a joyful climax as singer/songwriter Neil Hannon raises his voice to a near scream, ‘Just as long as we are together forever I’ll never be anything other than happy!’ It’s a terrific song and I was eager to listen to the rest. Unfortunately, the next song found his love unrequited, the remaining theme for the duration of the LP. Rather than exploring other options, one song after another grew into a relentless quest for his self-confessed 'need' (a word repeated many times) for romantic love. And despite the lush orchestral accompaniment and wonderful arrangements, by the fourth track I was growing weary, and relieved when I reached the end. I would’ve welcomed this 'Short Album About Love' (true to it’s word at a mere 32 minutes running time) to have been even shorter, eliminating tracks four, five, and seven. The second to last song, ‘Timewatching,’ was a wonderful bit of music (I’m a sucker for the minor key), but again, Hannon expressed his dependence upon his love interest for his wholeness. I want to encourage the listener to consider if this ‘in love’ is really ‘love’ at all, or as Tolle suggests only a misplaced attempt to achieve completeness both physically and psychologically from a pre-enlightened and redeemed broken state of being? ‘Love is a state of being. Your love is not outside; it is deep within you. You can never lose it, and it cannot leave you. It is not dependent on some other body, some external form. In the stillness of your presence, you can feel your own formless and timeless reality as the unmanifested life that animates your physical form. You can then feel the same life deep within every other human and every other creature. You look beyond the veil of form and separation. This is the realization of oneness. This is love. What is God? The eternal One Life underneath all the forms of life. What is love? To feel the presence of that One Life deep within yourself and within all creatures. To be it. Therefore, all love is the love of God.’

WTF just happened? I’m not sure if Brian Wilson is a mad genius, or just mad (and I don’t mean angry; although maybe he is, I’m not sure.) To be completely candid, 'Smile' simply went right over my head. I’m guessing the first of Wilson’s three movements was something of a lament over the early white settlers illegal and unjust occupation of north American lands upon which the Indians had lived for millennia? If so, a western saloon-sounding piano might not have been the best choice of instrument for ‘Roll Plymouth Rock’- and yes, I know Plymouth is in the eastern United States. Reason for further confusion. That said, the choice of banjo and harmonica on ‘Cabin Essence,’ three songs later, was very appropriate to the mood. So, what do I know? Wilson’s more the master of this. On ‘Blue Hawaii’ (the third movement- hey, why go in order? I’m lost anyway) his outstanding harmonies ‘water, water, etc.) actually sound like, well, water. I’m not learned enough in musical theory and composition to explain why this is so; it just is. Listen for yourself. Lyrically, however, that’s a whole other story. Assisted by Van Dyke Parks, Wilson’s co-writer, 'Smile' is chocked full of lines like ‘Columinated ruins domino,’ from a tune entitled (just as curiously) ‘Surf’s Up.’ Or ‘I’m in the great shape of agriculture,’ from ‘I’m In Great Shape/I Wanna Be Proud/Workshop.’ Would someone, could someone, please explain what Parks and Wilson are expressing? Captain Beefheart probably could. Syd Barrett? That’s a good bet. ‘Course they were both mad hatters as well. I’m not sure it I liked 'Smile' or hated 'Smile.' No, on second thought, I definitely did not hate it. But I might not know for a while to what extent I either did or did not like it. The highlight of this whole thing was the final track, ‘Good Vibrations.’ No surprise why this became such a huge hit, and it holds up today, over half a century later. In fact, I wish the entire album would’ve been a little more like it, a mostly sustained tune with some interesting melodic and tempo changes; but not too much, unlike the rest of the LP. All the stopping and starting finally wore me out. Sometimes an artist can be too clever. On the plus side, though, Wilson does excel in creating lush harmonic soundscapes, from the beginning acapella ‘Ooos’ all the way to the end. Add to that the splendid orchestral arrangements of the Stockholm Strings ‘n’ Horns. Bravo! And, finally, the band itself, close to a dozen players with no instrument left behind! No wonder the other, original Beach Boys mostly panned this LP with a lot of snarky, jealous comments to the press. ‘Course these boys have been bitching amongst themselves like an elderly women’s church quilting bee for decades now, so why should the 21st century be any different? In my opinion, The Beach Boys need Brian Wilson a lot more than Brian Wilson needs The Beach Boys. The question unanswered remains: What does the listener need? Imagination? Hallucination? Conversation? Consultation? I’d add Explanation, but I doubt Wilson’s entertaining that anymore, if he ever did at all. Or, maybe the answer’s right in front of me: to smile and listen through my teeth, while my ears take over chewing duties. Or as the saner Bob Dylan once replied to Mona when she warned him to stay away from those bloodthirsty railroad men, ‘… there’s only one I’ve met, and he just smoked my eyelids and punched my cigarette.’ OK, now, I’m smiling.

Drummer Larry Mullen Jr agreed with lead vocalist Bono that U2 was musically unprepared for the enormous success of 1987’s The Joshua Tree. ‘We were the biggest, but weren’t the best.’ So, they took the course suggested by the French author and Nobel Prize winner Andre Gide that ‘One cannot discover new oceans unless one has the courage to lose sight of the shore’ and bravely set sail on this creative, entertaining, and enlightening LP, 'Achtung Baby.' The listener is immediately confronted on the opening track with a more industrial sound than the U2 of past LPs, including heavy effects on Bono’s vocals. ‘I’m ready for what’s next,’ announces Bono, forcing us to decide whether we are too. It’s hard to imagine the courage it took for them to do this, rather than live out the rest of their career rehashing the old hits and repeating the same formula that brought them past success. Allow me a little license here, but this seems to be their version of The Beatles’ 'Rubber Soul' and 'Revolver'- still The Beatles we know and love, yet not exactly; growing like a child in the midst of puberty to emerge into something new. Larry Mullen Jr, and bassist Adam Clayton don’t appear to have changed all that much on this LP, but they were never really the primary creative drive of U2 anyway, no disrespect intended. To further the comparison of The Beatles, like Ringo, they are fine players, and provide the necessary stability for Bono and the Edge and all this new, carefully managed industrial sound to roam high and low, far and wide. And both, lead guitarist and vocalist, surely do stretch their legs on 'Achtung Baby.' I think this might be the Edge’s finest guitar work, at least as good as his playing on 'The Joshua Tree.' His guitar solos on ‘Until the End of the World,’ and ‘Love Is Blindness’ are just perfect. He gets a little edgier on ‘Acrobat,’ with its creative interplay against the drum’s cadence. And, the gorgeous mellowness he achieves on ‘One,’ is like melted chocolate cascading down one of those desert fountains. Bono’s vocals, of course, are heartfelt, filled with authenticity and integrity. There’s no doubt he lives, or at least sincerely tries to practice what he preaches. Of course he’s human (what else could he be, a fly?), subject to err as we all are, but he’s certainly no hypocrite. He’s one of Jesus’ forgiven sinners partying in paradise with the rest of the happy thieves, rather than remaining outside in righteous indignation. And sweet Lord above, Bono can compose not only a great tune but also lyrics that draw near to the 20th century’s greatest lyricist, Bob Dylan. ‘And I’d join the movement if there was one I could believe in. Yeah, I’d break bread and wine if there were a church I could receive in; ‘cause I need it now (‘Acrobat’).’ Or- and I promise to stop, because nearly every song contains quotable lines and I’ll end up occupying way more space on this review than I already am- ‘You say love is a temple, love a higher law… You ask me to enter but then you make me crawl. And I can’t be holdin’ on to what you got when all you got is hurt (‘One’).’ One final thought: it’s easy to perceive many of these songs as Bono working through a personal relationship that once worked, but does no longer, and now its time for something to change. (As the mystery writer Rita Mae Brown famously suggested in her 1983 book, 'Sudden Death,' ‘Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results.’) But might 'Achtung Baby' also be heard as U2 working through its relationship with each other as a band, as well as the one they share with their adoring fans who at times worship them as deities? Again, a very Dylan-esque (and Neil Young-ish, too) move- brave, risky, and ultimately liberating. And there are consequences to this kind of growth, some costly. But the gift they offer to us is priceless. I didn’t care much for this LP when it was released, but I was wrong, and short sighted. Blind, but now I see. (4/5, only because tracks nine and ten were not quite on par with the rest of the LP. If we were allowed decimals, and my math is correct, I’d call it a 4.8)

My parents were lovers not only of one another but also of the original rock n’ rollers- Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, Eddie Cochran, Chuck Berry, all those cats. And, hailing from their home state of Texas, of course, the beloved Mr. Buddy Holly. I was conceived (the inevitable consequence of turtle dovin’) at the end of summer in 1958, about a year following the release of 'The Chirping Crickets,' so I’m pretty sure I got a dose or two of Buddy in and out of the womb. By the time I became more fully conscious of music, The Beatles were all the rage. Buddy Holly was just a little ahead of the curve for me, so I’ve mostly been unaware of his sound save for all the classic rock artists who eventually covered his songs- some really good, like The Rolling Stones ‘Not Fade Away’ or Derek and the Dominos’ ‘It’s Too Late,’ and some kinda lame, like James Taylor’s ‘Everyday.’ It was nice to finally hear the originals. And, in spite of the poor quality of the recording, and the awful harmonies of the Crickets, Holly himself still mostly shines on this debut LP. I was familiar with his signature chord strumming solo technique, but not how fast he could also pick individual notes. He pretty well tears it up on ‘That’ll Be the Day’ and ‘I’m Looking for Someone to Love.’ And his singing, at least on the rockers, is really good too; a rougher edge to his voice than I had previously heard, like on the opener, ‘Oh, Boy!’ I think there are really two Buddy Hollys on this LP: the rockin’, confident, swaggering Holly who proclaims to any girl who’s dissing him: ‘You don’t know what you’ve been a’ missin,’ chicky baby, and ‘My love is bigger than a Cadillac.’ He can also really turn a phrase like, ‘Tell me how to keep your love… Tell me how you keep the love within your heart from me.’ I like this Buddy. Then, there’s the other Buddy I don’t really care for- the deflated, dejected, needy Buddy who especially starts whining towards the end of side two. ‘An Empty Cup (& a Broken Date),’ is one unfortunate example. Eliminate those 3-4 songs and you’ve got a rockin’, tight little LP, with a succinct punk rock sensibility. Or more accurately, it was the early punk rockers were really mimicking a Buddy Holly sensibility.

It feels almost inappropriate to review a Herbie Hancock LP. Perhaps he’s beyond the scope of critique and has ventured into that stratosphere of artists that simply need to be enjoyed, adored even. I was recently driving on my way to a business meeting, listening to KUVO (89.3 MHZ), Denver’s public radio jazz station, and heard a live cut that I immediately recognized as trumpeter, Miles Davis. It was from his 1964 concert at NYC’s Philharmonic Hall, a fundraiser (the musicians voluntarily played for free) for the Voter Education Project to register black voters in Louisiana and Mississippi. Of course, Miles Davis was his usual bad ass self, as were the rest of the players. When it came time for the pianist to solo, I almost had to pull my car over and stop. It truly took my breath away, one of the fastest piano improvisations I’ve ever heard. It was Herbie Hancock. So, I had high expectations for 'Head Hunters.' There are only four songs on this LP, predominately of the jazz/rock fusion genre, which is not something I typically enjoy. I lean more towards the ‘free’ jazz of folks like saxophonists John Coltrane and Ornette Coleman, or pianists Bill Evans and Sun Ra, cats like that. So, when ‘Chameleon’ began, this LP’s opener, with that oh so 70’s clavinet sound, some spacey synth work and such (by the way, at about the seven minute mark during one such synth solo, Hancock shifts up into a whole other key just for a moment while the band remains where they are, creating an incredible auditory experience), I was diggin’ it enough, appreciating the smooth textures; but, I wasn’t exactly floored. Hancock continued with some great Fender Rhodes electronic piano soloing for a while accompanied by a quick and funky drum and bass groove, and then layered on a lovely string synth arrangement. It gave me the impression of flying amidst the clouds. It was terrific, don’t get me wrong. But again, the jazz/rock fusion is not my thing. I recognized the second track, ‘Watermelon Man,’ and I bet a lot of folks who never listen to jazz will too. I’m guessing its been used in movie soundtracks or commercial ads, etc. Regardless, it was more of the same, with the addition of a cool little flute intro by Bennie Maupin, and then concluding the last minute or so with a nice bit of cross syncopation between flute and bass, the drums all the while keeping a steady beat. OK, that was cool, too. Maupin’s sax playing, though, was sounding a little pedestrian. And as I’ve no doubt been spoiled by the extraordinary talent of John Coltrane, I was prepared to give the LP three, maybe four stars and call it a day. Until the third track, ‘Sly.’ Beginning with a soft, mellow vibe (nice congas in the background), out of the blue about two minutes in, Hancock just stopped the whole thing down, then did this wild soaring thing on the synth, at which time the tempo took flight as well. For the next 7-8 minutes, the band was ‘going off the rails on a crazy train,’ in the words of vocalist Ozzie Osborn, but the train was free jazz rather than metal. And what a ride it was! It was almost as if the band said, ‘Allright, you’ve heard us just relaxing into the music, offering you our smooth jazz. But lest you think we’ve forgotten how to play hard core, buckle up brothers and sisters.’ Bennie Maupin lifted his sax to new heights, ala Coltrane. Then at the approximately five and a half minute mark, Hancock proceeded to set fire to the keys on his electric piano, like that live recording with Miles Davis I heard while driving. Now this was the shit! Man, by the time drummer Harvey Mason slowed back down to the original tempo to conclude the tune, I had to get out of my chair to go fetch my head which had tumbled off my neck at some point and rolled down the hall. I needed the final track at this point-‘Vein Melter’- the perfect way to end the LP, which began with a simple kick drum beat, and slowly adding a wa-wa bass, melancholy sax, and a vibrating electric piano, along with a lot of quirky synth sound effects throughout. Oh, and about two minutes in, some ethereal synth strings topping the whole thing like whipped cream on a sundae. This one begs for headphones and good bong hit, if you’re hip. In retrospect, I now understand and enjoy the first two jazz/rock fusion numbers, and their appropriate placement to the hard Be Boppin’ of ‘Sly,’ only to then finish with a great mellow closer. Like a musical stew, beginning with the prep work of chopping the vegetables and meat (‘Chameleon’), and then moving on to the saute stage (‘Watermelon Man’) caramelizing the ingredients, before the hard fucking boil of ‘Sly,’ and then letting the whole thing simmer for a while with ‘Vein Melter.’ The musical aroma filled the joint, and I wanted seconds, thirds. After it cooled, I sealed it all up in a Tupperware container and put it in the fridge for another helping tomorrow. This, my friends, is some good eatin’ for your ears. And I guarantee Head Hunters will fill ‘em right up. But whatever you do, don’t snack on any junk (Kenny G?) before this entree. Enter into this listen good and hungry. ‘Cause food/music always tastes best when you’re good and hungry.

My maternal grandparents had a beach house in Galveston, Texas, that we used to frequent on the weekends when I was a kid. To say they had interesting taste in décor would be, uhmm, an understatement. As one settled down on the ‘commode’ (as they referred to it), with pants or skirt dropped to the ankles, a glance up above the closed door revealed a camera lens poking out from the wall with the caption, ‘Smile. You’re on candid camera.’ In addition, the light switch plate featured a rotund male golfer with the switch itself serving as the sportsman’s penis. There was stuff like that all over the joint. It was a dream house for a young boy. My personal favorite piece of fine art was the famous Kash Koolidge painting (actually one of a series of 18), ‘Dogs Playing Poker,’ which hung right above the table that doubled for dining and game playing. ‘Kitsch’ is a term applied to art and design that is perceived as naïve, imitation, gratuitous or banal, and Koolidge’s painting is often offered as an example. Wikipedia describes the lyrics and mood of The B-52’s as kitschy, and one might perceive them as gratuitous, I’ll give you that one; but naïve, imitation, banal!? I beg to differ. Hailing from Athens, Georgia, the B-52s are one of the most unique bands to emerge from the so-called new wave/punk classic era, with Fred Schneider’s infectiously bizarre spoken vocals, not to mention Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson’s equally and appealingly weird intonations and harmonies, and Ricky Wilson’s fabulous minimalist guitar playing on the Epiphone Coronet, an axe shared by a diverse group of guitarists like Jimi Hendrix, Del Shannon, Wayne Kramer, and Ace Frehley. Wilson never got the accolades he deserved, proving that less really is sometimes more. On ‘Lava’ and ‘Hero Worship’ he adds uncharacteristic (for him) distortion recognized as a more traditional classic rock guitar sound. Indeed, on ‘Hero Worship’ his riff would fit nicely with any AC/DC song. No foolin’. But on the rest, it’s much cleaner, often favoring throbbing single notes (especially on the lower E and A strings) rather than power chord strumming. But it rocks all the same, every bit as much as Angus Young on all six of his strings. Yep, I said it. Turn the volume on this LP way up and tell me I’m wrong. And while drummer Keith Strickland is no Neil Peart, he does provide the necessary stability to hold this whole gloriously danceable mess together. Too much drumming flare would hurt rather than help the B-52’s. From the moment the listener rockets off into outer space on the opener, ‘Planet Clare,’ the journey is a musical G-force that presses the listener right back into his/her seat. But once freed from planet Earth’s gravitational restrictions we are invited to loosen our seat belts and float, no, dance around the capsule. And the wild array of wacky instruments (toy piano, smoke alarms, and such) only adds to the fun. Please do not be fooled by the seemingly silly and nonsensical lyrics. Both Lewis Carroll and John Lennon taught us, hopefully, that nonsense is not always no sense. ‘Lava’ is obviously chocked full of innuendoes: ‘My love’s erupting like a red hot lava.’ That’s not what I’m referring to. I believe the third track, ‘Dance This Mess Around,’ is the best example to offer. Kate Pierson, with authentically passionate aching in her voice, pleads for her man to stay, to remember when times were better. Then in homage to the Supremes’ 1965 hit ‘Stop! In The Name Of Love,’ she adds a little twist of her own: ‘Walk, talk, in the name of love before you break my heart. Think it over, think it over. Roll it over in your mind. Why don’t you dance with me?’ Later, she and Fred recite a litany of old dance moves like the Shu-ga-Loo and the Camel Walk (not real?), but then the Hippy Shake (which is real), and again, Kate is savvy enough to say it in the original cadence of 1964’s The Swinging Blue Jeans: ‘Hippy Hippy forward Hippy Hippy Hippy Shake. Finally, she and Fred go right into a dialogue: (Kate) ‘Hey now, don’t that make you feel a whole lot better?’ (Fred) ‘Huh?’ (Kate) ‘I say, don’t that make you fell a whole lot better?’ And when Fred asks, ‘What you say?’ he says it in such a way that conveys a clear, but subtle nod to Ray Charles’ hit ‘Hit The Road Jack.’ It took me at least an hour of singing that damn line over and over, google searching and what not, before I finally remembered where I had first heard this. (Incidentally, it finally came to me while I was urinating out my morning coffee. I often receive inspiration both on the toilet and in the shower. Something about the running water. Something else about the power of those duties to empty my mind of thought, thus freeing it to receive inspiration. But that’s a whole other topic.) My point is that the B-52’s might appear to be, or may be perceived, as kitsch, and in some ways they certainly are; but, underlying the look, the sound, the lyrics, they are also quite the opposite of banal, naïve, imitators. No one is saying that about The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour (my favorite LP from my favorite band), and if they are, then its a banal and gratuitous critique. So goo-goo g’joob, you crabalocker fishwife, you corporation tee-shirt, you elementary penguin. Don’t you think the joker laughs at you? Ho ho ho hee hee hee ha ha ha. I dearly wish the B-52’s would have omitted their cove of the Tony Hatch tune popularized by the wonderful Petula Clark in 1964, ‘Downtown.’ (The B-52’s sure have a thing about the mid-60s.) It’s a mess, and not worthy of 'B-52’s.' Eliminate it, and this is a perfect LP. But seeing as how it’s only three minutes long and obviously not meant to be taken seriously- the punk rock practice of often lovingly lampooning 60s songs, as in D.C.’s Minor Threat’s version of ‘I’m Not Your Stepping Stone’ performed both by Paul Revere & The Raiders and the Monkees, i.e.- then I’m willing to let it slide and round up from a 4.9 to the big 5. As Fred Schneider yowls about 10-15 seconds or so after the five minute mark on ‘Rock Lobster,’ directly following the girls doing their best joyful dolphin background vocals, ‘Let’s Raaaaccckk!’ Yes, let’s.

The question about British singer/songwriter Robbie Williams is: which is larger, his talent or his ego? Clearly, he’s got a strong and beautiful voice. And clearly, he’s in love with himself. On ‘Let Me Entertain You’ when he deigns to ‘entertain’ the young girl of that evening, lifting her up and away from her dreary, boring existence and her clueless parents, he probably thinks of himself as providing a public service. I bet he strikes various poses in the mirror, admiring his good looks, while she’s giving him head. Tell me you can’t see that on the album cover. Look, the songs are well composed and arranged (although the lyrics are aimed exclusively to his fan base- young women), the LP is magnificently produced, the band polished; but Robbie’s unrestrained ego just spoils the whole thing. In fact, it’s so large that it literally crowds out any instrumental solos among a band that’s very good. No, I take it back, there was one brief guitar solo on ‘Clean’ (his self-congratulation for sobering up), but he was actually talking in the background over it. On ‘Old Before I Die,’ a chance for him to share significant insights into the human condition that he’s learning, he offers this bit of sagaciousness: ‘I hope to live to see the day the Pope get’s high.’ I mean, c’mon. 'Life Thru A Lens' starts off promising, with a high energy, positive vibe. ‘The world can change (quickly)…’ so enjoy every day, every moment; and, together, ‘let’s have a jolly good time.’ The only trouble is Robbie doesn’t really need you or me or even the sun to enjoy it with. We’re all, including the sun, revolving around him, and lucky just to be basking in his rays. And to end the LP with a spoken word ‘Fuck You, look at how great I became,’ to some teacher who, allegedly, didn’t see his gloriousness, is just in bad taste; and betrays his gross lack of humility. A real waste of a real talent.

Tom Waits is nothing if not authentic, a veritable machine of authenticity right down to the bone. He lives, bleeds, drinks, sings, howls… and one day will die… authentically. Not necessarily pretty or polite. But bona fide. And I’ll take a real ‘sinner’ any day over an artificial ‘saint.’ Billy Joel was wrong, incidentally, about the sinners having much more fun. It’s not that they don’t sometimes experience pleasurable things (one of the reasons people self-medicate with alcohol and drugs is partly due to how good it feels, at least until it don’t no more), but the sinners that populate 'Bone Machine' (and every other Waits’ album I can think of) are more often than not wounded and suffering from life situations. Jesus tells my favorite story from his collection about two brothers, the younger of which could easily be counted among the many outcast, unclean characters Waits writes about. The older is morally perfect; except for his feeling of entitlement, as if he has earned and deserves his father’s blessing. The younger screws it all up, suffers the consequences of his actions, then becomes very self-aware and goes back home seeking forgiveness, of which his father, thankfully, is only too happy and eager to give. One of the many take-a-ways in this story is that those who pursue meritocracy in their relationship with the Creator and the Creator’s creation, sadly, may never know the joy of grace. Waits’ characters may be dissolute, but they are also in a perfect position to be the joyful, grateful recipients of grace. Would you rather be inside the house in Jesus’ story, a symbol of heaven, with all the other happy partying forgiven sinners, or outside by your own refusal because you feel as if you've earned an invitation while the rest of the losers have not? Furthermore, if you refuse to participate in heaven, standing outside, then where exactly do you find yourself? Another way to say this is to ask the question: are you giving more power to the sin that closes doors or the Father’s grace which opens them? Your free choice. I only bring the Bible into this because Waits does too. Like Dylan, his songs are infused with scripture. Real scripture, real people, real God, real songs. Very different from the Amy Grant ‘Jesus is my boyfriend’ kind of religious songs (no disrespect intended to Grant, nor am I suggesting that she’s not authentic, too.) It’s just that I much more identify with Waits’ creations- drunks and whores and people contemplating homicide or suicide. Demons, too, perhaps the devil himself. (Good Lord, didn’t the hair on my arms stand straight up when Waits sings in ‘Black Wings’ that ‘… he has risen,’ but rather than the crucified One it’s the one doing the crucifying.) Tom concludes that chilling number with, ‘One look in his eye, everyone denies ever having met him,’ and then whispers that several times to fade out. Brr… Or, the hellish ‘In the Colosseum,’ where ‘we call ‘em as we see ‘em,’ or the ‘Murder in the Red Barn,’ that goes unprosecuted, or worse, unknown at all, or the deceptively playful ‘I Don’t Wanna Grow Up,’ also covered by the playful Ramones, except when Waits sings it is loses any seeming playful innocence of youth and sounds as if the youth is a victim of abuse. I happen to find the crazy, clunky music and Waits’ gravely, booze and cigarette vocals rather enjoyable; but, then I also like that kind of stuff. I’m sure a lot more probably will argue that he makes Joe Cocker, by comparison, sound like Tony Bennett, but that’s ok. Music is pretty subjective to begin with, to a certain extent. You like what you like. I like anchovies and green olives on my pizza, so there. Waits can play a gorgeously melancholy piano, keys soaked in booze, and then turn around and strum a filthy, dirty guitar that probably sends forth a plume of dust when it’s set to rest in its case. Wonderful pedal steel from David Williams to accompany those piano songs. And wherever Keith Richards pops in (on the final song, written by Waits for him) can Waddy Wachtel be far behind? Les Claypool and Brain, from Primus, ‘nuff said. David Hildalgo from Los Lobos coaxes a coyote out of the violin on ‘Whistle Down the Wind.’ But the predominate sounds on this intrepid LP are all the percussion, many of which Waits plays, and I’m not talking about just drums, but an interesting variety of other things, including one Waits invented himself that he names the ‘conundrum,’ a metal instrument ‘with a lot of things hanging off it that I’ve found- metal objects- and I like playing it with a hammer.’ That said, the real draw on 'Bone Machine' is not the music, but the lyrics. And I’m not about to begin quoting them all. I simply can’t. There’s too much. He creates little worlds within each and every song, mini-novels. I know of almost no other artist who does this as/so well, save Bob Dylan. It’s an outstanding gift- God blessed, not earned- despite the pitiable inability, perhaps unwillingness, of the so-called morally upr(t)ight to look beyond his red-rimmed eyes and down into the man’s heart. By the by, that story I referenced before, from Jesus’ discography, was told as a direct cause of the religious professionals in his day grumbling about his keeping company with the kinds of folks Waits witnesses in his songs. Waits’ criminals and outcasts are treated by Jesus as friends. The religious professionals have rendered themselves criminals and outcasts to God, and not by God’s choice, but by their choice. While googling the lyrics to assist with my listening to 'Bone Machine' I ran across this little anecdote from a fan: ‘I saw this homeless guy singing a couple of summers ago. I told him he sounded just like Tom Waits. He said, ‘That’s because I am!’ I couldn’t argue with him about that.’ You can argue with me about the merits of this LP, but not it’s grace. You just can’t. You really can’t. Please don’t even try, for Jesus’ sake.

This is difficult to write, not wanting to be insensitive to another’s pain, and clearly John Grant has had his share- growing up in a household disapproving of his sexuality, succumbing to substance abuse and its destructive consequences, diagnosed with HIV. That’s a hard row to plow. That said, I believe Queen’s late lead singer, Freddie Mercury, had similar experiences, yet wrote great songs and sang them with searing passion. Would that 'Queen Of Denmark' have shared either of those two qualities. But it didn’t. Not even close. It may be one of the drabbest LPs I’ve ever heard. Near one dimensional, musically, save for a couple of songs in which Grant attempts a bit of a respite, inserting a modicum of humor, albeit unsuccessfully. And lyrically… oh, dear. ‘I feel just like Sigourney Weaver (the song’s title) when she had to kill those aliens and one guy tried to get them back to earth and she couldn’t believe her ears.’ Incredibly, it gets worse. On the final and title track, Grant recalls an incident in which ‘I had it all the way up to my hairline which keeps receding like my self-confidence.’ And that pretty much sums up both Grant’s artistic and, I can only guess, behavioral response to his life situations. One of my all-time favorite bands, Sonic Youth, on ‘Skip Tracer,’ off the 'Washing Machine' LP, describe the live performance of a band they once witnessed where the lead singer, a ‘girl started out in red patent leather, very I’m in a band with knee pads. We watch her fall over and lay down, shouting the poetic truths of high school journal keepers.’ John Grant doesn’t seem to even have the energy to shout his own poetic truths that never matured past the journals he surely kept in high school, and further insults the listener with his lackadaisical delivery. Classical composer Ludwig van Beethoven commented that ‘To sing a wrong note is insignificant, but to sing without passion is unforgivable.’ The only value I can find in this LP is if I heard it while walking around JCP for exercise, it would at least motivate me to move faster out into the main mall where their sound system might be playing any other kind of music.

The high school football coach pulled his middle linebacker out of the game, grabbed him by the facemask and growled, ‘You need to git your head into the game, son, and now. What is it with you tonight anyway? Are you ignorant or just apathetic?’ To which the kid replied, ‘I don’t know, coach, and I don’t care.’ What is it with lyricists Don Henley and Glen Frey, do they not know or just don’t care? 'Hotel California' was IT, in 1976, my senior year of high school. With the possible exception of 'Frampton Comes Alive,' 'Boston,' and both 'Fleetwood Mac' and 'Rumours' (essentially, the same fantastic LPs), there was nothing bigger than Eagles, and this particular album. Musically, the interplay between guitarists Don Felder and Joe Walsh throughout shine like the southern California sun. Everyone else is great, too: Henley, Frey, Meisner, and even Walsh’s vocals are simply sublime. You might not be the biggest fan of their country rock genre (this album purposefully leaning more towards the rock), but you can’t deny how stunning these harmonies are arranged and performed. Speaking of arrangements, Jim Ed Norman’s score and conducting of the ‘Wasted Time’ reprise is practically worth the cost of the entire LP, a bargain $6 in the mid-70s as I recall. Yes, I’ve got no beef with the music, although its not really my bag much these days. But I played the shit out of it in 1976, on my mighty AMC Gremlin 8 track player (google it, kids), with a matchbook cover jammed in the bottom to insure a tight fit to prevent another song from faintly bleeding on to the one actually playing (again, google it.) It’s the lyrics that concern me; or, more accurately, the lyricists’ intentions. Despite the artful writing, the major problem I have with 'Hotel California' is it’s core ideology. No, that’s not it exactly. It’s Henley and Frey’s (and not Walsh’s; not enough intel on Meisner to make a call) ignorance and/or apathy about their own selves as participants in the very things they are criticizing. Virtually every song beginning with ‘Life in the Fast Line,’ the tale of a couple 'rushin' down the freeway, messed around and got lost, THEY didn't care, they were just dyin' to get off,‘ to the end, ‘The Last Resort,’ ‘THEY call it paradise, I don’t know why. Somebody laid the mountains low, while the town got high,’ are attitudes and behaviors the lyricists themselves are equally guilty of. If this whole concept were a subtle commentary on their own transgressions, then I would call it an outstanding work of art. But given their subsequent interviews, most especially Henley’s continued arrogant insistence that there’s no good music being made anymore, I can’t find any clues on Hotel California that indicate he and his bandmate are turning the mirror on themselves as well as the rest of us materialistic, mass consuming, environmental ravaging, racist, genocidal, drug abusing Americans. Hypocrites! Don Felder, chime in here anytime you want. And then, of course, the famous opening and title track, with its claim on the one hand that ‘We are all just prisoners here of our own device.’ Ok, I’m hip to that. But then to turn around and make another claim that the hotel management is ‘programed to receive. (And) You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave’? Those two takes on hell (or the American culture of the 1970s, or rock star fame and fortune, or whatever else the Hotel California symbolizes) seem very different to me, the latter option being the worse, not to mention just bad theology. Methinks the lyricists are spiritually confused. Too much cocaine will do that to you. And too much adoration without the necessary restraint of the ego. And too much money, or at least the love of it. Thank God for sweet, good-hearted Joe Walsh. Sure, he could drink and snort more substances in his day than the rest of the band combined. But he also had more humility, and self-awareness that eventually got him straightened out and flying right. His song, ‘Pretty Maids All in a Row,’ contains these lyrics: ‘Seems like we’ve come a long way. My, but we learn so slow,’ and ‘all you wishing well fools with your fortunes, someone should send you a rose.’ Contrast that with Henley’s statement on the song immediately before, ‘Victim of Love’: ‘I could be wrong, but I’m not.’ This is one of the best albums that I wouldn’t regret never listening to again. And that’s a real shame, because I love to sing, and I love to harmonize, and 'Hotel California' offers that gift in spades. It deserves 5 stars, so I’m going to honor that. But I’m also considering American writer of Christian literature, Warren W. Wiersbe’s advice that ‘What I am is God’s gift to me. What I do with it is my gift to God.’

Like… watching… paint… dry. Which may also be what the lads are doing on the cover. I’m trying real hard (and judging by the results, a lot harder than The Jesus And Mary Chain seemingly worked on 'Darklands') to find the right adjective here. ‘Dispassionate’ doesn’t work, for that implies strong emotion. ‘Disinterested,’ ‘impassive’ seems to work better. I read a book years ago written by Kathleen Norris in which she identified a condition called ‘acedia’ meaning a kind of spiritual or emotional sloth, apathy. I believe the Reid brothers, Jim and William, might be suffering from acedia. I mean, for God’s sake, they barely utilize a drum machine for much else than one droning beat, the only instrumental break was the very last song with a guitar solo that was literally four notes, and they sing with little or no fervor. Pat Boone comes across as Roger Daltrey in comparison. And if the music leads you to draw a bath of warm water, then the lyrics make you grab the razor blade and start your descent: ‘As sure as life means nothing and all things end in nothing… I want to go.’ ‘I have nothing left to give for you to take… there is nothing left of me.’ Here’s a particularly cheery one: ‘Everyone’s falling on me and I’m as dead as a Christmas tree.’ I take it he’s referring not to the beautifully adorned and twinkling lit ones in December, but the really super dead ones that are drug out to the curb with the rest of the trash in January. The best song on the entire LP was the last one, both because there was the tiniest glimmer of positivity in the lyrics, but mostly because it was the shortest one of the bunch. And boys, your LP must have infected me with a bit of your acedia, because I’m not even feeling any of the shock you desired when you named your band, The Jesus And Mary Chain.

Ayahuasca is a psychoactive/hallucinogenic brew made from various plants and considered among the indigenous people of South America’s Amazon basin to be a ceremonial spiritual medicine. It is purported by many to be effective in treating things like chronic depression and addiction. Author Michael Pollan wrote an excellent book in 2018, 'How to Change Your Mind,' in which he also advocates the use of other psychedelics (namely, L.S.D. and psilocybin mushrooms) in treating disorders as well as offering spiritual insight and transcendence. Both shamans and modern scientific researchers, however, insist that these substances are only a first step, a jump start if you will, into a more sustainable practice of things like daily meditation for life-long wellness. And neither condone hallucinogens for purely recreational purposes. I got very close to taking an ayahuasca treatment a while back, met the requirements and had all but signed up and made travel plans to a location here in the U.S, but then finally decided against it. I was scared of the possibility of persistent psychosis that is also reported among persons who may have a history of psychiatric disorders. I have shown symptoms of mild borderline personality disorder, but this is only a self-diagnosis, unconfirmed by medical professionals. My personal belief, gut reaction/intuition, is that my emotional and behavioral issues are more accurately spiritual disorders, which I’ve been treating for the last few years with a twice daily practice of Sahaja Yoga meditation, among other things. It’s a slow, lengthy process, but I am making significant recovery back to health and wellness. The reason I bring this up is because of the nature of the ayahuasca experience as differentiated from L.S.D. and mushroom. Acid and ‘shroom trips can be both frightening but also quite pleasurable, ecstatic even. But ayahuasca, by contrast, is designed to plunge the recipient into the very heart of terror. The guidance being not to flee from one’s demons (and I’m using that term in a more Hindu/Buddhist/Taoist way rather than a traditional Jewish/Christian/Muslim understanding) but to face them and allow these deeply buried entities, now unearthed, to guide you to a better place. This is exactly what my meditative practice is also accomplishing, albeit in a much gentler, gradual, and less frightening way. As I was listening to 'Queens of the Stone Age,' I was very aware of lyricists Josh Homme and Alfredo Hernandez’s own potential disordered (perhaps even sociopathic, or worse, psychopathic) thoughts, at least as revealed in their lyrics, which are by design subject to a variety of interpretations. These fellas are talented and creative lyricists, no doubt. Still, there is a tremendous amount of violent cutting going on in this LP, among both the objects and subjects of the hellish scenarios they present. In ‘Avon,’ for example, the ‘Free range humans (are) all cooped up… I string ‘em up, I cut ‘em down.’ On the final track, ‘I Was a Teenage Hand Model,’ the protagonist peaks in the window, ‘lookin’ inside, the butcher’s got a fork in your face. I’m standin’ alive, and I was singin’…’ Most disturbing of all, on ‘You Can’t Quit Me Baby,’ we experience the actions of a ‘psycho in love,’ who breaks into his ex-lover’s home and kills himself: ‘I slashed and I cut and I do it for you. I want you to notice when I’m not around.’ And, ‘I’ll see you in hell.’ This is accompanied by a guitar solo that literally evokes a disturbed mind, and then an accelerated tempo at the end concluding in a cacophony of sounds which is quite effective in its artistic representation of insanity, despair, and bloody suicide. It was scary, and not in a fun-scary rollercoaster ride kind of way. (Allow me to make a quick comment here, off the subject. On the final track, a reference is made to the patience of Job. The intent of the story of Job has very little to do with patience, at least as I understand it. Furthermore, as much as I adore Pink Floyd’s 'Dark Side of the Moon,' the Bible reads the love of money as the root of all evil, not simply money itself. I wouldn’t expect casual readers of either the Hebrew or Christian scriptures to know that, nor do I blame them for the mistake, but I just had to get that off my chest. You know, for the record. Ok, back to 'Queens of the Stone Age.') Musically, these boys are in my sweet spot. I do love me some stoner rock, man But these fellas have lifted their version up from the sludge of the Wishkah river where most play, and rinsed theirs off until its squeaky cleanier, sleeker even, and much closer to that wonderfully rich, deep Black Sabbath-esque vibe that is so influential to stoner rock bands, rather than the full-fledged grunge of, say, Nirvana. Josh Homme, while not as good a singer as Soundgarden’s late vocalist Chris Cornell, definitely echoes a similar mood. And he (also playing guitar, bass, and keyboards) and drummer Hernandez share musical surprises galore throughout, including an excellent understanding of dynamics, melodic guitar solos that are more concerned with serving the song rather than showing off (‘If Only’ is a good, but hardly the only, example), and even a taste of prog metal- a quirky 4/4, 4/4, 4/4, 4/4, 4/5 time signature on the LP’s sole instrumental, ‘Hispanic Impressions.’ I’m also a real sucker for that repetitive groove so common to the stoner rockers. ‘Walking On the Sidewalks’ produces a near trance-like state towards the end. They could’ve played that thing for ten more minutes (I’m guessing they just might in concert) and I would’ve been more than content to listen. Seeing as how the folks who create the 1001 LP list did not see fit to include any Melvins recordings (a true loss and major disappointment) I’m pleasantly surprised and relieved to discover this LP, 'Queens of the Stone Age,' as a close alternative. I love everything about this album, despite approaching the lyrics with a bit of caution. I’m emotionally mature enough, now, to take it. However, I would most certainly not recommend this while taking a hallucinogenic trip. It pretty much serves that purpose just fine all by itself. And sometimes the trip soars like an angel, but then it just as quickly takes an awfully scary descent. To smooth out the whole thing, I would recommend a big ol’ bong hit or two before dropping the needle to vinyl, or whatever musical platform you’re on (they’ve never come up with a term descriptive of the playing of virtual music that’s as good as the needle to vinyl image.) I mean, there’s a reason why they call this ‘stoner rock.’ Turn it up real fucking loud, too.

Some bands release debut albums fully formed: Led Zepplin and Black Sabbath, for example, who were exploring similar (to a certain extent- everyone calm down, I know the differences between the two) heavy sounds at around the same time in history. Zepplin was the first out of the chute in January of 1969, then Sabbath, who were literally recording and releasing their debut at the same time as Deep Purple were recording and releasing theirs. While this is not, technically, Deep Purple’s debut, it is the first with vocalist Ian Gillan and organist Jon Lord, who along with guitarist Ritchie Blackmore are really the Deep Purple everyone knows. Listen to Zepplin’s debut and then their next two LPs, doing the same with Sabbath, and while there is certainly musical development, the debuts are still pretty damn strong. Then, listen to 'Deep Purple In Rock,' and skip ahead to 'Machine Head' (I’m not familiar with the one in between, but it doesn’t matter for the sake of my argument) and hear the difference. The performance (particularly drummer Ian Paice) and most definitely the recording are far superior on 'Machine Head' than they are on 'Deep Purple In Rock.' In retrospect, the boys should’ve composed, performed, and recorded this whole thing, then threw it away, gigged some more, and moved on to 'Machine Head.' If I were a member of Deep Purple, I would wince a bit every time I heard 'Deep Purple In Rock.' Come to think of it, though, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it played at a bar or a restaurant or at the grocery store, or anywhere. Which is good, because its not very good. At least, parts of it. Drummer Ian Paice is the weak link in the chain, which surprised me because of his terrific work on 'Machine Head.' Obviously, he got a lot better as time went on. By the way, his drum solo at the conclusion of ‘The Flight of the Rat’ is lame and unnecessary. Ringo Starr and Charlie Watts did not do drum solos. Even Neil Peart didn’t do drum solos, for crying out loud! Hey, rock n’ roll: leave the drum solos to John Bonham and jazz drummers, ok? Then there’s the lyrics- oof. They’re just awful: ‘In my mind I had to find a new kind of way of being so cool. Like a blue-blooded, well-studded English fool.’ And that might be the best one of the bunch. These lyrics are bonerfide cock rock, best sung with no underwear, tight jeans, and unbuttoned shirt. Barefoot or boots, your choice. ‘Hard Lovin’ Man,’ ‘Into the Fire (with its silly reference to the Mandrake root),’ please. On the positive side, at least, is the one singing ‘em: Ian Gillan, one of the best voices to emerge from the dawn of metal. No one, and I mean no one, could yowl a falsetto like Mr. Gillan. He’s in rarefied air with Ronnie James Dio, maybe the greatest metal vocalist ever. But even Gillan’s vocals are a mere prelude to the two deepest shades of purple, guitarist Ritchie Blackmore and organist Jon Lord. Their individual solos, harmonizing solos, dueling duets are a wonderful thing to behold. Just skip ahead through the tedious first three minutes of ‘Child In Time’ (what’s a 1970s LP without the mandatory anti-war song, right?) and get to around the 3:20 mark when they start a rockin’. (Yeah, we get your little clever little military drum cadence bit, Paice.) And then about thirty seconds later when they double-time the tempo, sit back and enjoy the ride. In fact, that might be the best advice throughout, to just skip over Gillan’s lyrics, and then once he starts howling, you’re safe from there. Blackmore and Lord are soon to follow. Hey, it’s still Deep Purple, and they still outplay a lot of other bands. But it would probably be more accurate to call this first one Deep Lavender. Thankfully, they got good n’ purpler as time went on.

The only sure defense against the members of Motorhead is to push ‘em into a lake. All that leather and chains and boots, they’d sink like a stone. And why the need for defense, you ask? Well, because Motorhead’s after you… and your wife… and your daughter… and pretty much everything that you and I hold near and dear. I think Motorhead’s general philosophy spelled out on the 'Ace of Spades' album may be summed up in this one lyric from ‘Live to Win’: ‘Live it up, it’s their time to fall. Anarchy is coming in if you know we live to win.’ The ‘their’ is us, friends, insofar as we’ve someone to love, or an occupation that produces something beneficial to others, or life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That’s what Motorhead wants to take from us, and not because they want it for themselves. They’re not motivated by covetousness, necessarily, nearly so much as they are by sadism. So when Lemmy sings about the devil, it’s not meant to be symbolic. He’s truly in sync with evil. The final song, ‘The Hammer,’ really fleshes this out: ‘I’m in your life, just might be in your wife. Could be behind your back, I might be on your track. And it might be true, I might be onto you. I’ll scare you half to death, I’ll take away your breath… There ain’t no way, you’ll see another day. I’m shooting out your lights, bring you eternal night. And your eternal tricks begin to make me sick. The only thing I know, is that you’ve gotta go… Believe me, the hammer’s gonna bring you down.’ Oh, I believe you, Lemmy, I really do. And I want no part of it. Thankfully, the music assists in my decision to let Motorhead perform their gig and then move on to another town, far, far away from my wife, and daughter, and home, and job, and the beautiful mountain trails I enjoy hiking in the summer. 1) The production stinks- way too much treble, and no consistent sound from one recording to the next. It’s a bloody mess. 2) Philthy Animal Taylor’s drumming stinks- he’s overly flashy and unable to sustain the beat. 3) Lemmy’s vocals stink- just too painful to listen to for very long. I really can’t put my finger on it either, because I love Tom Wait’s likeable gravelly voice, the soulful roughness of Joe Cocker, folks like that. Part of the issue, I think, is that Lemmy’s singing from his throat, primarily, rather than from his diaphragm. Whatever it is, it’s simply not an enjoyable listening experience. And, Motorhead, FYI, the Vibraslap is best used sparingly. Effective on one song, redundant on two or more. We get it, the whole western theme. You even told us as much on the opening lyric of ‘Shoot You in the Back,’ proclaiming, ‘Western movie,’ before then spelling out the whole gunfighter motif in the rest of the song. I’m pretty sure we would have been able to figure that out ourselves before the end of the first verse. It’s been long debated as to whether Motorhead should be properly labeled metal or punk; or, maybe neither. I prefer the latter, because I’m a fan of both punk and metal. It helps me to know that Motorhead is in its own class, or lack of.

Jack and Meg had intended to name their band after the candy they loved, The Peppermints, but instead took their last name White and playfully added Stripes as a nod to their favorite treat. Peppermints are beloved by children, bringing sweet joy, which is who/what, I believe, they yearn to be/have, or have been. Alas, the songs on 'Elephant' tell a different story, experiences as children and young adults (their own, perhaps?) that are anything but joyful. The heartache and longing for affection and attention (including self-love and respect) is just palpable on this LP. ‘The Hardest Button to Button,’ offers a heartrending lyric with which any child from a broken home will immediately identify: ‘I had a backyard with nothing in it except a stick and a dog and a box with something in it.’ Few words spoken, much said. The moods The White Stripes capture, both lyrically and in their playing are an integral component to their appeal, and they set them well. Jack White does have a way with lyrics- striking images, unusual cadences (‘There’s No Home for You Here,’ ‘The Air Near My Fingers’)- creativity just pouring from his written word… and then exploding out of his amp. You’ll be hard pressed to find any more authentic 12 bar blues solo (especially from a young white dude) on ‘Ball and Biscuit,’ or the searing guitar solos he plays on ‘Black Math,’ or ‘Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine.’ While there are no computers used on Elephant, nor any instruments made beyond the early 1960s, the guitar solo on ‘There’s No Home for You Here’ sure sounds computerized. I can't bring to mind a more quirky (in a good way) guitarist then Jack White, in both tone and fingering. And the variety of music on 'Elephant' is pretty terrific too: everything from quick, loud, trashy punk (‘Hypnotize’) to tender acoustic finger picking ala the Laurel Canyon scene, circa 1960s (‘You’ve Got Her in Your Pocket.’) Piano, both acoustic and electric, rounds a few numbers out; and, even an intentionally hokey, but playfully good-natured country/folk number to close the album. The White Stripes make a big sound for only two persons, especially given one of the two is drummer Meg White, all of 5’6”, and mesmerizing in an unexplained way, as if she’s studying, almost willing the beat. She might not be a big powerful gent, like John Bonham, but she can pound the skins and crash the cymbals with the best of the boys; then, just as quickly quiet down to tap the same with great finesse. Yes, another great feature of The White Strips is their use of dynamics. Both her and Jack’s playing on 'Elephant' is nothing if not passionate, and where some bands just ‘phone it in’ the Whites prefer a megaphone! But they also bring to 'Elephant' a sophisticated understanding of dynamics, an almost Taoist philosophy to song arrangement: ‘Thirty spokes share the hub of a wheel; yet it is its center that makes it useful. You can mold clay into a vessel: yet, it is its emptiness that makes it useful. Cut door and windows from the walls of a house; but the ultimate use of the house will depend on that part where nothing exists. Therefore, something is shaped into what is: but its usefulness comes from what is not.’- Tao Te Ching: Chapter 11. The boom of The White Stripes is absolutely dependent upon their effective use of silence. A good example of this may be found on their cover of Burt Bacharach and Hal David’s (yep!) ‘I Just Don’t Know What to Do with Myself,’ when Jack and Meg utterly cease to play just seconds before Jack then sings acapella, ‘Like a summer...’ and then just a hair past, ‘rose,’ a tremendous surge of pure garage band distorted guitar and thunderous drums and cymbals to accompany the next lyrics. The knowledge and ability to insert just little bits like this turn an otherwise good arrangement into a great one. The listener will find plenty of that stuff throughout 'Elephant.' And while Jack’s voice is somewhat of an acquired taste, not unlike escargot, once you get used to its unusual flavor I think you’ll find it deliciously irresistible. And given that escargot is loaded with garlic butter, an after dinner White Striped peppermint seems quite appropriate.

‘All my life,’ remarks one among the hundreds, maybe thousands of samples on 'Endtroducing…..'- samples as numberless as the stars in the sky- ‘I felt content to stargaze… Now I only want to melt.’ I feel like I’ve experienced both on this amazing LP. If I’m not mistaken, this is a bit of conceptual downtempo, trance electronica composed around the general theme of extraterrestrials broadcasting from the future, ‘using you brain’s electrical system as a receiver… in order to alter the events you are seeing.’ The aliens continue, ‘Our technology has not developed a transmitter strong enough to reach your conscious state of awareness, but this is not a dream. You are seeing what is actually occurring for the purpose of causality violation.’ This is a direct quote from the final track, that completes the story line parceled out over the length of the LP. I’m purposefully avoiding the use of the term ‘lyric’ because these are not really songs in any conventional sense. Rather, they (several at a time) are deconstructed from their original recordings and then reassembled, repurposed really, into something new, something quite beautiful actually- ‘Midnight in a Perfect World’ being one perfect example. 'Endtroducing…..' delivers deep, rich and steady funky bass lines around which synthesized sounds swirl, samples rise and fall, and seriously syncopated drums dazzle. Undergirding the whole thing is that nostalgic crackle and pop of old school vinyl being caressed by a diamond needle as it spins away on the turntable. Never was techno more seductive, not to mention creative. DJ Shadow offers an unexpected 7/4 prog rock time signature on ‘Changeling/Transmission 1,’ and ‘Stem/Long Stem/Transmission 2’ features enough tempo and melodic changes to keep the listener entranced. Perhaps enchanted might be more appropriate, finding myself, often, on the borderline of falling into a meditative state. To be honest, I embarked on this listening mission with a negative bias, informed that DJ Shadow had composed this mostly instrumental work almost entirely of samples, and exclusively on one machine. I’ve listened to other similar works and quickly grew weary of the redundancy and lack of creativity. Not so on 'Endtroducing…..' Not so at all. I was hoping at the End it was only just Beginning.

Imagine my surprise when halfway through 'Rejoicing In The Hands' I googled a pic of Devendra Banhart and… well, let’s just say it was not what I expected at all! I have a good friend (the very one who introduced me to this 1001 LP exercise) who does not appreciate any, and I mean any, pre-knowledge or references to movies he has not yet seen, preferring to experience it himself before entering into a discussion about its meaning. So in the event that he has not had the opportunity to listen to this LP, I don’t want to spoil it for him, or for any of the rest of you. Devendra Banhart, I believe, was born out of time. The arrangement and performance of the songs on 'Rejoicing In The Hands' are minimalist, mostly fingerpicking guitar ala 1960’s folk music, and a handful with an almost early 20th century American ragtime style. Many of the recordings have the sound and feel of live one-takers, captured in a tiny club right before closing, the permeating odor of stale beer and cigarette smoke that hangs in the air mingling with the unrealized desires of the three separate, remaining patrons. Nobody will be going home with anyone, or worse, with the one they didn’t really want in the first place at the beginning of the evening. Devendra’s vocals sound as if Devendra is familiar with this kind of longing; but, also, mercifully, with love. Both hurting and healing may be found in these songs. And sung in a voice that has learned to embrace and endure rather than avoid and deny life’s painful situations. The genre itself has been variously described as freak folk, new weird America (never heard that one), trippy-hippie tone poetry, ashram-appropriate (that one cracks me up.) I like the New York Times’ take on the whole thing: ‘free associative,’ meaning ‘the mental process by which one word or image may spontaneously suggest another without any apparent connection.’ Here’s an example to support that from the second to the last song on the LP: ‘And each strand of… hair is really insect eyes.’ Or the unexplainable (to me, at least) Elvis songs referenced at the end of ‘Poughkeepsie.’ How about this title for free association, the LP’s sole instrumental, ‘Tit Smoking in the Temple of Artesan Mimicry.’ I’m guessing Sigmund Freud, the deviser of the free association technique used in psychoanalysis, would have a field day with this one! All this is to say that it’s probably pointless to spend much time here analyzing Devendra’s lyrics- who knows if I’d hit or miss, or if it matters, or even if there’s a target at all? I did pick up, however, on an awful lot of references to the sun, which seems to shine through the darker places pervading this LP. There was a particularly lovely lyric on ‘The Body Breaks’ that represents this hope amidst the heartache. Following a lot of talk about the body breaking and aching, and that both you and I will get over it eventually, Devendra concludes: ‘The body stays And then the body moves on And I’d really rather not dwell When yours will be gone But within the dark There is a shine One tiny spark That’s yours and mine.’ I can only imagine the experience of listening to 'Rejoicing In The Hands' while backpacking, alone, up in the mountains, enduring the cold and darkness of the wee hours of the morning until finally the warmth of the sun's rays make their first appearance, the daily resurrection of light that the darkness cannot fully overcome. We are alive, thankfully in the Sun’s hands, rejoicing.

In 1967’s summer of Love, I was 8 years old and no one was cooler than my Uncle Steve. He would later become a criminal defense attorney in Austin, Texas, married and divorce a couple of times along with the subsequent troubled children often produced from that environment, and died with a body ravaged by the excess of alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, and fried food. But in 1967, man, he was IT! I seem to recall that he had a girlfriend/wife who was an international model, and together achieved some kind of notoriety including a picture on the cover of the Houston Post for smuggling hashish into the United States, but don’t hold me to the details. I was just a kid at the time. I do remember them briefly occupying one of the bedrooms of our two story suburban home in Houston until my father finally begged them to leave because of the pot smoking and loud music billowing from an open window of the room facing the front of the house overlooking the cul-d-esac of our neighborhood. That kind of behavior was unknown to our neighbors, who lacked any real understanding and were most certainly intolerant of the developing counter culture. Uncle Steve happened to be a friend of Michael Nesmith, and a year later would share writing credits with Davey Jones on two songs that ended up on 'The Birds, The Bees, and The Monkees': the opening track, ‘Dream World,’ and another song on the second side, ‘The Poster.’ Neither rose anywhere near the fame of the LP’s biggest hit, ‘Daydream Believer,’ but as songs go they were about as good as any other pop songs in 1968, lyrically reflecting the ennui of America’s youth, and musically, ‘The Poster,’ in particular, including one of the oh-so late 60’s beloved instruments, the innocent harpsicord. In fact, in retrospect, listening to ‘The Poster,’ I can see what an effect The Beatles’ 'Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band' must have had on my uncle. You won’t meet a bigger Beatlemaniac than yours truly, and while this particular LP is not my favorite (that honor goes to 'The Magical Mystery Tour'), it’s still wields its own magic, and will forever have an emotional claim on my musical soul. On my eighth birthday, June 26, 1967, just a couple of weeks following its release in America, my Uncle Steve presented me with a packaged cellophane copy of 'Sgt. Pepper’s' that still emanated the faint residual smell of the incense that they burned down at the local record store, Peaches Records and Tapes (for those of you who are hip to that.) I already, of course, had all the prior Beatles’ records and this one, being hot off the press, was highly coveted. I could barely contain my glee as he handed it over. But as I grasped it, before letting it go he looked me right in the eye and said, prophetically, ‘Nephew, you are now holding what will be considered a great work of art one day. Remember this moment. Cherish and honor this gift.’ And I did then, and I still do now, almost 55 years later. I don’t know what to add about the oceans of ink spilled (or, now, ethers of digitalized information disseminated?) about this LP: McCartney’s idea of reintroducing themselves under the guise of a completely different band to shatter the constraints of the prior fab four; or, the many drug references (‘I get high with a little help from my friends,’ ‘Lie on your back with your head in the clouds and you’re gone. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.’ ‘Found my way upstairs and had a smoke. Somebody spoke and I went into a dream. Ahhh…’ ‘I’d love to turn you on.’ The trippy backwards circus carousel on ‘Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!,’ or the taking-a-hit-off-a-joint sound at the end of ‘Lovely Rita,’ etc); or the famous cover photo montage and the lyrics written on the back (a surprisingly new concept at that time), or, or, or…. I mean, it’s the Beatles. These boys could sing and play the yellow pages (I’m dating myself with that reference) and it would be solid gold. I love ‘em. What can I say? Ringo’s subtle drumming, always serving the best interests of the song rather than his own ego, George Harrison’s essential guitar fills here, there, and everywhere. Lennon’s authentically soulful voice, despite the heavy doses of studio effects and LSD. And finally, Sir Paul McCartney. This is really his LP, his concept, his lead beginning to really assert itself in the band. I’ve always been more of a Lennon man, but doesn’t McCartney shine on 'Sgt. Pepper’s'? Listen to how clear and strong his vocal parts are immediately following Lennon’s more affected ones. The interplay between the two is unrivaled in contemporary rock/pop music. (We’ll cover his incredibly melodic bass playing more extensively when 'Abbey Road' comes around.) But I think the real value of 'Sgt. Pepper’s' is the mood of the time The Beatles so expertly captured. George Harrison’s growing interest in exploring exotic, previously unfamiliar (to the west) eastern global spiritual traditions (and remember this was decades before the access to information that we now take for granted on the interweb) on his sole composition, ‘With You Without You.’ McCartney’s gorgeously heartrending and respectful treatment of both generations on ‘She’s Leaving Home’- the disaffected, searching young, and the inability of the old to comprehend their children’s frustration with the status quo. Lennon’s opus magnum, ‘A Day In The Life,’ a desperate search for sense among the seemingly senseless. And Ringo’s opus magnum (at least vocally), ‘With A Little Help From My Friends,’ the gathering of the global tribes forming a new community of peace and love. This whole LP clearly spoke to me, even in my pre-teen years, of a significant change in human consciousness, some kind of evolution occurring in real time, my time. I wouldn’t have been able to articulate it back then, but I felt it nonetheless. And while Harrison’s new spirituality, accompanied by droning sitars and throbbing tablas, went over my head, I now hear them and his lyrics as a call to arms, (the multiple arms of Shiva, Lakshmi, Ganesha, and the rest) to any and all generations, youth and otherwise, who would listen: ‘We were talking about the love that’s gone so cold, and the people who gain the world and lose their soul (the two arms of Jesus). They don’t know, they can’t see. Are you one of them?’ It was Harrison’s good friend, Bob Dylan, who would actually have first rights to this two summers prior in ‘Ballad Of A Thin Man,’ on Highway 61 Revisited: ‘Something is happening here, but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?’ It’s still happening, brothers and sisters, and some still don’t know. But some do. Which one are you? 5 million/5

Black Sabbath is such a misunderstood band. While a ‘Black Sabbath’ is indeed a satanic reference, the band was never really about satan. There’s only a couple of references to satan on 'Paranoid,' and even then, it’s certainly not celebrated or glorified as 21st century Black Metal bands do on their recordings. Shame the band wasn’t more appropriately named Black Doom or Monsters Of Destruction, or something of that nature. OK, now that that’s out of the way… I have been listening to 'Paranoid' ever since it was released in 1970, my first introduction at the impressionistic young age of eleven. Even then, I immediately knew the opening track was concerning the evil nature of the ‘war machine.’ I furthermore surmised this not be a critique of war, per se, but the profiteers of war, particularly at the expense of the poor who are treated ‘just like pawns at chess.’ It’s a great image. And when satan does make his appearance at the end, ‘laughing, spread(ing) his wings,’ it is to enact God’s merciless judgment on the war pigs. As this scenario is completely void of grace, I don’t think it’s particularly good theology; still, at least they got the satan/God relationship right. The hasatan in the Hebrew Scriptures was not a forename, like Anton, but a title (‘adversary,’ ‘accuser’) indicating his role as the heavenly prosecuting attorney arguing, in this case, for the conviction and sentencing of the war pigs. God is the judge (this is not a jury trial), and therefore passes the final judgment. This idea is found throughout both testaments, both Hebrew and Christian. Again, it’s not the complete picture, but it is an accurate representation of the book of Job, for example. I wonder if the Christian religious right ever really read Black Sabbath’s lyrics? The rest, and vast majority, of the lyrical themes on Paranoid cover the kind of things one would expect on a 1970 LP: the Vietnam war (‘War Pigs’), the dangers of drug abuse, which vocalist Ozzy Osbourne unfortunately became all too familiar with himself (‘Hand Of Doom’), global destruction from atomic bomb radiation fallout (‘Electric Funeral’), even modern psychiatry (‘Paranoid.’) And some wonderful sci-fi songs like ‘Planet Caravan,’ and ‘Iron Man.’ By the way, who exactly was Iron Man anyway, and what put him in the grave in the first place, and how was he resurrected, and why was his sole purpose to wreak vengeful havoc upon the people ‘he once saved’? He sounds an awful lot like Jesus’ evil twin. Or, I guess if you’re a Monty Python fan, Jesus and Brian’s sibling triplet who went terribly rogue. Finally, ‘Fairies Wear Boots’ isn’t so much in the fantasy literary genre so much as it is an LSD inspired vision, as the last verse reveals. My point is that its quite a range of subject matter, and again, you will not find a one of them praising evil. Quite the contrary. 'Paranoid' seems to be about cautioning youth about the deadly nature and consequences of dancing with the devil. Which, of course, is the very stuff of sermons and liturgical prayers one may find in a worship gathering on the Christian Sabbath. Now lets’ talk music for a moment. I don’t think I’ve ever previously considered that these blokes were every bit as talented on their respective instruments as the members of fellow hard rockers Led Zepplin, Jimi Hendrix and the Experience, Cream, The Who, Rush. I mean it. Guitarist Tony Iommi is a rock god, just blazing away on super sonic lead solos on almost every song, even delving into a bit of tasty jazz guitar (accompanied by piano and congas… on a metal album!) on ‘Planet Caravan.’ Of course, he’s mostly known for one of classic rock’s all time most famous riffs- ‘Iron Man’ – his signature heavy, heavy power chords. (Every kid I knew, including myself, learned this and Deep Purple’s ‘Smoke On The Water’ immediately upon learning how to tune our guitar strings.) Geezer Butler gets this uniquely crunchy(?) kind of sound on his bass- he must have been playing with a pick- and meanders up and down and sideways and around that fret bar like a kid on a swing set trying to arc up and over the top bar. And drummer Bill Ward with his relentless driving drums of doom. Most of these songs were birthed from improvisational jams which is clearly heard in every song. Then, for the cherry on top of the hot fudge sundae, the infamous Ozzy Osbourne. His sneering vocals are a perfect fit for the head banging thunder his mates hurl down. How can you not love this guy when he sings in a particularly nasty manner on ‘Electric Funeral’: ‘Turns people into clay, radiation minds decay!’ This is a kid you would love to be friends with on the school playground but loathe to be the teacher of in the classroom. Sabbath ain’t what you think. Unless you think their mighty damn awesome. And then you’d be right.

Imagine if the classic prog rock group, Yes, and the classic folk rock trio, Peter, Paul, & Mary, gave birth to a band of children, only to discover that they were a little tone deaf. Introducing, Fleet Foxes. Variously described as Indie folk and Baroque or Chamber pop (this is a new one for me, folks)- ‘a musical genre that combines rock music with the intricate use of strings, horns, piano, and vocal harmonies, and other components drawn from the orchestral and lounge pop of the 1960s, with an emphasis on melody and texture.’ Sounds good, if only 'Fleet Foxes' had been able to deliver. If this is an example of chamber pop, I would suggest a chambermaid to clean up the mess. A bullet into the chamber of a gun would be overkill. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Lyrically, the cover painting says it all, as a glance at the song titles will confirm: ‘Tiger Mountain Peasant Song,’ and ‘Meadowlarks,’ and such. You get it. And our lead minstrel, of course, goes by the name of Robin. No foolin’. One can only hope he’s better with a bow and arrow than he is with a mic. Robin was better in the lower registers, but as he climbed in pitch, he got pitchier. In fact the whole group’s harmonies, shrill and frequent, were also all over the medieval map. And the very heavy echo on the voices only sustained the bum notes. ‘Heard Them Stirring,’ for example, was three painful minutes of only oohs and aahs, no lyrics whatsoever as a balm for the hurting harmonies. Furthermore, there was very little instrumentally of which to speak, which would have at least provided a merciful relief to the vocals. The final track, ‘Oliver James’- the bleak tale of a poor chap who died down by the river and was brought back home to be laid on the kitchen table in preparation for burial- ended with an acapella vocal by Robin: ‘Oliver James, washed in the rain, no longer.’ And, bless his heart, he was giving it all he had, the passion was there; but, alas. Fleet Foxes, I was washed in your harmonies for thirty-nine minutes and 15 long seconds… but, no longer. Whew.

To be fair, lead singer Martin Fry sings with passion and conviction, not unlike a 14 year old girl alone in her room and pining over her own unrequited love. Unfortunately, the maturity of his lyrics are about the same as said young teen: ‘Who broke my heart? (You did, you did.) Bow to the target, (Blame Cupid, Cupid.) You think you’re smart. (Stupid, stupid.’ (‘Poison Arrow’) The banal subject matter and forced rhymes (‘A mathematical equation won’t describe my emotion,’ – ‘4 Ever 2 Gether’) are almost forgivable, until this one from ‘Many Happy Returns’: ‘Like the world, spinning ‘round on its axis, I know democracy, but I know what’s fascist.’ Again, a gross example of forced rhyming; but worse, the idea of using fascism in the context of a romantically broken heart is extremely insensitive to the millions of victims of actual fascist regimes under rulers such as Hitler and Stalin, Mao Tse Tung and Paul Pot, Idi Amin and Muammar Gaddafi, etc. The music itself? Catchy, danceable, for sure. It’s got that slap bass sound (the bass player is the best in the band) common to funk and disco, guitar and drummer are in their proper places. Martin Fry has a decent voice, lots of falsetto (if you’re into that- I’m not.) Other than that, not much more to say, really. If this is ABC’s lexicon of (romantic) love then they are in desperate need of a thesaurus. And a good high school poetry 101 class wouldn’t hurt, either. And in conclusion, I can’t help but echo a statement my good friend and fellow 1001 LPs reviewer already made: the trash can on the cover pic might be the most fitting depository for 'The Lexicon Of Love.'

I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was bothering me about Dare! until it finally hit me on the eighth track, ‘Seconds.’ Vocalist Philip Oakey, who was also involved in the collaborative writing of most of the songs, seems to be more of an observer than a participant of life. Or, at least he’s a very passive participant. The song following ‘Seconds,’ ‘Love Action (I Believe in Love)’ states as much: ‘I love your love action. Lust’s just a distraction. No talking, just looking. Watching your love action.’ On the opening track, detailing his list of things that dreams are made of- ‘like fun and money and food and love’- he manages somehow to, well, take the fun out of fun. No doubt it’s the purposefully monotonous synthesized music and vocals, the utter lack of dynamics, or instrumental solos, or a bridge, or some kind of deviation from what was just played on the song before, not to mention that one to follow. To be fair, there were two that were different, the first two on side two- ‘Get Carter,’ an odd instrumental played slowly, one note at a time, and ‘I Am the Law,’ an equally odd song void of percussion. I think it was meant to be a ‘thank you’ to the police for protecting us from the evil deeds of criminals, but it didn’t exactly exude gratitude. Philip and the League, true to form, just sounded bored. The German pioneers of this kind of danceable electronic music, Kraftwerk, are never going to win any awards themselves for stage presence (although they do offer some very interesting and creative surrounding visual accompaniments in concert), but their music does successfully communicate emotion and heart, even if in a stereotypically ‘cool’ German fashion. I’m a fan. So, maybe its because The Human League are likewise stereotypically stoic British mates simply keeping a stiff upper lip and all that rot; but, its confusing when on the first and second songs of Dare! the listener is encouraged, at least lyrically, to ‘Do all the things you’ve ever dared,’ and ‘Open your heart. Dare to feel,’ but to a sound that hardly conveys adventure, or passion, or any emotion at all other than apathy. Weird that they named themselves The Human League. Inside joke? Satire, perhaps? I don’t get it. Some of the songs did contain some melodic hooks, so important to pop music, so I’ll give ‘em that. But I dare you to try and find any kind of soul on Dare! I sure couldn’t.

It’s not that the members of Soundgarden aren’t talented. They clearly are. Chris Cornell has a powerful, passionate voice with an incredible range. And bassist Ben Shepherd, drummer Matt Cameron, and guitarist Kim Thayil can thrash away with the best of ‘em. But there’s three things about 'Superunknown' that just put my teeth on edge: 1) The recording of the drums, the snare, in particular, has a thuddy sound as if too much air has been left out of the balloon. And Cameron flails away on them too much, as well. Less is more, Matt. Listen and learn from Ringo Starr. 2) Kim Thayil’s guitar leads are all speed and no finesse, mostly absent of any melodic sensibility. And sometimes its as if he’s purposefully playing off-notes. Avant garde? Perhaps. But it’s not particularly pleasant to listen to. 3) The (mostly Cornell) lyrics are relentlessly depressing. Worse still, unequivocally life denying. My god, when a poor bird flew into Cornell’s window, injuring itself to the point where he put it out of its misery by smashing its head with a rock, the only wisdom he was able to glean from it and share on the final song was: ‘She lived like a murder. How she’d fly so sweetly. She lived like a murder. But she died just like suicide.’ Nearly half the song titles read like a cry for help: ‘Let Me Drown,’ Fell on Black Days,’ ‘Black Hole Sun,’ ‘Limo Wreck,’ ‘The Day I Tried to Live,’ ‘Like Suicide.’ And the heavy, heavy downward doom chord progression on songs like ‘Limo Wreck,’ for example, just accentuates these terribly bleak lyrics. Again, these fellas are talented… but desolate. When African American blues musicians speak of the value of their music, it’s often surprising to folks unfamiliar with the genre. The blues, they claim, are not intended to rub salt into an already open wound. On the contrary, the blues are about healing, an easing of the tension and anxiety that is the Black American experience, an expression of the hope and strength of voices who refused to be silenced by oppression. The purpose of the blues is to lift up the blue. This is very different from what’s going on both in the sharing and receiving of the songs on 'Superunknown.' And that’s what makes this recording a potentially dangerous and deadly LP in the wrong ears. It might have been interesting to engage Chris Cornell in a discussion about this, what value he thought his music might have on a fraying American culture. But, on May 18, 2017, at the age of 52, he killed himself by hanging.

While my favorite band has always been, and remains, the Beatles, my favorite solitary artist is, and always will be, Bob Dylan. Some of my earliest childhood musical memories are of my parents playing Dylan’s second LP, 'The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan,' released right before my fourth birthday. My dad had a mahogany colored Gibson acoustic guitar and would strum along while singing these folk masterpieces. Later in college, my roommate turned me on to the outstanding 'Blood on the Tracks,' recently released. And before and after those two, there was the brand new electric sound of 'Bringing It All Back Home' and 'Highway 61 Revisited' in the 1960s, then at the end of that same decade the new country sound (and very new voice, literally) of 'Nashville Skyline,' the mid 70s Americana collaborations with The Band, the end of 70s/early 80s born-again Christian LPs, followed by the very un-Christian titled, 'Infidels,' and so on and so on. If you want to ride or die with Dylan, you better put on a helmet first. But 'Blonde On Blonde' is possibly my very favorite of the lot, partly due to an unexplainable experience I had while listening to its final track. I believe it must have been the winter of 2004, and I was sick with the flu. I don’t get sick, much, but when I do, it makes up for lost time. So there I lay in bed with a fever, aching all over, burning up one moment, freezing the next, dark yellowy green snot dripping out of my nose, dark yellowy green vomit projecting out of my mouth and, yes, dark yellowy green shit flying out of my ass. My ears were the only healthy functioning, dry orifice remaining on my body. I was ingesting some over the counter meds, but nothing that rendered me in an especially altered state of consciousness. I had the state of mind to drive myself to the hospital, if it had come to that, as long as there were plastic sheets covering the seat. Anyway, I had recently purchased a copy of 'Blonde On Blonde' on CD, already familiar with several of the songs, but having never listened to it in its entirety (the way LPs used to be formatted.) So, engulfed in blankets like a human burrito, I popped the CD into my Sony Discman and pushed play. I don’t really remember anything until the final song, 'Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,' which I very much recall with the clarity of John on the island of Patmos receiving what we now refer to as 'The Revelation,' coincidentally (providentially?) also the final track of the New Testament. I was transported for the next eleven minutes into some other plane of existence. I was in a near dream-like state of consciousness, yet not unconscious; totally unaware of any feeling in my body, while at the same time completely aware of the lyrics and music I was hearing. It was not so much an out of body experience as it was a kind of spiritual transcendence. After the song concluded, everything returned to normal like Jesus’ disciples own experience on the mountain following his transfiguration as witnessed in the gospels. I immediately replayed the song, but nothing happened. And I’ve never been able to duplicate the moment, although I’ve played that song and this LP countless numbers of times over the almost two decades since. Quantum physics is confirming the claims that mystics and shamans from all the religious traditions have been making for eons: the existence of a universal consciousness or ‘field’ from which anyone may access wisdom, guidance, and inspiration concerning things as varied as the invention of mechanical instruments to the composition of a song. I believe this is what I tapped into on my sick day, as well as what Dylan tapped into when he wrote his songs. I know this somewhat through my limited understanding, but much more so from my own personal experience. All my good ideas come from elsewhere, beyond me, when I get out of the way. The only shitty ideas are the ones that my own mind constructs independent of inspiration. Watch some of these documentaries featuring Dylan’s early years and observe how he sits and taps away on a typewriter composing lyrics while people are partying all around him, sometimes even playing their own songs! It’s incredible. He’s not thinking. He’s channeling. The thinking part comes later during the editing process, when the mind serves its rightful purpose. But the mind needs to be corralled for the initial inspiration. I know this to be absolutely true. And Dylan has said as much himself in interviews, if you can decipher his evasive, contradictory answers from one interview to the next, often accompanied with a gleam in his eye and a slight grin, as if to echo Jesus’ equally ambiguous remark ‘let those who have ears, hear.’ Now, its one thing to have this gift (but by that I don’t mean to suggest that its only available to the few- it’s yours for the receiving, too); but, its another thing altogether to be able to then communicate it musically in an enjoyable, accessible way, solo, or in a band. Once Dylan decided he wanted other players, he would simply go from one to another, inviting those who were in current communion with the muse and dismissing those who had temporarily fallen out. Didn’t matter so much how well one played necessarily; rather, how well one’s vibrational frequency was in alignment with his own, which in turn was in constant fine tuning to the Field’s. Therefore, sometimes you get Al Cooper’s uniquely organ work, the little fills throughout ‘I Want You.’ That’s a very popular and easily recitable song. But have you ever been aware of how important Cooper’s part is in the overall sound? One minute Hargus ‘Pig’ Robbins is tinkling some blues piano Fats Domino shit (and I’m using that to indicate high respect) in the background of ‘Pledging My Time,’ or ‘Temporarily Like Achilles,’ then, out of the blue, on ‘One of Us Must Know,’ Paul Griffin is now doing all these Gershwin-esque fills. Lead guitarist, Robbie Robertson shares his thin, wild, searing blues guitar solos on ‘Obviously 5 Believers’ and especially ‘Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat,’ only to find Dylan himself, in a response to John Lennon’s ‘Norwegian Wood,’ just softly finger picks his way through ‘4th Time Around,’ while Robbie takes five for a cigarette. Too much thinking and overdub guitar-ing would have killed that song. And was Dylan’s voice ever more beautiful than on this LP, soaring on ‘One of Us Must Know,’ then softly lamenting, longing on ‘Visions of Johanna.’ Filled to the brim with mirth, he can’t help but chuckles occasionally at the double (at least) entendre, not to mention the general hilarity of the party encircling him, on ‘Rainy Day Women #12 & 35.’ If anyone ever tells you Dylan can’t sing, crack ‘em over the head with your copy of 'Blonde On Blonde.' No, on second thought, save that to play. Hit ‘em instead with one of those awful Britpop records. Dylan purposefully slides up and down one note to the next, and purposefully changes the cadence to fit where the lyrics have taken him. He’s not in the least concerned about making verse number three longer than the preceding two, if that’s where the muse has traveled. ‘Visions of Johanna’ is one of many examples of this. The only genre of music that’s more liberated then Dylan’s is ‘free’ jazz. Finally, the lyrics. There’s a reason why he was awarded the 2016 Noble Prize in Literature. This review is already way too long, so I’m not about to start quoting the wonder captured in every single song on this LP from ‘balancing a mattress on a bottle of wine’ to ‘Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues, you can tell by the way she smiles’ to the famous and oft quoted, ‘to live outside the law you must be honest.’ His gift for pictures, scenes that are first heard through the ears and then painted across the inner eyes are absolutely stunning. And unbelievable contemporary. The rhymes on the bridge of ‘Just Like a Woman’ read with a cadence to rival any modern hip-hop master. Remember, now, this is the year 1966! (By the way, it’s very helpful to see these lyrics printed, so one may catch the nuance of his referring to the subject of ‘Just Like a Woman,’ as Baby with a capital ‘B’ rather than baby. The latter is a term of endearment. I think the capital ‘B’ Baby is something else entirely.) Sagacious, tender, and viciously hilarious, like my favorite of the bunch from ‘Absolutely Sweet Marie’: ‘Well, anybody can be just like me, obviously. But then, now again, not too many can be like you… fortunately.’ That one lyric alone is worth the cost of the whole thing, at least as far as I’m concerned. But in addition to its figurative meaning, I also hear this quite literally. Anybody can be just like Dylan, obviously. I mean, he is just a human, like you and I, and thus just a drop in the universal ocean, also like you and I, obviously. But then, now again, as the 13th century Persian poet Rumi also expressed to the contrary: maybe we’re not really just a drop in the ocean, you and I, and Bob Dylan, but instead are the entire ocean in one drop. The fact that so many are caught in the delusion of their perceived differentiation is rather 'un'fortunate.

Hey, no one ever went to a Georgia O’ Keeffe exhibit to gaze at realistic reproductions of flowers and landscapes. Nor did anyone view a Terry Gilliam film with the understanding that actual events were being depicted. So don’t approach Sonic Youth with the expectation that you’re going to hear songs with sustained, consistent tempos or beautiful harmonies, or even instruments in tune! If so, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. If, however, you can listen beyond the norm, and adjust your tuning frequency to that of the band’s, then you’re in for a uniquely good experience. I have a friend who happens to be a priest in the Eastern Orthodox Church. The liturgy chanted in their worship is lengthy, to say the least. They are just warming up on Sunday morning while most Protestant and even Catholic congregations are closing shop. The sheer amount of words emanating from the priest(s), the reader(s), and the choir is overwhelming. It’s simply too much to consider in real time. I asked my priest friend about this once and his suggestion was to allow the liturgy to just wash over you, and release the need to reflect upon what’s being communicated. It’s not really a didactic exercise for the congregant anyway. It’s more of a spiritual communion between the Divine and human, a foretaste of heaven on earth. (This isn’t his exact quote, just my general memory.) While an aural experience of Sonic Youth is hardly religious, I think a similar practice may be helpful. It’s not really a didactic exercise either, although the lyrics are mostly decipherable: bassist and vocalist Kim Gordon comments on cultural issues from a feministic perspective on songs like ‘Swimsuit Issue’ and ‘Shoot.’ Same with guitarists and fellow vocalists Thurston Moore and Lee Ranaldo, weighing in with pretty harsh condemnation (emphasis on the 'Youth' part of Sonic) regarding still more cultural issues on ‘Youth Against Facism’ and ‘Sugar Kane.’ And then there’s a handful of surreal offerings like ‘Drunken Butterfly,’ for example, which contains nothing more than lyrics and titles of songs from the classic rock band, Heart. But lyrics aren’t really the heart of Sonic Youth. Music is, or more accurately, the mood created by the music. I don’t know of a lot of other bands that create a more potent ambience than Sonic Youth. And while Dirty is a good LP, it’s not their best, nor the best representation of the typical volume of glorious dissonance found on most of their other recordings. In fact, as I understand it, producer and engineer Butch Fig wanted to tighten the arrangements up a bit, and I think it’s to the detriment of what Sonic Youth does best. It’s like asking the Grateful Dead to not jam so much. Again, don’t get me wrong, 'Dirty' is still a fine recording. Just take the bridge on ‘On the Strip,’ starting at about the three minute mark and extending for about 70 seconds with it’s A piacere, dissonant feedback (like the end of many of the live Who or Hendrix concerts back in the day), and imagine that extending for several more minutes sometimes as an intro, other times as a middle, often as a conclusion- that’s Sonic Youth. These fellas (and lady) have the patience to give the song time to breath, like a uncorked bottle of wine before its poured. They also understand the value of ritardando in a song, which is a word most rock bands wouldn’t even be able to define. And, as would be expected, their utilization of dynamics emphasizes the emotional effect each song is aiming at. The interplay of guitar work between Moore and Ranaldo, the notes often rubbing up so close together they almost become one, is jarring while at the same time surprisingly agreeable. Then, when they do finally sync up or harmonize together It’s like the feeling of health you always get (but often take for granted) following a bout with the flu. You find yourself exhaling a breath of air out of your lungs before you even realized you had been holding it in. And Steve Shelly’s steady drumming remarkably manages to hold this whole thing together, while even delivering a flourish of his own. This guy loves a shuffle beat, and it’s to Sonic Youth’s betterment. Finally, no one’s ever going to invite Kim Gordon to sing the National Anthem at a ball game, but her fierce growling of the lyrics at the end of ‘Shoot’ are convincing enough to make the hair on any man’s neck rise. She’s perfect for Sonic Youth. The golden tones of Karen Carpenter would be quite out of place here. Sonic Youth has long been one of my favorite bands. And years ago, when I read that Neil Young loved ‘em too, it made my heart skip a beat. Turn this one up loud, and cinch your seat belt tight. And toss your habitually conditioned clean ears and expectations right out the window. It’s about to get 'Dirty.'

I’ve heard otherwise kind, generous people express their concerns about giving homeless folks money. What if they take it and buy alcohol or drugs instead of food? An easy solution, if that’s your problem, is to keep some packaged peanut butter crackers handy and give those out instead. Problem solved. Everyone’s happy. But I actually give money regardless, and I do it 'with' the understanding that maybe a little weed or booze might possibly be the most charitable act you could offer on that particular occasion, assisting someone to just make it through one very cold, lonely night after an unsuccessful job search. Yes, I’m fully aware that this is hardly a long-range sustainable strategy for turning one’s life around. But you also never really know what may come of one merciful deed, do you? Nor do you know what the result could potentially be by taking the tough stance, and refusing to be an enabler, even when it’s the seemingly appropriate time to do so. When Neil Young canned guitarist Danny Whitten, because of his continual abuse of heroin, I’m sure he felt as if he was doing the best thing for his friend. And in some instances, that works. On this occasion, however, Whitten went on to die of an overdose. That’s not Neil’s fault, but you can understand how one might feel in his place. That’s got to be a sucker punch to one’s emotional center. Then, a short while later, when roadie Bruce Berry also died of a heroin overdose… how much can one friend take? 'Tonight’s The Night' is the bitter fruit of these fallen seeds, an LP I’m sure Neil wished he never would have had to write and record. I’ve seen him in concert, playing most of his historic catalogue, and I don’t recall him performing one of the songs off this LP. He wrote in the early original vinyl liner notes: ‘I’m sorry. You don’t know these people. This means nothing to you.’ But, of course, he’s only partially correct. While we don’t know his two lost compadres, we are more than familiar with grief. And that’s really what 'Tonight’s The Night' is mostly about: the universal experience of loss, and the struggle through the aftermath of grief. Not too long ago I reviewed Soundgarden’s 'Superunknown,' a fundamentally bleak reaction to life’s more painful moments. Lead vocalist Chris Cornell wrestled with his own drug demons for years and eventually committed suicide by hanging. I hate that LP, despite the talented musicians that comprise Soundgarden, and the hard rock sound that I usually like. I hate it for the exact opposite reason that I love Neil Young’s 'Tonight’s The Night.' Not because Chris Cornell is any less moral than Neil Young, or because his life was any less difficult or painful. I love Neil Young and this particular LP because Neil, pain and grief notwithstanding, is a survivor. He’s an artist of tremendous courage, refusing to completely give up or in. Listen to his heartrending, raw-throated vocals on the title song: ‘When I... heard that he DIED out on the mainline.’ Listen to his intense cry for someone to make the pain stop on ‘Mellow My Mind,’ or his desperate plea on ‘Tired Eyes’ for folks like Danny and Bruce, headed the wrong way down the one-way path to ruin, to open up those eyes before the light in them is extinguished by death. Most other artists would have re-recorded or excised all three of those songs altogether from their LP because of the rough vocals and miscued instrumentals. But Neil just leaves it all in, because he’s so much more concerned about getting the mood of the song right, about offering something authentic, than getting a clean take void of emotion. There’s a good chance anyway that these songs might just be too personal for more than one take. Incidentally, this is one of the reasons I love classic punk rock so much, too. Passion over proficiency. And hey, if you can pull off both, even better. (‘New Mama’ contains passion along with pitch perfect, wonderfully balanced- ala CSNY- harmonies, and a rested, tender, beautiful vocal from Neil.) But, if I was forced to choose one or the other, then I’d choose passion every time. But back to my point regarding the contrast between 'Superunknown' and 'Tonight’s The Night'- there are two songs that standout on this LP that really cement my love for it: ‘Speakin’ Out’ and ‘Borrowed Tune,’ both important additions to understanding that within the grieving heart of Neil Young hope still beats. As he plays a piano part that would’ve made Fats Domino proud (and accompanied by Nils Lofgren’s super blues guitar solos) he sings to his wife, ‘I’m hoping for your love to carry me through. You’re holding my baby, and I’m holding you.’ A testimony to the healing power of love. But ‘Borrowed Tune,’ with just solo Neil on piano is maybe the best number on this whole thing. When he strikes the bottom chords on the third verse making the whole sound swell with richness, the song enters into its second half, and ultimately ends with the same verse it began with, but with one notable absence. The first verse begins with ‘I’m climbin’ this ladder, my head in the clouds. I hope that it matters. I’m havin’ my doubts.’ If you’ve never uttered this you’re probably too young yet to have experienced any significant loss (of a loved one, or a dream, or meaning, etc.) But on the last verse when he repeats this he ends simply on the ‘I hope that it matters’ lyric, and leaves out the ‘I’m havin’ my doubts.’ Is this still implied? Or, maybe, has Neil reconsidered. Maybe his doubts are now giving way to the greater strength of his hope? I like to think it’s the latter. Thank God for Ben Keith, whose pedal steel gave this entire LP that necessary and uniquely heart aching sound of the pedal steel. It’s THE instrument of sorrow, as opposed to the accordion, the instrument of joy. And thank God for Neil’s tried and true buddies from the rest of the Stray Gators, The Santa Monica Flyers, and as always, Crazy Horse. These three combos have always been Neil’s truest and purest and highest band mates, much more so than Crosby, Stills, and Nash (as wonderful as they are.) CSN belong together. Neil belongs elsewhere. Finally, what an interesting insertion of the LPs only live cut (something Neil often does on his albums): Danny Whitten sharing lead vocals on ‘Come on Baby, Let’s Go Downtown,’ a joyful, raucous song remembering better times, the good ol’ days of the late 60s. No coincidence, I’m certain, that this particular song was about going downtown to, specifically, buy some drugs! Well, everyone deals with grief in their own unique fashion. There is no right or wrong way. There’s just your way. And 'Tonight’s The Night' is Neil’s way.

I’m quite proud of the legacy of music my Baby Boomer generation shared; but, the riches didn’t stop with us. The next time I hear a Boomer grouse about the pitiful state of contemporary music, I’m going to sit ‘em down, tape their mouth shut, and put on 'Lost In The Dream,' preferably with headphones, and turned up loud. Where has this band been, I began to ask, then aimed it at myself as well: where have I been? I’m no conscientious objector regarding the original war on drugs. I chose my side years ago. But apparently, these young comrades have been fighting on the same side, just over the hill and across the valley. Who knew the locations of our tours of duty were so close? ‘Haven’t lost it all, my friend, just a bit run down at the moment. Yeah, I’m living alone in here, living in darkness (‘Eyes to the Wind’).’ Lest you think that’s depression talking, or at least predominantly so, I believe lyricist and vocalist Adam Granduciel actually intends this lyric to be heard as a recognition of the value of periodic times of withdrawal for a little r&r, rest and recovery. And the music itself, not only in this song, but throughout the entire album is similarly restful, and beautiful, and optimistic in spite of the struggles life sometimes demands from us. There are notes of Dylan (both Bob and Jacob), Sigur Ros, early Dire Straits, Pink Floyd (right in the 1970s sweet spot), and the ambient works of artists like Steve Roach and Brian Eno. 'Lost In The Dream' is perfectly titled. And the band is patient with itself, taking time for the songs to develop. Great care has obviously been taken to pace things unhurried. Along with Granduciel’s sublime arrangements, the recording crew should all be given Grammys for their work. The mixing on this thing was superb, dozens of instruments (pedal steel, baritone sax, Leslie guitar, fretless bass, synths, ‘little tinkling bells’ sounding guitar?, to name a few) floating in and out, like waves breaking, then receding on the beach. In fact, the final track even features the sounds of crashing waves. Some of the songs offer downtempo deliciousness, like melted caramel in your ears, while others are more uptempo but never busy. The swirl of sounds is simply breathtaking. This would be wonderful to listen to on a long drive, but I’d rather be the passenger, so I could immerse myself in it’s atmospheric glory. Lyrically, Granduciel seems to be mostly dealing with themes of weariness and depression. I understand this LP was composed following almost a year of touring, and having a hard time adjusting to life off the road, he later recounted that he began ‘to spiral into emotional distress and physical manifestations of depression and paranoia.’ That’s definitely felt in spite of the fact that some of the lyrics are rather surreal, and don’t lend themselves to immediate interpretation, but that’s not a bad thing at all. Like the music itself, the lyrics require some patience to ponder. From ‘Suffering’: ‘Why be here when we’re both gonna fake it anyway? No more try to hear killing your goal mean I can be bigger than the tones in the moments of suffering.’ Some of the word pictures he paints are like brushes across a canvas- this one from ‘An Ocean In Between the Waves’: ‘I’m at the darkened hillside and there’s a haze right between the trees, and I can barely see you. You’re like an ocean in between the waves.’ I was about half way through the LP when I noticed that Granduciel isn’t really concerned with rhyme. Nor is he particularly careful about pitch perfect. He sometimes slides up to a note, ala Dylan. Sometimes the vocals are near lost in the mix, heavily effected, but others clear as a bell. It all works. I believe he’s partly addressing his relationship with a lover (ex? current?) on quite a few of these songs, but also, perhaps, the relationship with his own spirit. He concludes the LP with this gem: ‘I don’t mind you disappearing when I know you can be found… I’ll be here or I’ll fade away. Never cared about moving, never cared about now, not the notes I’m playing. Is there room in the dark, in between the changes? Like a light that’s drifting, in reverse I’m moving.’ I’ll be pondering that for the remainder of the day, but my immediate thought is that he’s struggling to practice a healthy detachment with regards to external circumstances (rather than bitter resignation or dulled apathy), in an effort to dig deeper inside and rescue his wounded, retreated spirit. It is possible to find the inner peace and joy that lives within each one of us in the midst of troubled and sorrowful circumstances. And when he finds that inner spirit, and his music suggests he’s probably already on the right path, then he will be unbreakable, even ‘under the pressure.’ (The title of the first song.) Fellow (& sister) Boomers, hear me: 'Dark Side Of The Moon' is one of my (and our) favorite LPS of all time. 'Lost In The Dream' is every bit as good; maybe, in some ways, even better.

This LP should be used as a form of birth control. ‘Cause no one is going to want to conceive and give birth to a bunch of kids as, well, damaged as Black Flag. ‘It feels good to say what I want. It feels good to knock things down. It feels good to see the disgust in their eye. It feels good and I’m gonna go wild (‘Spray Paint’).’ With a brutal rhythm section, the whirling dervish trio of drummer Robo, bassist Chuck Dukowski, and rhythm guitarist Dez Cadena barely hanging on to the beat by the tips of their fingers and playing as if their lives depended upon it, supporting the manic maniac lead guitar playing of Greg Ginn, and the psycho desperate vocals of Henry Rollins, 'Damaged' is a parent’s worse nightmare come true. Perhaps a synopsis of the song’s themes, in order, might be the most helpful way to communicate what the listener is in for: Side One: 1) Rise Above… the shitty status quo. 2) Spray Paint… the walls of the stupid society. 3) Six pack… beer helps, more than women. 4) What I See… is all fucked up. 5) TV Party… and beer is preferable to being outside. 6) Thirsty and Miserable… and always wanting more, beer. 7) Police story… we fought the law, too, and the law won. Side Two: 1) Depression… got a hold on me. 2) Room 13… is keeping me alive. 3) Damaged II… and my stupid illusionary feelings. 4) No More… I won’t take it. 5) Padded Cell… which is the wretched plane earth. 6) Life of Pain… complete with aching muscles from digging your own grave, and taking my feelings with you. 7) Damaged I… aahhhhh. Whew, that last one, in particular, features Rollins’ vocals that can best be described as ripping raw bloody flesh off the bones with one’s teeth. When he sings(?) ‘aahhhhhh…’ it sounds, 'he' sounds positively demented. Which is why Black Flag and 'Damaged' is probably best approached and handled: with extreme caution, and from a distance, close to the exit door in case of the real possibility that someone, maybe the whole band, snaps. And they’re very, very close. Like a pack of cornered rabid raccoons. But one would need to be a little feral to pull of this kind of hardcore punk and ‘free’/avant garde jazz hybrid. Several of the songs featured changing time signatures, free time signatures, and physically abused time signatures. Loose, seriously loose, but not sloppy, per se. This LP has been heavily rehearsed, especially for punks, but afterwards spun around and pummeled by the members of the band like a bat to a piñata, until all the musical candy comes gushing out from the bowels. If you like that kind of thing in your music, and I do, then you’re in for a good time. And don’t blink or you’ll miss it. I don’t think there’s much of middle ground here. You’re either gonna dig this, or run away with both hands tearing at your hair and screaming bloody murder; which, coincidentally is what those of us who do love it are doing in the mosh pit ourselves anyway, so it doesn’t really matter, does it? It all boils down to the same reaction. The only real reaction to Black Flag.

On the concluding song of 'Raw Power,' when lead singer Iggy Pop, a self-professed ‘sick boy (both physically and emotionally)… barely(?!) losing grip’ invites us to accompany him on a ‘death trip,’ I don’t think he’s speaking figuratively. 'Fun House,' The Stooges preceding LP, almost wore me out, but remained fun nonetheless. 'Raw Power,' by contrast, reveals a band no longer having much fun, but only wanting to ‘Search And Destroy’- ‘I’m the world’s forgotten boy, the one who’s searchin’, only to destroy, hey!’ Charles Manson was looking to do the same thing a couple of years before with butcher knives and guns. Iggy’s intent, however, is simply to fuck you to death. I don’t believe his goal, necessarily, is murder. But you might beg to differ after hearing his vocals on ‘Penetration.’ No tender love there, just straight-up predatory animal lust. Someone’s bound to get hurt. And anyone who would choose to stay in his presence after hearing this song is probably on their own ‘death trip’ as well. ‘I needed love but I only lost my pants, and that ain’t all,’ he recalls on ‘Your Pretty Face Is Going to Hell.’ On ‘Shake Appel,’ a fifties sounding rock n’ roll number, if it were to follow a couple of pulls off a meth pipe, he describes his paramour as having shake appeal, and the ‘Fit’s so tight… I gotta bite.’ Perhaps the title track best sums up Iggy’s petulant state of mind: ‘Don’t you try to tell me what to do. Everybody’s always trying to tell me what to do.’ Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta assert some kind of discipline to keep this thing in check. The whole band is out of control, as well as the folks recording and mixing on the other side of the broken glass. 'Raw Power' in a word? Frenetic. Why the odd inclusion of two ballads (‘Gimme Danger’ and ‘I Need Somebody’) in the midst of this bedlam is anyone’s guess. Maybe to calm things down? Fat chance of that. The Stooges easily pick up the pandemonium on the next song. And truthfully, these are the better numbers anyway, when The Stooges’ handlers just give up and let the boys run free- wild guitar soloing by James Williamson, the brothers Asheton assaulting their respective instruments while Iggy howls at the moon and grunts at women and snaps his teeth at everyone else. I loved The Stooges first two LPs. This one, however, I neither intend to search for again (at least any time soon), nor to destroy. I doubt there’s much left anyway, as these things typically tend to self-destruct.

I still enjoy the ginormous hit and title cut off this LP, but I’ve also heard it so many times that I now tend to take its initial shock appeal for granted. It was helpful to revisit the song in the overall context of this excellent album. The lyrics, first of all, are haunting: ‘Everybody’s lookin’ for something. Some of them want to use you.’ Uh oh, my guard is up. ‘Some of them want to get used by you.’ Hmm, things are beginning to get a little weird. ‘Some of them want to abuse you.’ OK, now I’m downright uncomfortable. ‘Some of them want to be abused.’ Oh, my. If you just slowly read those five sentences, with the words emphasized in their proper places, it ought to make the hairs on your arms rise. Just as you’re trying to shake that off, Dave Stewart then gets his sulky rich synth hooks into you, and now you’re in his grasp. Until Annie Lennox reasserts herself to conclude the number with a powerful lead vocal melody, terrific backup harmonies, and even a surprising descant. The thing is, though, that’s just one great song dwelling within the company of others even greater. The LP opens strong with ‘Love Is a Stanger,’ ‘in an open car to tempt you in and drive you far away… Love is a danger of a different kind. To take you away and leave you far behind.’ Compelling lyrics, delivered with precise vocal harmonies, and accentuated with echoes and other effects. Dave is adept at these studio techniques throughout. It’s an agreeable pairing, these two. The next two songs feature a Latin infused electronica, ‘I’ve Got an Angel,’ followed by ‘Wrap It Up,’ an Isaac Hayes and David Porter composition, but I remember hearing it first from the 1960s soul duo Sam and Dave. (Three years following the Eurythmics, blues band The Fabulous Thunderbirds would also score a big hit from their cover.) The Eurythmics’ take finds Annie channeling the likes of Aretha Franklin, but again through the musical filter of purely synthesized accompaniments. The effect is rather interesting, too. It might immediately come across as somewhat dispassionate, but a deeper, longer listen will begin to reveal its soulfulness of a different breed. It’s an authentic union of modern electronic dance music with old school soul and R&B. But the birth is not a combination, where both are heard equally; rather, they mingle and mix together to create a whole new, third, creation: like yeast reacting to barley malt and yielding beer. Sweet Dreams is probably better accompanied with a very dry martini, but you get what I’m sayin’. By the time I was five songs in (still before the hit ‘Sweet Dreams’), I knew the album was both growing and growing on me. ‘The Walk’ is artfully arranged, and the dual play between Annie’s melodic, assertive femininity to Dave’s baritone background is tasty. ‘Jennifer,’ though (the song following ‘Sweet Dreams’), was this album’s real triumph. With the background sounds of an ocean breaking at midnight, the lyrics concern a girl/woman who is lost, and eventually found underneath the water. The music is perfect for this mystery. Are we talking murder here, or some kind of tragic accident? Tell me she didn’t take her own life? Questions unanswered that left me pondering hours later. Dave’s sparse, pounding synth beat is dynamically unsettling, then finishes with a high register synth solo effected by a strange buzz tone that sounds fiendish. By now, the last three songs were more than a confirmation of this LP’s ability to fire on all cylinders: ‘This Is the House,’ with Annie’s harmonies arranged and performed with creative brilliance, ‘Somebody Told Me,’ with a funky robotic ‘oh well’ refrain that builds in intensity along with the singer’s shock and mounting anger, and the conclusion, ‘This City Never Sleeps,’ with its successful transportation of the listener into the shared space of an overcrowded apartment in the inner city, and traveling among the desperate and poor in the ‘underground trains.’ The outro gradually stretched out to infinity, and when it faded, unresolved, I was yearning for more, but with a personal experience to reflect upon. Sweat Dreams accomplishes something that occurs, thankfully, from time to time in pop music- carving out a bit of a new path and inviting the rest of us to hop in for a little off-roading thrill ride.

India’s Shubham Choudhary first said ‘Good things come in small packages.’ In the case of the diminutive Icelandic singer, Bjork, on 'Medulla,' things become great. I’m not entirely sure in one review how to even begin do justice to the sheer majesty of Bjork, so in its place I think I’ll simply bow in honorable recognition, and pledge my faithful service. This is music that is best experienced before understanding. So, I’ll keep this one uncharacteristically brief. Are there (m)any other artists beside Bjork who can create the cornucopia of musical sounds so aptly describing moods and emotions, while utilizing almost exclusively vocals? What does a palm full of diamond stars being cast like dice on a table sound like? ‘Desired Constellation.’ How about the glub-glub sound wine makes as its being decanted? ‘Mouth’s Cradle’ recreates that, and to the further accompaniment of a chorus of dark, mournful angels. What do you think greed sounds like? ‘Where Is the Line,’ that’s what. Or the inner sounds of a working human body? ‘Triumph of a Heart.’ Bjork’s creativity astonishes throughout this entire LP. And the strength, passion, range, and elegance of her vocals on ‘Oil Birtan,’i.e. or ‘Desired Constellation’ (possibly the best song off an LP chocked full of wonders) rivals one of 20th century America’s greatest singers, Barbara Streisand. Add to the mix Icelandic and British choirs evoking medieval monastic cathedral tones, background vocals from Faith No More’s Mike Patton and founding Soft Machine member, Robert Wyatt, the incredible Inuit throat singing styles of Tagaq, a team of talented beatboxers, all recorded and mixed by an army of programmers and engineers manifesting Bjork’s visionary arrangements, and the end result for the listener is like unwrapping fourteen sparkling, magical songs presents under the tree on Christmas morning. And great things, incredible things, come in each of those little packages, one after another. Bjork’s compositions and performance on 'Medulla' is nothing short of spellbinding. An extraordinary work of art.

Just think of some of your favorite bands, the ones who bring you the most pleasure… and then glam ‘em all up, heavily, and top it all off with a hot mound of pure hedonistic decadence. Now you’re listening to Roxy Music’s 'Country Life.' For example, the jaunty rockin’ n’ rollin’ ‘Casanova.’ What is that if not a glam take on the Rolling Stones? I can absolutely see the Stones covering this, in 70’s drag. ‘All I Want Is You,’ is what happens when glam and Led Zepplin mix it up. Hey, before you dismiss this as silly, take a listen to the driving, pounding drums Paul Thompson lays down on this song and tell me if that’s not Bonham in bra and panties? (By the way, I mean all this in the most complimentary way- I’ve been a Roxy Music from way back, turned on to them, actually, by a DJ spinning records for an apres ski club in Aspen, CO during the 70s. But that’s another story.) The closer, ‘Prairie Rose,’ offers a double cross dressing with the outer wear being a glam Eagles look, but finally stripped down to the concluding chorus, given plenty of time to develop and gradually fade out to end, which struck me as a very Beatles-esque move to make, like a glam ‘Hey Jude.’ Again, I loved it. And while its true that risk sometimes involves failures along the way, I wouldn’t call the glam blues number at the end of side one, ‘If It Takes All Night,’ a failure, necessarily; but, I will profess my own for glam endurance. This is a lot of glam coming at you, and it makes a fella a little woozy from time to time. Let’s talk Bryan Ferry for a moment. The Pepe Le Pew of pop, resplendent in vocal affectation and lyrically reveling in purely decadent hedonism. ‘Something's got to give,’ a sexually exasperated Ferry cries on the opening, ‘The Thrill of It All,’ and I believe him. He’s not gonna make it for the remaining nine songs on this LP. Somebody needs to attend to this. ‘Casanova, is that your name or do you live there? I know my place is here with you, tonight, but not together (‘Casanova).’ That’s rather sad, don’t you think, the recognition that the cure is not going to necessarily eliminate the dis-ease? Sadder still, he makes the choice nonetheless. Well, as Smiley the bartender (another employee of said Aspen apres ski club) once proclaimed publically, and delivered with pathos (or just plain pathetically, as others perceived it), ‘I’m so horny the crack of dawn isn’t safe.’ I mean, for cryin’ out loud, Ferry actually makes the claim on the LP’s closer that the very state of Texas is seducing him! Or is this just some slick double entendre? Side two begins in contrast to the ascending fun of the first with a descent, creating the feel of the later stages of an all-night party, when the amount of unconscious individuals has overtaken the ones still functioning. ‘Bitter Sweet’ features a Ferry vocal that sounds as if he’s from the earliest decades of 20th century America, and Germany, to boot. ‘To taste, both sweet and dry. These vintage years! Lovers you consume, my friend, as others their wine.’ It’s very sad, and very good. Then, ‘Triptych,’ unbelievably, thrusts the traveling listener to none other than Calvary. Yes, Roxy Music also manages to glam up Easter, but with an innocent heart, paying homage to rather than mockery of, even if in their own unusual way. They simply added a pair of high heels to rest alongside the cast off burial shrouds laying on the dirt floor of the empty tomb. And, the minor key for the duration of the song properly ended in a major, something I don’t typically enjoy, but in this case it worked, conveying the final joy of the resurrection. From there we return to the fun of ‘A Really Good Time.’ Super camp, over the top hedonistic, but never threatening, betraying the fierceness of Ferry’s bark to be greater than his bite? Whatever, it all works. Guitarist Phil Manzanera, saxophonist Andy Mackay, and keyboardist Eddi Jobson all get turns blaring out raucous solos. And John Gustafson travels hither and yon on his bass, yet always returning home, as on ‘Out of the Blue,’ for example. These guys are operating on all levels, lassoing a musical tornado like Pecos Bill and riding it out to the end. Hey, we might as well camp up Texas, too. Roxy Music certainly sings her praises. ‘If I were you,’ Ferry purrs on ‘Out of the Blue,’ ‘I would stay for a little while.’ And then follows with this lil’ tease: ‘If you were me would you walk out in style?’ Thus is the glam yin/yang of Roxy Music’s 'Country Life.'

The Beatles on 'The Beatles' seem to be doing what beetles do best, often working alone, solitary, and independent of the others. You can almost feel them starting to distance themselves from one another. But all species evolve, and in their case they would adapt and move on, successfully. Think of some of this as the molting phase- ‘Glass Onion,’ ‘Helter Skelter,’ and ‘Long, Long, Long’ seem like flashbacks of the LSD influenced, 'The Magical Mystery Tour.' There’s also a splash of early Beatles’ here and there with ‘Back in the U.S.S.R.’ and ‘Birthday.’ But then there’s an awful lot of solo material from both Lennon and McCartney, almost as if they’re feeling their respective ways to wherever the next place is. Between Ringo’s obligatory good-natured but corny tune, ‘Don’t Pass My By,’ and just plain weird shit like ‘Revolution 9,’ 'The Beatles' tends to wander. But its still the Beatles, so its still great. At least the great parts are great. Out of the thirty songs, Lennon scored the best with eleven good ones, McCartney in second place with seven, and Harrison a solid four. However, if you consider Harrison’s average, four of four a winner, that’s batting a thousand my friends, just edging out Lennon, by contrast, with twelve out of thirteen. McCartney, unfortunately, had the same number of songs as Lennon, but five of those stunk (as well as a couple of their shared ones), giving him not much better than a 50% average. Mind you, this is purely my judgement, and adversely affected by offerings like ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’ and ‘Honey Pie,’ McCartney numbers that Lennon referred to derisively as ‘granny music.’ So, my scores are admittedly subjective. But I’m going with that, and if you like to come along and wander with me just a bit farther down this path, I’d like to propose my own alternate LP track list, and on just one record, as opposed to the double album set on which we all grew up. Leaving the order untampered with, 'The Beatles': Side One: 1) Back in the U.S.S.R. 2) Dear Prudence 3) Glass Onion 4) While My Guitar Gently Weeps 5) Happiness Is a Warm Gun 6) Martha My Dear 7) I’m So Tired 8) Blackbird 9) Piggies 10) Rocky Raccoon 11) I Will Total Length: 28.41 Side Two: 1) Julia 2) Birthday 3) Yer Blues 4) Mother Nature’s Son 5) Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey 6) Sexy Sadie 7) Long, Long Time 8) Revolution 1 9) Savoy Truffle 10) Cry Baby Cry 11) Good Night Total Length: 32.80 And the songs we left off? Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, Wild Honey Pie, The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill (my only Lennon reject), Don’t Pass Me By, Why Don’t We Do It in the Road?, Helter Skelter, Honey Pie, and Revolution 9. If it were in the name of making a tighter single record LP, are there any amongst these eight that you just couldn’t live without? Finally (drum roll), awards for the best four songs, one on each side, and side one’s pick should be no surprise: George Harrison’s ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps,’ with honorable mention for McCartney’s always unique melodic bass lines, at times playing entire chords and offering counter melodies and such. Side two goes to Sir Paul himself with ‘Rocky Raccoon.’ I remember this playing on the radio practically every time we climbed in my Dad’s big ol’ Pontiac Bonneville for a Sunday afternoon ride to Baskin r’ Robbins. Side three: the Lennon rocker, ‘Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey. Great guitars accompanying Lennon’s biting sarcasm and surreal lyrics. And my pick for side four: Another Harrison work, ‘Savoy Truffle.’ This sounds like something right off 'Revolver.' And special thanks to producer Chris Thomas for his terrific horn arrangement on this and others. I don’t know what this means exactly, but two of the best belonged to George, and along with Lennon’s one, most sound like the complete Beatles playing as a unit. Rocky Raccoon was pretty much all Paul. A shadow of things to come?

I must confess to be at a bit of a loss about how to review Eels’ 'Beautiful Freak.' I can’t think of two more apt words to describe it, though. It is often beautiful, if framed in melancholy, like a flower garden shrouded in the morning’s mist. In fact, on ‘Flower,’ lead vocalist E images himself as one, but in a hailstorm rather than the gentle dew. Accompanied by the mournful chorus of a ghostly choir, one gets the feeling his self-image has taken a beating by his life’s situations in general, but in particular, by women. ‘I’m never even on your (guest) list,’ he laments on ‘Guest List.’ ‘Rags to Rags’ pronounces his prior rags to riches plan a sour bust. He’s ‘Not Ready Yet’ (by a long shot) to reengage with the outside world. And, hitting rock bottom- literally- ‘no one will know my name until it’s on a stone (‘Your Lucky Day in Hell’).’ He sings all these tales of woe with a beautifully wounded voice that evokes an image of an abused, frightened puppy. The freak component of all this, however, is his unfortunate over identification with all these unrealized desires and dreams which has caused him to feel as if he’s deserving of all this misfortune. Essentially, the entre LP seems to be your invitation to his grand pity party. Don’t worry, though, there’s plenty of mood altering depressants to go around. The tiny band is certainly munching on some meds with rythym section Butch and Tommy Walter, and E himself on guitar and Wurlitzer electric piano, performing sparse arrangements with much restraint. There are little instrumental solos to speak of, with the exclusion of ‘My Beloved Monster,’ which delivered one the oddest sounding little breaks I’ve heard in a while. (I liked it, too, by the way.) ’Mental’ also featured some action towards the end, but I couldn’t figure out if the soloing was avant garde or just a lack of proficiency. Either way, I wished Eels would have stretched their legs a bit more on most of these songs. There’s some untapped potential in there, I reckon. I didn’t not like it. The question is: did I? And E, I’m puzzled by this about-face lyric on the concluding song, ‘Manchild,’ when you suggest to your negligent lover that ‘when you forget I’m here, I’m not. It isn’t really me that you forgot.’ Maybe the pity is finally being escorted out of this party?

Allow 'Marcus Garvey' to inform you of another side of the Rastafari movement, well beyond the stereotypical spliff-smoking dreadlock dudes often portrayed on film, and more often than not humorously. You won’t find any humor from lead vocalist Burning Spear, though, nor the Winston Rodney and Phillip Fullwood’s lyrics he’s singing. Neither is there any reference to the spiritual value of marijuana. This is all about political activism, and inspired by one of Jamaica’s greatest, prophet Marcus Garvey. But ‘no one remember old Marcus Garvey,’ Burning Spear laments, while imploring his fellow Jamaicans (throughout the entire album) to ‘humble yourself and become one day somehow you will remember him.’ For keeping the memory alive honors those who paved the way for us, and is a daily exercise in a faith in a righteous God who will one day enact divine retribution on the wicked, making things right. This is old school, old testament. The clicking of horses’ hooves may be heard in the drums, the throb of the low bottom bass like the rumbling of chariot wheels, with brave horns leading the charge. This is pure Reggae music, the sound of the soil. And Burning Spear is tilling it up. Lyrically, unquestionably Rastafarian, and so always implying, ‘or else.’ On ‘The Invasion,’ for example, humility is called forth from the people, manifesting in the practice of ‘wadada (love),’ but for the purpose of appeasing divine wrath. Now, I suppose, being a humble, loving person for whatever reason is a better practice than being arrogantly hateful or hatefully arrogant; still, an awful lot of this LP was forecasting righteous payback on the wicked, and redemption for the oppressed, but said redemption dependent upon the condition of a show of genuine humility. Again, always in the background of the lead vocalist’s admonition to ‘Do right,’ for example, on the opening song, is the silent refrain, ‘Or else.’ No mercy for the wicked may be found here, nor ‘shall (they) enter this (Jordan) river… Jordan river a go roll.’ ‘You go your ways, and I go mine,’ Burning Spears states on ‘Give Me.’ I demand you give me, and in the widest possible application, my freedom. Or else. While I don't share that theological understanding, I am at least familiar with it, as well as the lives of some of those with whom this kind of liberation theology resonates. ‘Slavery Days’ was the most difficult, but instructive song to listen to, with its painful recount of the abominable commerce of slavery. It’s a litany of sorrow to the repeated refrain of ‘Do you remember the days of slavery?’ But again, to the accompaniment of optimistic, hopeful horns rising above the drone downtempo vibe underneath, as if to caution the listener to not allow the significance of their lives and deaths to be lost. Black lives matter. More than matter. There is a bigger picture. ‘Garvey’s old yet young.’

OK, if you were fighting with your sister, this would be the perfect gift to buy for your nephew’s 13th birthday, because he’d love all the cussing and teenage sarcasm and sexual innuendo, you’d be the cool uncle, and it would piss your sister off every time she heard him play it. Don’t expect much singing here, but do prepare yourself for plenty of good ol’ punk yelping. And, after a while, Hank von Helvete’s vocals will begin to become a little infectious, not unlike a mosquito bite. The rhythm section’s competent, and playing loose. Sloppy good, I would call it, like a chili dog. When they were at their best, on ‘Prince of the Rodeo,’ or ‘Humiliation Street,’ they were an intriguing little rock ‘n roll band. Lead guitarist, Euroboy, in particular, is the one leading this charge, all Joe Perry DNA and arena rock circa 1970s chops. The band establishes a nice percussion groove and good guitar hook in the middle of ‘Prince of the Rodeo.’ Euroboy also did some nasty ending guitar work on ‘Humiliation Street.’ Unfortunately, most of the album was pretty monotonous. Little in the way of arrangements or dynamics or tempo changes. Just aim that steering wheel straight ahead and step on the gas. Similar with the lyrics. Stuff you would expect from a young punk/glam band, inside jokes and coded lingo, double entendre galore: ‘Jerk that calf, half n’ half, I’m back in the saddle, the world’s most progressive cowboy.’ – ‘Prince of the Rodeo. You can imagine the rest, just from a random mention of their titles: ‘Rock Against Ass,’ ‘Rendevous with Anus,’ ‘Good Head,’ which features a minute and a half clichéd extended ending (I think on purpose for sarcasm’s sake) that closed every stadium rock concert you ever attended back in the day. Finally, and I’ve not yet puzzled this one out, there are an awful lot of references to ‘denim.’ These fellas are from Norway, by the way. Denim, huh? Turbonegro's 'Apocalypse Dudes' wasn’t the best nor the worst I’ve heard in a while. They did manage to get their own unique thing going on. I’m just not sure where it was bound, if anywhere. Maybe the nearest Levi’s outlet?

'The Message,' in a nutshell? Hard to be black in America. ‘Don’t push me ‘cause I’m close to the edge. I’m tryin’ not to lose my head… It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder how I keep from going under.’ Note that neither the lyricists nor lead vocalist Keef Cowboy are expressing anger, but caution: I’m really tryin’ here. And, as the final and title track clearly reveals, against the kinds of disadvantages that confront minorities when tryin’ to make the American creed of equal opportunity, including access, more of a practical reality. Before all that, though, we are introduced to the sole enterprise that seems to have prevailed where others have failed: sex. And on the very first track, we’re introduced to the sexual prowess of the players- and there’s quite a lot of them, vocalists and instrumentalists- before we then move on to a celebration of nasty sex on the second, followed by a bizzare robot vocal on the third cut, ‘Scorpio,’ in which we hear what phone sex (or at least foreplay) between two robots might sound like. Oddly, I could find no connection between the electronically effected voice and the lyrics, but there it is. And just when we’ve established this as a steamy, lusty, sex-themed funk LP, the next three songs take a decidedly different turn, musically and lyrically, concluding with a (literally) black gospel number, ‘You Are,’ with the ‘you’ being God, and everything being who You Are. Downtempo went the music and with it the vocals, taking a bit of downturn of their own, Keef never quite aspiring to the high notes he was hearing in this mind but abundantly sharing nonetheless. At least the background harmonies were a little sweeter on ‘Dreamin.’ I’m reminded of a hilarious episode of the NBC sit-com Seinfeld, in which ‘George’ (portrayed by Jason Alexander) unsuccessfully tries to combine his two favorite activities- sex and eating sandwiches. Musical artists certainly can and do bend and blend genres- country rock, jazz fusion, etc. But, can one album successfully offer the two side by side, unvarnished- especially such disparate ones as lusty funk and black church gospel- and still hold true? Only to end with 'The Message?' This, and average performances, all around make for just an ok time. There’s an argument to be made about this LP's inclusion into a time capsule. But I suppose the same could be said about a telegraph machine.

Put simply, this is the kind of music I remember college dorm dudes playing from their lower bunks on acoustic guitars because of the misunderstanding that college girls liked sensitive guys. 'The Man Who' is sensitive guy music, lots of feelings expressed, sad feelings that we hope might make you girls want to hold us guys with our heads resting snugly between your breasts. ‘Everyday I wake up alone,’ singer Fran Healy laments (his go-to emotion) on ‘As You Are,’ ‘because I’m not like the other boys.’ Another song asks the musical question, ‘Why Does It Always Rain on Me?’ giving rise to yet another question: ‘Why don’t you just get out of it, moron?’ Besides, that’s simply your own delusion anyway, no doubt grounded in some repressed fear you’ve not yet successfully dealt with. 'The Man Who' dredges it all up, in all its weary pessimism, both lyrically and it's accompanying music. There was only one instrumental solo on the entire album, when at 2:40 on ‘As You Are’ Travis finally delivered a fairly decent, brief guitar solo that did rock, temporarily. So, it is down there in these boys, they just have to dig for it. Mostly, though, the melodies, overall tunes, instrumental accompaniments, tempo, etc are soft, slow, and sad. The popular 1970’s soft rock band, Bread, sung and played harder than these guys. The one exception was ‘Driftwood,’ a rare uptempo tune, and with some decent, Dylan-esque lyrics to boot: ‘You’re driftwood, hollow and of no use. Waterfalls will find you, bind you, grind you… So, I’m sorry that you turned into driftwood, but you’ve been drifting for a long, long time.’ Following that respite from relentless self pity, though, we returned right back to… well, the next song title says it all: ‘The Last Laugh of the Laughter.’ I must have missed the last laugh, or I guess it happened before the composition of the song. At any rate, no laughter transpired. Not even a grin, until the final and morbidly slow closer, ‘Slide Show,’ and the most restrained castanets performance I believe I’ve ever heard. It found myself whispering ‘Ole’ with the vigor of said college dude after a Valium and a couple of PBRs. This whole alt folk/rock genre often strikes me as contrived ‘cool.’ That’s not accusatory, I’m just tossing it out there for consideration. What I would like to expose for fact, though, is the unfortunate misunderstanding of the sensitive guy, playing these Travis tunes, ever attracting any girl reaction. Consider with whom, generally, are college girls actually having sex? The bad boy, that’s who! They might eventually marry the sensitive guy, but they’re fucking the bad boy. So, to whom this may concern, if you’re genuinely looking to get laid, then stop learning these self-pitying Travis songs, and cover some Van Halen ones instead.

You’d be wise to give singer Shirley Manson (I’d be willing to bet this is a stage name, particularly the ‘Manson’ choice) a wide berth. There are no less than two references to the burning down of houses, along with the accompanying burning of Manson’s own hands, and then a full out ‘You burned me but I’m back at your door like Joan of Arc coming back for more.’ In fact, Manson begins that song, ‘Vow,’ by cautioning ‘I can’t use what I can’t abuse, and I can’t stop when it comes to you.’ That one’ll put the fear of Goddess in ya. She continues, ‘Ah, you burn (there’s another fiery instance) and turn to get under my skin. You’ve gone too far now I won’t give in. You crucified me but I’m back in your bed like Jesus Christ coming back from the dead.’ That’s a perfect example of the misuse of the crucifixion image in contemporary music. The utter folly of comparing God’s revelation in the crucified Christ to Manson crawling back into bed with whoever did her a dirty should be obvious. Unless its far worse than that. Indeed, on the opening song, ‘Supervixen,’ she commands her disciple to ‘Make a whole new religion (of me)… and I’ll feed your obsessions. There is nothing (no thing) but this thing, that I’ll never doubt.’ She then concludes with a repeated refrain of ‘Bow down to me.’ Interestingly, this is a lyrical technique she employs on near half the songs on Garbage, revealing a not so well hidden insight into the inner workings of Manson’s troubled mind: ‘Bow down to me… (it’s best to repeat these lyrics several times for the effect)’- ‘Supervixen.’ ‘Pour your misery down on me…’- ‘Only Happy When It Rains,’ a self-explanatory title. ‘Falling…’- ‘A Stroke of Luck,’ all bad. ‘Stupid Girl, I can’t believe you fake it…’- ‘Stupid Girl.’ ‘(Piece by piece) Send me an angel…’- ‘My Lover’s Box.’ ‘I’m waiting (& aching) for you…’- ‘Milk,’ which as an image for loneliness and longing was lost on me. Musically, average. Garbage is a good band, but chooses that increasingly popular, contemporary option of substituting the overall band sound- the power chords of effected guitars and keyboards- for an instrumental solo. I think some good old guitar soloing would significantly improve Garbage, from an ok band to a rather good one. I don’t know if there is much hope, however, for any improvement on Manson’s atrocious self-esteem. And if her loathing were to be only self-inflicted that would, of course, be unfortunate. But she’s genuinely ‘Only Happy When It Rains,’ including the drenching of us all. You know the expression: misery loves company. And hey, if you are, miserable, then you’ll find this LP crowded like a large Irish Catholic wake in a small house in Boston. My suggestion- have a couple of beers, extend your condolences, and move on before Shirley gets there. ‘Cause when she does, (again, from ‘Vow’) ‘I came to cut you up, I came to know you down. I came around to tear your little world apart. I came to shut you up, I came to suck you down. I came around to tear your little world apart… and break your soul apart. I can’t stop when it comes to you.’ Family of the bereaved, caring friends and honored guests, please do not offer her a whiskey. I’d keep the casseroles and desserts out of her reach as well, along with the sharp silverware. And do I need to remind you about securing the matches? Otherwise, things are gonna burn.

Imagine blending classical Indian music with electronica and ambient, finishing with a garnish of western classical and jazz, until you have a musical Arrack- the generic term for a variety of distilled spirits found throughout India and Sri Lanka, Indonesia and the Philippines, that are often unrelated, and can be made from different ingredients. And the effect of listening to Talvin Singh’s 'OK' is about as heady as I can imagine a tumbler of Arrack over ice would be. The opening track, clocking in at over eleven minutes (but passed too quickly), introduce the listener into Singh’s ambient world before then segueing into an electronica infused uptempo hybrid, only to then quiet down into a tempo-less traditional Indian drone set with two very talented flute players- Ryuichi Sakamoto and Rakesh Charurasia- when, out of the blue, a gloriously melancholic western orchestral score! And that was just the first song. Please don’t get the impression, though, that it was bombastic, or too busy. To the contrary, it was quite relaxing, infused with subtle meaning, and very often beautiful. Musically intriguing, with lots to explore. And while they weren’t featured often, Suchitra Pilai’s vocals soared when they were, aiming straight for the sun on ‘Eclipse,’ for example, and further propelled by the wonderful keyboard manufactured beats of Guy Sigsworth. Hats off to all on this wonderfully creative collaboration. It's been reported that Indian music can be off-putting to certain individuals, possibly due to the spiritual nature of what the artists are co-creating. Divine light is not immediately pleasurable when you’re accustomed to the dark. That, and not everyone necessarily recognizes their own dis-ease in the first place. If that’s where you’re at, do yourself a favor, and don’t bail on this too quickly. Give it time to root first before expecting flowers. Much like the free jazz of Ornette Coleman, don’t expect to walk away from 'OK' whistling an easily accessible tune. This is more like tattoo music, a gradual integration, intended for permanency. And if you are already hip to the sounds of this part of the globe, and open to, or at least curious about what the modern electronica lads are putting down, then you’ll immediately enjoy this LP, and it’s euphoric after effects. I sure did.

I always misunderstood the 'S&M' title to indicate Symphony and Metallica, and I was close. Turns out the ‘S’ is simply a backwards treble clef which, when turned back around, resembles more of a ‘G,’ even resting on the G note above middle C on a piano. I’m guessing, though, that Metallica’s title had further ribald implications than a simple lesson in musical theory. You can take the Metal out of the boy, but not the boy out of the Metal. It’s a musical genre (mostly) of males (and mostly young, or certainly young of heart), by males, from males, to males… oh, and wolves, too… and outlaws, of course… and plenty of monsters. All very male images. And set to a very male sound, loud, fast and aggressive. Even the accompanying San Francisco Symphony are playing with heightened levels of testosterone. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the cellist smashed his instrument into the timpanis at the end of the performance. Then again, when’s the last time you attended a live concert of classical music and heard expletives shouted from the stage (what is Latin for ‘motherfucker,’ I wonder?) while the assembled crowd periodically engaged in raucous Metal chants of ‘Aye, aye, aye, aye…’ There is something quite different going on here than, for example, The Moody Blues’ 'Days of Future Passed,' where the London Festival Orchestra accompanies the band. 'S&M' is more of a competition, friendly, but physical. When this sparring is over, both conductor Michael Kamen and Metallica emerge victorious, wearing big grins. But I wouldn’t advise just anyone jumping into this ring. These are professionals, playing hard. You should probably just save your inner Metal for the Karaoke bar on Thursday night where no one will get hurt. There’s something here for all Metallica fans- pre and post Cliff. While I favor earlier Metallica- 'Ride the Lightening,' 'Master of Puppets,' '…And Justice for All,' I enjoyed the symphonic pairing of their later work on 'Metallica' and both 'Load' and 'Reload' more. These later songs tend to be more melodic, for one thing. The earlier ones, like ‘One’ and ‘Battery’ are almost too metal for much collaboration. The sheer force of ‘Battery’ would send the triangle flying from the delicate hands of the orchestral percussionist. Mostly, though, things worked out well. Metal is, after all, an extension of classical music. It’s a solid LP, majestic in sound and scope, and lots of fun. And hey, if your Grandad happens to be a classical music fan, sit him down with a tumbler of whiskey and a good cigar, and turn him on to some 'S&M.'

Whew. Last time I had an experience like this was at the dentist’s office. Parts of it weren’t unpleasant, but most of it was, in particular the concluding bit, ‘When I Dream,’ which played away far too long (7:14) including a prominent shrill keyboard descant that sounded and kinda felt like a dentist’s drill. And that keyboardist worked on some of my other teeth too throughout this LP, often introducing mildly irritating discordant notes to the melody. I’m generally a fan of this in rock music, so that’s not really the issue. I think it was more keyboardist David Balfe’s tone- whiny, tedious? The ‘horn’ effect on his keyboard on ‘Went Crazy,’ for example, almost got me committed too when my neighbors witnessed me running around the cul de sac howling and gripping my tortured ears. And he returned to the scene of the crime on the very next number, ‘Brave Boys Keep Their Promises,’ which is a song title that is must exist on a recording of a band with the name The Teardrop Explodes, right? But the blame cannot be placed solely on the fingers of Balfe. It’s all for one and one for all on the last three songs. ‘The Thief of Baghdad,’ in particular, sounded like a cellphone recording of any new wave Karaoke night hosted weekly (probably Wednesdays) by your local pub. The band’s occasional forays into a disco/punk territory were… different. The arrangement on the first song, ‘Ha Ha I’m Drowning,’ seemed awkward somehow; however, I did enjoy the second one, ‘Sleeping Gas,’ but for the life of me I’m not sure why. And yes, this is yet another one of those British bands (although not Britpop) that substitutes guitar and keyboard chord progressions for singular note solos. I think bands generally do themselves a disservice when they go in this direction. That said, The Teardrops Explode did play well together. Maybe it’s just that no one in the band has the ability to pull off an instrumental solo? Hey, there’s certainly plenty of other good punk bands who share the same challenge. Vocally, Julian Cope is probably right where he should be, a bit of a mess, often falling flat, but doggedly sneering his way through, one victim at a time. On the aforementioned disco/punk number ‘Went Crazy’ I believe he’s satirizing something or someone. I just don’t know what or who. Oof, then there’s those awful keyboard ‘horns’ again, too. ‘Bouncing Babies’ was the standout, for me, and for some mysterious reason, Balfe’s mostly off putting keyboards worked this time, in part, because of their work alongside these clever vocals: ‘I was a bouncing baby. Now I’m a bouncing bomb. So won’t you come and diffuse me before I kill someone.’ A striking and clever image. As was the one on ‘Second Heart’ when Cope asks ‘How’s your second head? Is it the first one you started off with?’ Unfortunately, most of the rest of the lyrics and music never quite made it to the summit of 'Kilimanjaro.' Not that it wasn’t a brave climb. (Has anyone identified what that lad in the background second from the left is clutching?)

There’s just something about 'Stand!' that sounds both 1969, yet very contemporary at the same time. And remember, Sly & The Family Stone were bending and blending musical genres while Prince was still a little kid. Undergirding the whole thing is, of course, a good measure of funk, from the very first call to arms, ‘Stand!’ to the concluding, ‘You Can Make It If You Try.’ ‘Sing a Simple Song’ in particular was just pure soul, with a marvelous recording that I would describe lovingly as pork chop fat. So many of these songs- the three aforementioned, along with ‘I Want to Take You Higher’ and ‘Everyday People’- could have continued playing in perpetuity. The ‘Sex Machine’ jam at close to fourteen minutes grew a little tiresome (Sly and company don’t work quite as well as a jam band, but it was a valiant effort, and they sounded as if they were having fun, so…) And I’m not sure if I liked ‘Somebody’s Watching You’ or not. I didn’t care for the bulk of the song, but the catchy refrain kinda grew on me. Not sure what to do with that. Finally, while I wouldn’t say I enjoyed ‘Don’t Call Me Nigger, Whitey’ I do appreciate the courage of Sly Stone’s convictions in recording it. And the horn players Cynthia Robinson and Jerry Martini’s accents on the lyrics really drove the message home. Special mention goes out to the great bassist Larry Graham whose funky slap rhythms and thunderous playing throughout actually elevated the songs, one obvious example being, of course, ‘I Want to Take You Higher.’ I’m guessing that the vocoder was relatively new technology in 1969, but a sample on the second song quickly revealed that a little of it goes a long way. That said, Sly made a much better call on the sure and steady cow bell on ‘Everyday People,’ so we’ll call his arrangements a push. Sly proclaims on the opening song, ‘Stand! You’ve been sitting much too long. There’s a permanent crease in your right and wrong.’ But as long as your up and standing, I’m sure he’d want you to do a little dancing, too, and work out that other crease down your pant legs. The whole Stone family’s doing their very best to iron ‘em both out.

'Bringing It All Back Home' tends to get lost sandwiched between the outstanding LPs Dylan recorded before and after. Consider the preceding three- 'The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan,' 'The Times They Are a-Changin’,' and 'Another Side of Bob Dylan' (acoustic folk music)- and, the two following- 'Highway 61 Revisited' and 'Blonde on Blonde' (electric rock n’ roll.) And, I must confess, 'Bringing It All Back Home' also gets lost amidst my go-to Dylan music (including later works like 'Blood on the Tracks.') But intentionally so. For one thing, Dylan comes across as if his lyrical output has temporarily overcome his performance energy. He thankfully got it back on the next LP, but this one sounds to me like a winded Dylan. How does one supply the energetic passion to share such an extraordinary amount of lyrics, with little instrumental breaks to catch a breath? And I’m not even talking about the interpretation of songs like ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ and ‘Gates of Eden’ and ‘It’s Allright Ma, I’m Only Bleedng,’ but just the utter volume of it's sung words. Once one does get around to deciphering Dylan on this particular LP, with its shift from social justice issues to surrealism (a relatively new feature for Dylan in 1965), there are many more questions raised than answered: Who is Maggie, or Mr. Tambourine Man, or Baby Blue? What exactly are the Gates of Eden, not to mention their function, and where may they be located? What is a magic swirling ship: a boat, a plane, LSD in a toilet bowl? What precipitated Dylan’s love to the realization that she ‘knows there’s no success in failure, and that failure’s no success at all’? What does that even mean? Dylan’s reference to the conquest of America on ‘Bob Dylan’s 115th Dream’ doesn’t seem to be intended in an exclusively historical way, so what is its relevance to 1965? What is its relevance now? He suggests on the opening song, ‘You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows,’ but that’s surely more than an observation of a purely meteorological event. The whole LP had the feel of Dylan struggling to sustain the energy to endure the performance of these wordy songs- both physically and emotionally. And consider the interesting order in which they are even placed on the album: side one introduces the listener to an assembled band of plugged in rock n’ rollers, while side two is solo, unplugged acoustic Dylan. The strategy is completely backwards. Wouldn’t it make more sense to begin with the familiar acoustic before gradually easing your audience into the ‘new’ electric sound? But the album is entitled, 'Bringing It All Back Home,' so maybe it’s format is purposefully designed to befuddle, with Dylan, all the while, maintaining a purposefully restrained grin. Yet another mystery from the final verse on the final song, after which the listener is left in silence to ponder: ‘Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you. Forget the dead you’ve left, they will not follow you. The vagabond who’s rapping at your door is standing in the clothes that you once wore. Strike another match, go start anew. And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.’ Is Dylan talking to himself, to us, to the folk music community, to the 60’s counter culture, to the American establishment… to a freezing infant?

Under the arrangement of the masterful Nelson Riddle, and sung by the OD (original diva) Ella Fitzgerald, 'The Gershwin Songbook' flourishes. There’s a little bit of everything here: the wistful tune of ‘But Not For Me,’ the playful innocence of ‘Nice Work If You Can Get It,’ the stylish blues of ‘Love Is Here To Stay,’ the big band boom and creative polyrhythmic meter of ‘Fascinating Rhythm,’ with Ms. Fitzgerald effortlessly maneuvering all the required syncopation (she can do this in her sleep, folks), and even introducing us to a little lingo from the 1950’s in the lyric ‘I’m always shaking just like a flivver!’ A flivver is a cheap car (or plane) in a bad condition, like the AMC Gremlin I used to drive in high school, which shook at any speed over 50 mph. Apparently, the Gershwins were inspired by the energy of Manhattan in their composition of ‘Fascinating Rhythm.’ Most of the songs, though, are about romantic love- dreaming about it, longing for it, the joy of discovering it, the sorrow of losing it. Love is ‘the best work of all, if you can get it.’ (‘Nice Work If You Can Get It’) ‘And you can get it if you try… and if you can get it, won’t you tell me how?!’ Ella Fitzgerald is known and revered for her ability to scat up a storm, but we are mostly treated on The Gershwin Songbook to her silky, smooth as buttermilk vocals, perfectly suited to the intimate mood of these songs. However, we also get mirthful Ella on ‘They All Laughed’ (at our love), ‘But, ho, ho, ho! Who’s got the last laugh now?!’ and even seductress Ella on ‘Lorelei,’ where she sings ‘I’m treacherous. I just can’t hold myself in check. I’m lecherous. I want to bite my initials on a sailor’s neck.’ No need to fear, though. Ella’s bite is more of a delicious nibble than a devouring nosh. Nelson Riddle’s orchestral arrangements throughout are simply exquisite. From the gorgeously plaintive rise of the final verse and conclusion of ‘The Man I Love’ to the bluesy horn work on ‘Love Is Here To Stay,’ or just something as simple, yet effective, as the playful fluttering of a flute on ‘Nice Work If You Can Get It,’ Riddle manages to capture whatever lyrical mood the Gershwin’s are putting down, and shows the expert restraint that compliments and enhances rather than interferes with the performance of the song. 'The Gershwin Songbook' is a wonderfully ambitious collaborative exercise. It was a joy to listen to, but also left me a bit sorrowful. For I was born in the summer of 1959, six months before its release, and these songs clearly reveal the cultural loss of innocence that has transpired in my lifetime. Not to get too maudlin, but I fear that we might never again hear lyrics like these: ‘Someday he’ll come along, the man I love. And he’ll be big and strong, the man I love… Maybe I shall meet him Sunday, maybe Monday, maybe not. Still, I’m sure to meet him one day. Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day. He’ll build a little home that’s meant for two from which I’ll never roam. Who would, would you? And so, all else above, I’m dreaming of the man I love.’

Well, I liked 'Elastica' better than many of the other Britpop recordings I’ve heard, but just because I like cauliflower better than kale doesn’t mean I still want to eat much of it. I’d prefer a cheeseburger, fries, and a milkshake. Actually, now that I think about it, 'Elastica' is more like a pop tart- a quick snack, but bland and not particularly filling. Its better when put in a toaster… the pop tart too. I don’t know if it’s my age (62) or my nationality (American), but for the life of me I mostly don’t know what these Britpoppers are singing about. The very first song referenced a certain ‘drivel head,’ but I’m neither clear as to what that signifies, exactly (drivel means nonsense, so ‘nonsense head’?), nor for whom that moniker is designated. And things digressed from there. By the time I arrived at the ninth song, ‘Blue,’ I gave up trying to decipher lyrics like: ‘John’s gone his sense loaded over by your house. It’s so basic.’ Not to me it’s not. And the fact that I only understood three out of the fifteen songs gives 'Elastica' the dismal score of 20% on the lyricalgraspometer. On the musical front, 'Elastica' was a snap, literally. A drummer who knows one tempo, a bassist one note, and two guitarists, who play chords well but wouldn’t recognize an instrumental solo if it politely held the door open for them. Another 20% on the musicallyintriguingometer. I reckon that’s a failing mark on either side of the Atlantic ocean. And whose decision was it to take the one positive thing about this band- lyricist and lead vocalist Justine Frischmann’s good looks- and turn her face away from the cover photo of the band? 25% mark on that one. Yet another failure.

Recently, I reviewed a Britpop LP and commented that it was either my age or my nationality that was presenting an obstacle to my understanding of what the artists were trying to express. A listen to 'Goo' confirms that it must be a cultural thing rather than age, for most of 'Goo’s' themes and name dropping I did comprehend- ‘Tunic,’ for example, as a platform to uncovering the root causes of anorexia, while honoring the musical legacy of Karen Carpenter, or the criticism of misogynistic attitudes among male rappers and the hypocrisy of African American rappers, in particular- LL Cool J, to be exact- in perpetuating this archaic climate (‘Kool Thing’). I don’t know how important a comprehensive understanding of Sonic Youth’s lyrics is anyway to one’s enjoyment of their music. I don’t mind some mysteries left unsolved: What does satan (who, in the place of a cat, got someone’s tongue), a liason with a witch in a coffee truck, and the phrase six-sex-six have to do with ‘Dirty Boots’ on the opening track, and what do those dirty boots even signify? 'Goo’s' lyrical proclivities aside, Sonic Youth is always more about the music. Kim Gordon’s bass remaining one note steady while Steve Shelly goes all Keith Moon on his kit, and guitarists Thurston Moore and Lee Ranaldo sonically swirl around and around, like a pair of tornados emanating from their amplifier fans. And somehow it always works. Sonic Youth is liquid fire. A sure way to create some goo. And I'm glad to get stuck in it.

Beck is kind of a Generation X version of Neil Young on 'Sea Change.' But, with a lower voice. Any number of these acoustic songs- ‘The Golden Age,’ ‘Guess I’m Doing Fine,’ ‘Side of the Road’- they all have that Neil Young sound and feel, even complete with pedal steel and slide guitar (featuring Smokey Hormel, which is the perfect name for a slide guitarist.) But he also gives a nod to the Beatles with a ‘Day in the Life’ ending on ‘Lonesome Tears’ and a drone improvisational conclusion to ‘Little One’ that would have easily fit alongside the other psychedelic pop on 'The Magical Mystery Tour.' His supporting cast are all subtly superb, especially bassist Justin Meldal-Johnsen, who shows how it’s done on ‘Paper Tiger,’ for example, and keyboardist Roger Joseph Manning Jr, who empties out the kitchen sink on ‘Sunday Sun’ with everything from the Clavinet to harmonium. And the secret sauce to this whole thing are the marvelous ambient sounds that pop in and out of virtually every song (especially the outros) like the varmints in a whack a mole game. Imagine composer Steve Roach sprinkling Neil Young’s Harvest with synthesized atmospheric dust and you’ll get the idea. But the three numbers that really put this thing over the top were David Campbell’s creative and lush string arrangements on ‘Paper Tiger,’ ‘Lonesome Tears,’ and ‘Round the Bend.’ With a tinge of an almost Middle Eastern vibe, these three songs were a sonic contrast to the otherwise simpler acoustic country/folk tunes. Again, think of ‘There’s A World,’ and ‘A Man Needs a Maid,’ off of Neil Young’s Harvest. Campbell’s scoring accentuates the defeated and desolate nature of these compositions, written in the aftermath of Beck’s discovery that his fiancée had cheated on him, thus ending their nine-year relationship. The songs on 'Sea Change' develop slowly, so be patient. And don’t expect to find much here other than just an outpouring of hurt. The whole LP is like the raw recovery following major surgery. It’s an inspired work of art that you’ll probably seldom want to play. But when you do… well, research has shown that country music, more than any other genre, causes its listeners to consume alcohol. Between that, and Beck’s desolate lyrics, you’re gonna want to make sure you’ve got plenty of beer iced down before you drop the needle on this one.

If you like to walk, hike especially, you’ll certainly appreciate and enjoy the meandering of Can throughout 'Future Days.' The whole journey begins with an ambient wash of machine waves, if that makes sense. Not a lot does on 'Future Days,' seemingly, at least in the accepted wisdom of traditional pop/rock song composition- intro, first verse, chorus, second verse, chorus, bridge, third verse, chorus, conclusion. You can throw all that out the window for this trip. After a full minute ambient introduction, things give way to a slightly Caribbean beat, suggesting steel drums, to which a drone note (only one chord in this nine and a half minute opener) eventually attaches itself, followed by some wonderful synth creations. ‘Spray’ follows, with it’s predominate percussion and some excellent syncopation from drummer, Jaki Liebezeit. The third, and final song on the first side, ‘Moonshake,’ most closely resembles a traditional song structure, but only for three short minutes. It was about this time when I realized how difficult it was to place the vocalist’s nationality. A most unusual accent- a whisper of German, but something else undiscernible, at least to me. In truth, vocalist Damo Suzuki is from Japan, one of the founding members of the mostly German ensemble. His lyrics (in collaboration with the rest of Can) are even more elusive than his vocalization. Here’s a sampling, from the final number: ‘And when nobody can say that you hate. But then your story made the store right now. And when you started to say that you hate. You're coming down to the start up gown.’ And that is just a sampling. The lyrics on Future Days are about as surreal as you’re going to find. Trippy, brothers and sisters. Suzuki’s voice itself, however, it’s tone and timber, gradually grew on me. By the conclusion, I was a fan. It does come with conditions, though, number one being the necessity of written lyrics. Both Suzuki’s pronunciation of English and the heavy studio effects (including a shallow burial of vocals into the overall instrumental mix) make comprehension by ear difficult. But it was during the final and stunning song, ‘Bel Air,’ that I realized that Suzuki’s vocals were better heard as simply another instrument- weaving in and out as soloists do in jazz improvisation- rather than for the goal of achieving some reasonable interpretation. Is it possible that Can’s lyrics (or anyone’s, for that matter) don’t 'have to' mean anything, at least on a rational level? And that final song, ‘Bel Air.’ It’s worth the price of the whole recording. This is where Can really stretches their legs. It’s a long walk, but very satisfying. Part free jazz, part progressive rock, somewhat rehearsed, of course, yet allowing some periodic off-roading improvisation, too. Fans of King Crimson’s stuff will dig 'Future Days,' and ‘Bel Air,’ in particular. And just when you think the song’s complete, surprise! A lightly strummed soul guitar fades in, followed by the entire band, including vocals, settling into an extremely pleasant vibe, like a listening sedative. More free jazz transpires for a few minutes, then giving way to pure ambient noise, slowly crystalized down to one drone note… and yet again, just when you think things are finally winding down, the entire band zooms back in, rocking to the original tempo! I’m not sure what part of this almost twenty minute composition was the conclusion, nor do I care. All I know is that both the journey and the destination were quite enjoyable.

Debut albums often go one of two ways: either they are so good that they’re difficult to repeat or, as in the case of 'Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers,' they’re so bad you wonder how a second one was ever recorded. Look, I’m not the world’s biggest Tom Petty fan, but neither am I a hater. I think Tom Petty’s solo LP, 'Wildflowers,' is a fine piece of work. Thankfully, his music matured well. This debut album, though, is a young 26 year old Petty putting his foot in the door. And I enjoyed the two hit toes that stuck out, what would become that signature, catchy Tom Petty sound: ‘Breakdown,’ and ‘American Girl.’ But quick, shut that door before the remainder of the eight get through! I was surprisingly disappointed right off the bat with the odd Everly Brothers harmonies on ‘Rockin’ Around’ and a quick two minutes of a song that never really developed. ‘Mystery Man’ is perhaps the only country/reggae hybrid I’ve ever heard, and I don’t want to hear it again. And ‘Luna,’ was, honest to God, a taste of prog Petty. Thank goodness he never tried this move again. ‘Hometown Blues’ was hokey, all the way around. ‘Fooled Again’ sounded like Petty trying his best to sound like Petty, all rock ‘n roll aloof; and, those one, high note synth fills in the background were further irritating. In fact, the entire band seemed to be struggling to find their place, their groove together, and instead came across playing rather stiff. First time studio nerves, perhaps? Mike Campbell is one of the finest lead guitarists around, but he’s nearly silent on this LP. Too bad the lyrics weren’t. By contrast, Aerosmith’s lyricist, Stephen Tyler, reads like Leonard Cohen. ‘Don’t need (Mama), don’t need school,’ Petty sings on ‘Anything That’s Rock n’ Roll’ (a tired, stereotypical title/them if there ever was one.) 'You don’t like your Daddy, and you don’t like rules.’ Rock n’ roll to the rescue! And perhaps it did help liberate the unfortunate oppressed minor in this song. Would that it have done the same for 'Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.'

They sure got the band name correct: the Wu-Tan 'Clan,' as opposed to, say, the Wu-Tang Association or the Wu-Tang Consortium. Confederacy? I don’t think so. Syndicate might have been a viable alternative. But clan is simple, one syllable to Wu-Tang’s two. And these gentlemen are indeed clannish, true to its original definition as a family or group of people with a strong common interest. And like the Asian clans the Wu-Tang so admire, Ol’ Dirty Bastard and RZA and Inspectah Deck and the rest are armed and anxious to protect and defend what’s rightly theirs. I mean two of their members wear the last name of ‘Killa(h).’ Opening with ‘Bring Da Ruckus’ (a terrific and unfortunately neglected word, ‘ruckus’) we are warned in no uncertain terms- and I do not use that expression lightly- to tread softly around the Wu-Tang. They are already agitated. They already have guns. And all the weed they’re smoking doesn’t appear to be taking much of the edge off, either. Approach with caution. Street life for young, poor, urban African Americans is artfully described throughout the LP, with no holds barred on language and illustrations. I’m not easily offended, but congratulations, Wu-Tang, you managed to do it on ‘Method Man’s’ intro. That said, the general expression of this LP is a clear illustration of the natural consequences awaiting anyone threatening a dangerous and frightened living creature with their back up against the wall. Someone’s liable to get hurt. On ‘Can It Be All So Simple,’ the Wu-Tang recounts a personal history that, while not being justification, still offers an explanation for violent retribution. ‘C.R.E.A.M.' (cash rules everything around me) offers a primer, or warning, for surviving the streets as a youth. Violent, offensive lyrics aside, the members of this clan are more than skilled at spittin’ ‘em. The rhymes are cleverly composed and flawlessly delivered. ‘Clan in da Front’ was a great example of rhythm, meter, and performance that may be honestly described as amazing. Likewise, the raps on ‘Method Man’ and ‘Shame on a Nigga’ were superbly executed (with a wide variety of meaning.) The Wu-Tang are great at what they do. Super sounds, back and foreground. Still, I think I’ll enjoy them at a distance. Hey, without even an actual listen, just a quick reflection on the title alone of the second song off the second side will pretty much tell you all you need to know about 'Enter the Wu-Tang Clan-36 Chambers': ‘WuTang Clan Ain’t Nothing ta Fuck Wit.’ And that’s putting it mildly.

Ms. Billie Holiday is more than just 'in' satin; she’s 'of' satin, with it’s glossy, lustrous surface but underneath a dull back. These collection of songs are all about that dull back of romantic love, the losing of love, as well as the pain of unrequited love. “I’m a Fool to Want You’ – ‘to want a love that can’t be true.’ ‘You Don’t Know What Love Is’ – ‘until you’ve loved a love you’ve had to lose.’ ‘It’s Easy to Remember’ – ‘but so hard to forget.’ You get the picture. It’s not particularly pleasant. But, oh, Billie Holiday’s voice sure takes some of the sting out of the hurt. Backed by Ray Ellis’ tasteful conducting of Claus Ogerman’s arrangements, 'Lady In Satin' is all about Ms. Holiday’s extraordinarily unique timbre, in particular her sultry vibrato and distinctive pronunciation. For example, when she sings about how foolish it is to ‘seek a kiss not mine alone, to share a kiss the Devil has known,’ she delivers the simple word kiss in such a way as to give it depths of significance most other artists are not able to convey. It’s coming from a very deep place of its own, a painful place, somewhere embedded in the dull back, underneath all that silky front we enjoy. 'Lady In Satin' shares a dozen good songs that become even better under Ms. Holiday’s interpretation. Shame she never wrote any of her own. I can only imagine what fabric they would’ve worn- perhaps Chiffon, a sheer and plainwoven cloth made from a twisted yarn that gives it a slightly rough feel.

To describe Prince’s lyrics on the '1999' LP as innuendo would be an understatement. In your end, yo, is more his speed. I mean his pockets are ‘full of horses, Trojan…’ Careful, there’s a lion in there, too, ‘and baby he’s ready to roar.’ Prince is ‘Delirious’ from the need for sex- there must be ‘Something in the Water’- and he’s after anyone, ‘Lady Cab Driver’(s), doesn’t matter. On ‘Let’s Pretend We’re Married,’ either he either grew weary of all the allusions or just flat ran out of illustrations: ‘I sincerely want to fuck the taste out of your mouth!’ I think I’ll pass, having known people infected with COVID who lost their ability to taste for weeks. That said, I wonder if it would be possible to fuck just the taste of kale out of my mouth? I might be up for that. But I digress. On second thought, no, this actually is all pertinent, as a simple look at the number ‘One’ on the cover art will clearly reveal. Prince’s libido was green light go in 1982. Musically, all the synthesizers and drum machines take the listener right back to the early 1980s, a time period of pop music I unfortunately don’t particularly care for. The electro funk of ‘Something in the Water,’ despite some great vocals, did not compute with this listener. One of Prince’s most talented features, his guitar soloing, is mostly absent, either buried in the mix or over bridled (‘Free,’ ie); and, alas, that’s a horse that really should be set free to gallop. Finally, the new wave/funk/rockabilly hybrid on ‘Delirious’ is an example of flavors that just don’t go well together. Anchovies and orange marmalade in a taco shell. While I am a fan of Prince, generally, '1999' is a recording incompatible with the other tunes currently playing in my blue Toyota, which is for the best. Along with wild girls, Red Corvettes also tend to attract too much attention from Law Enforcement.

I dare you to suggest to Eminem- or more appropriately his evil alter ego, Slim Shady- to start practicing an attitude of gratitude each morning upon rising. You will no doubt end up in the trunk of his car coupled with his dead wife on the way to your final resting place at the bottom of the lake on the outskirts of town (as represented visually on the cover art.) Randomly, - The intermittent ‘skits’ are offensive, seemingly for offensiveness’ sake. It’s the catfish of humor, bottom feeding. - Most of the rest of the material seems to aim the offense at particular persons or events from Eminem’s past, including himself. In truth, this is the most self-loathing I’ve heard in a good long while, and is not inconsistent with many folks who suffer from childhood trauma, as many of his ‘songs’ recount. He was 26 years old when he recorded it. No one at 26 should be hating themselves this much. - However, whatever Eminem is (and is not) doing in these ‘songs’ he’s definitely not glorifying a life gone wrong/bad. His choice of the ‘devil’ character to producer Dr. Dre’s ‘angel’ on ‘Guilty Conscience’ is interesting to ponder in light of his apparent self-hatred. ‘My Name Is’ and ‘Role Model’ also speak to this. And ‘’97 Bonnie & Clyde’ (cover art) is just a truly horrifying tale, hair standing up on the back of your neck stuff. - I was trying to think of the best description of these ‘songs’ and the word that kept popping in my head was ‘sarcasm.’ But sarcasm is the use of irony to mock or convey contempt. Eminem/Slim Shady disregards irony altogether to instead, just matter of fact-ly mock and convey contempt. I’m not sure what literary label should be given to ‘Cum On Everybody’ but sarcasm it ain’t. - I couldn’t help but question throughout 'The Slim Shady LP,' what’s the purpose? Eminem claims that its just horror for entertainment, much like the horror genre in cinema. But classic horror movies are almost always speaking to much larger cultural issues underneath the surface plot, so It’s hard not to imagine that 'The Slim Shady LP' might also be serving in this way. Maybe simply catharsis on a more personal level? One of the many things that helps lift an LP above the average are the emotions it elicits among its listeners. Say what you want about Eminem, but persons sure do react to his work, and not all negatively. And they’re not all disturbed and dangerous. Agreed, 'The Slim Shady LP' is not for everyone, and its not for me. (While I’m a fan, this is still early in his career and is not his best work by a long shot.) Still, though, it is art. And Eminem is a very good artist. Provocative, absolutely. Evocative? Perhaps to some. There is more than enough hatred for everyone here. And I’m willing to bet good money that you will hear something along the way that will finally get to you. In fact, that would make for a great discussion question among reviewers: what lyric on 'The Slim Shady LP' was the one that finally made you wince? Bring a sweater to this listen. Shade will fall.

And, isn't that what we really want whenever that special person is around, to feel the earth move under our feet and the sky tumblin’ down, and our hearts start to trembling? It’s a joyful opener that grabs the listener by the hand for a spin around the room, only to then take an immediate U turn with the next two mournful but thoughtful numbers, ‘So Far Away’ and ‘It’s Too Late.’ In addition to sounding pure Southern California circa 1971- Curtis Amy’s fluttering flute, Charlie Larkey’s melodic and tasteful bass accompaniment, and Danny ‘Kootch’ Kortchmar easing into soft blues guitar solos throughout- the tapestry of moods on 'Tapestry' is also very 1971 America, revealing her bruised optimism and hope’s endurance beginning to falter. There’s a lot of blues and soul on this album, but different than the African American blues of the south, the soul of Motown. Carole’s is softer, along with her tender piano playing and rich, soothing voice. It doesn’t hurt, either, to have the assistance of the likes of James Taylor and Julia Tillman on harmonies. And may I suggest that it’s a pretty ballsy (or the female equivalent, ovarysy) move to end your LP with a cover of Aretha Franklin’s ‘Natural Woman.’ But, again, Carole puts her own soft spin on it, not competing with the Queen of Soul, but instead making it her own. Kind of a coffee house Aretha. Lyrically, in songs like ‘Home Again’ and ‘You’ve Got a Friend,’ gifts like love and family, care and healing are honored and celebrated. The tapestry image was very popular in 1971, and no doubt overdone, but what I like about Carole’s usage is that rather than degenerating into clichéd homiletics, it goes an entirely different route, gradually blooming into a fairy tale. And ending mysteriously with the appearance of ‘A figure grey and ghostly beneath a flowing beard. In times of deepest darkness, I’ve seen him dressed in black. Now my tapestry’s unravelling, and he’s come to take me back.’ Lots and lots to ponder here with an open imagination. 'Tapestry' always takes me back to my childhood- I was 12 years old in the summer of 1971- and beginning to feel ever so unsettled by my own innocence slipping away with the onset of puberty. (How may I possibly convey to a generation with access to internet porn about how liberatingly sensual this cover photo was to a pre-teen in 1971?) America was struggling with the loss of its own innocence as well, and this LP never fails to raise both joyful and sorrowful memories from that season. But the healing beauty of Carole King’s performance still offers a soothing balm.

Welcome to Black Floyd, the group formed following the dismissal of founding member Syd Barrett, and replaced by Michael Kiwanuka. Oh, and that other guy, David something or other, starts with a G, I think. Everything I love about 60-70s Pink Floyd is offered on 'Kiwanuka': heavily (and I do mean heavily) distorted acid rock guitar riffs (complete with wah wah), jazzy relaxed drums and bass, luscious synth aural baths. Several of the songs also featured some simply inspired orchestral arrangements, even adding a pinch of that same middle eastern string sound the Beatles so often used during the Sgt Peppers and Magical Mystery Tour period. This was an album carefully crafted with the intention of being played in its entirety. Individually, the songs themselves take their time developing, giving the feel of taking a stroll with the band, meandering musically. Indeed, several of these songs could have continued to play on. I was disappointed when they began to fade. And I honestly found myself proclaiming the next song better than the one before it, until arriving at the end and wondering how it could possibly get any better… and then it did. ‘Light’ is just incredible, in every conceivable way. And holding it all together, Michael Kiwanuka’s confident, and natural vocals, never forced, with a splash of African/Jamaican dialect? They ring true and clear, as do the thoughtful lyrics- lots of loneliness and longing, the struggle to retain one’s pride, and yet not asking for pity, only love. ‘Ive Been Dazed’ surprisingly turned into a gospel number, with the Lord saying ‘Time is a healer.’ The same lyric, incidentally, Kiwanuka had already used in the first song, ‘You Ain’t the Problem.’ And that hope seems to elevate the entire sound of the LP. 'Kiwanuka' certainly hovers above the common ground a few feet. I enjoyed 'Kiwanuka' thoroughly, will listen to it again. Released only in 2019, this bodes well for the future of good rock and soul music.

It’s hard to be a Radiohead fan. Their LPs, often their individual songs, are tests of emotional endurance. 'OK Computer' is the sound of desperation, pure and simple. ‘No alarms and no surprises. (Get me out of here,)’ sings Thom Yorke, and his delivery puts him in that rare breed of vocalists who can take an otherwise sunny melody (‘No Surprises’) and sing it into a gathering of dark storm clouds. Likewise, his ultra-personal imaginative take on William Shakespeare's 'Romeo and Juliet'-‘Exit Music (For a Film)’- is performed with exquisite passion, but is also crushingly gloomy. He’s none to gentle on others, either. From ‘Paranoid Android’: ‘When I am king you will be first against the wall with your opinion which is of no consequence… at… all.’ ‘The Tourist’ is about the closet thing you’re going to find on 'OK Computer' to an inspiring, positive song, and even then, the most uplifting lyric in it is: ‘Idiot, slow down!’ Meanwhile, the other members of Radiohead do their part in offering musical expression to these anxious lyrics, as do the recording engineers. In fact, the whole thing is purposefully recorded and mixed as if the volume levels were pushing their limits. It has a distorted, ‘crashy’ kind of sound that tends to wear on the listener’s patience. I felt somewhat unsettled throughout the entire LP. On a good note, there’s a lot of musical honoring of classic rock artists sprinkled all over 'OK Computer,' like the Beatles ‘Sexy Sadie’-inspired piano part on ‘Karma Police.’ And if you’re a fan of progressive rock, in particular, Radiohead’ll give you enough time signature changes and dynamics and such to hold your interest. Talented and creative players, they can get too busy, as on ‘Electioneering.’ Ending the LP with the much slower ‘The Tourist’ in contrast to all that had gone on before was a bold, but successful idea. In the end, I appreciated more than enjoyed 'OK Computer.' This LP requires a large measure of emotional wellness before listening. It ain’t ‘OK Pollyanna,’ not by a long shot.

Among the religious traditions of India, Asia, and Africa, certain deities are sometimes invoked for the purpose of destruction. They are portrayed in iconography as real bad asses, physically imposing, fiercely armed. But their purposes are not considered evil. Rather, the destruction they practice is actually designed for the elimination of things that are an impediment to one’s ability to be fully self-realized- the destroying of unhealthy behaviors and attitudes, everything from a bad cigarette addiction to a bad temper. Public Enemy is a band of destruction, with their sights on unjust systems and a biased status quo that present major obstacles to the realization of a more fully developed human consciousness. So, yeah, they’re unapologetically aggressive, and not especially interested in necessarily being your friend. (That said, P.E. should be commended for its consistent respect of black women, and criticism of the misogyny that exists among the male members of the black community.) Given all this, is it any surprise that the general lyrical content of 'Fear Of A Black Planet' is received fearfully among whites? ‘Elvis was a hero to most but he never meant shit to me, you see, straight up racist that sucker was, simple and plain. Motherfuck him and John Wayne.’ Whoa, who shines whiter among whites than Elvis Presley and John Motherfuckin’ Wayne? Follow up lyric: ‘I’m Black and I’m proud. I’m ready and hyped plus I’m amped. Most of my heroes don’t appear on no stamps. Sample a look back you look and find nothing but rednecks or 400 years if you check.’ – ‘Fight the Power.’ Invoking destructive powers, though, can be dangerous business because of the risk of throwing the baby out with the bathwater, as in P.E.’s unfortunate running feud with Jews witnessed on ‘Welcome to the Terrordome.’ But this LP is so aggressive, so offensive (I mean that in the sense of advancing, not insulting) that there’s bound to be some ricocheted verbal ammunition. And Chuck D is the voice for these lyrics with his commanding and passionate baritone, ringing out like a hammer on anvil, hard and loud and proud. Along with Terminator X’s infectious scratching, and the Bomb Squad’s always lively producing, 'Fear Of A Black Planet' comes, literally, with lots of bells and whistles… and sirens and gunshots. It’s fast paced and busy, instrumentally and verbally, with multi-layers of samples. This’ll raise your blood pressure, whatever race. I say all this as a long-time fan of P.E, and this LP being one of my two favorites from their body of work. Sure, they come with conditions, and some I don’t particularly espouse myself of a troublesome theological and ethical nature. The listener will do well, though, to acknowledge that while both John Wayne and especially Elvis are deified among many American whites, they too come with their own moral shortcomings. This lyric from ‘Pollywanacraka’ is important to consider in an overall assessment of P.E.’s position: ‘The devil splits us in pairs and taught us white is good and black is bad, and black and white is still too bad.’ Remember to whom Chuck D is claiming ultimate allegiance- God, and not the devil. And as such, he’s promoting tolerance among both whites and blacks when it comes to interracial relationships. Thus, an interesting question posed to frightened whites on the title track, putting the ball in their court: ‘What’s wrong with some color in your family tree?’ ‘Now we are ready if you are ready,’ Chuck D challenges the African American community on the first song following the intro. ‘Brother’s gonna work it out.’ Sadly, over thirty years later, there is still much left targeted but untouched for demolition.

Nas’ general talents with the spoken word are definitely illmatic, featuring a solid and extensive command of vocabulary, layered rhythms and multisyllabic rhymes, illustrative scene setting, etc. The actual life those words are witnessing, though, is an illness. No fewer than half the songs celebrate the acquisition of money as a necessary component to happiness. More than half speak to a daily practice of self-medication. And practically all the songs feature some kind of gun violence, or the threat of, including murder. The ‘N.Y. State of Mind,’ for example, involves a watching of one’s ass at all times. ‘Life’s a Bitch,’ Nas claims, ‘and then you die, that’s why we get high. ‘Cause you never know when you’re gonna go.’ Nas’ letter to a prisoner on ‘One Love’? It sucks out here on the outside, too. 'Illmatic' is all about extoling the art of the street hustle, and there is a real possibility that had I grown up as a black kid in the late 20th century in the Queensbridge projects I’d be rapping these songs too. That is, if I weren’t incarcerated or shot dead in a drug deal. But my life has been significantly different from Nas’, with privileges and opportunities he could scarcely dream of. So, how do I review 'Illmatic'? I might as well be a vegan reviewing a steakhouse, or a blind person reviewing a movie. I understand and appreciate Nas’ talent as a rapper. But I do not understand (nor can I appreciate) the existence he raps about. Doesn’t mean that I’m not listening, though, and trying to learn.

I often check out the day-old pastry section of our grocery store for deals. As one might expect, it’s a hit and miss situation. I have walked away with some delectable goodies at rock bottom prices. However, the other day I purchased a package of cookies- soft style lemon, filled with blueberries- that turned out to be just average, maybe even a little below. But that’s the nature of the pastry seconds community. Some things work, others don’t. When they do, they’re delicious. When they don’t, well… Think of the songs on Simon & Garfunkel’s 'Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme' as items in the day-old pastry section (although most of this LP rightfully belongs in the main display case containing the fresh baked stuff). Certainly, the recipes looked pretty good on a couple of the numbers, but the actual taste fell a little flat: ‘The Big Bright Green Pleasure Machine’ with it’s tired 60’s critique of commercial television, and Simon’s tongue-in-cheek (I think?) mock Dylan on ‘A Simple Desultory Philippic.’ Thankfully, though, most of the LP is stocked with fresh out of the oven tollhouse cookies (complete with pecans), and even a big glass of ice cold milk. One cannot help but delight in the aroma of joyful innocence emanating from ‘The 59th Street Bridge Song.’ Same for tasting the more wistful (another predominate 60s emotion) flavor of songs like ‘Cloudy’ or ‘Homeward Bound.’ The best of the bunch, for me, were the Simon guitar accompaniments to Garfunkel’s lead vocals on, for example, ‘For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her.’ Paul Simon’s lyrics tend to overshadow his equally talented guitar playing, ‘Patterns’ and ‘The Dangling Conversation’ being two tasteful examples of subtle fills and an overall commanding technique. And Art Garfunkel’s baby skin soft, tender vocals on songs like ‘Scarborough Fair’ and ‘For Emily’ are about the stuff of dreams ‘pressed in organdy.’ About Simon’s lyrics- with a modicum of words, the scenes he sets on ‘A Poem on the Underground’ or ‘The Dangling Conversation’ is wonderful to behold. Furthermore, his meter and general word play throughout are like herbs enhancing an entree. He describes a relationship on ‘The Dangling Conversation’ thusly: ‘Like a poem poorly written we are us out of rhythm, couplets out of rhyme in syncopated time.’ The entire LP was carefully bookended by two songs, the final being the juxtaposition of the hopeful dream for the world in the birth of Jesus with the nightmare of the actual state of the world in 1966, in particular related to war. The opener, ‘Scarborough Fair’ is typically dismissed as a quaint nostalgic glimpse into the mid 60s, but a closer look at the lyrics Simon sings in contrast to the more familiar ones from Garfunkel reveals something different. (And, just a hint of a harpsichord accompaniment, in case you forgot what decade you were listening to.) I’m a big fan of Rosemary. I enjoy it in foods both savory or sweet. Sage and Thyme are great around Thanksgiving, important flavors, but they are best used judiciously and with restraint. Parsley, though, is mostly a throwaway, an afterthought, served as a garnish on a diner special-of-the-day plate back in the 60s. Thankfully, 'Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme' goes easy on the Parsley and heavy on the Rosemary.

The info on 'Back To Black' is that it’s Amy Winehouse’s second… and final album. The title says it all: Amy’s back to black (a variety of self-destructive behaviors) in reaction to the breakdown of all her dysfunctional intimate relationships- seemingly, her one and only theme. Amy wants to be more than ‘Just Friends.’ Her play at ‘Love Is a Losing Game.’ Once again, she’s ‘Wake Up Alone.’ Etc, etc. A pitiful two and a half of the eleven songs on this album worked for me. The sheer desolation conveyed and felt on the title track, for example, just bludgeons the shit out of any enjoyment one may have been expecting on this album. Worse still, the second track, ‘You Know I’m No Good,’ finds Amy the cheating culprit, but utterly absent of any remorse. And there was nothing about the song that made me feel remotely sorry for her. Rather, I extend my consolation to the recording crew for having to suffer through an average band that gets little chance to shine, and a group of background singers who, at times, come close to caterwauling. At best, they’re still off-key. Two bizzare 50’s sounding numbers: ‘Wake Up Alone,’ ala Fats Domino, but with an off-putting chord progression, and ‘Me & Mr Jones,’ recorded in such a way that it makes the listener feel as if they were drunk. Amy sure was, or on some kind of mood altering substance. Her vocals often come across as if she’s just getting by. Even the cover photo suggests her emotional weariness. All this, along with a curious deficit of melody, makes listening to this LP a bit of a chore. I found myself having to push through a few times, hoping for better songs ahead. About the two and a half I did like- ‘Rehab,’ the opener, is one of the catchiest yet saddest songs you’re likely to hear. Of course, the inspiration of Amy’s pain is the loss of a man. The real root, however, obvious to us, is the loss of Amy’s self-love. At any rate, Amy’s various responses are standard for addicts: denial, blame, stubborn pride. It’s a good song, still, in its own way. ‘Tears Dry on Their Own’ was the best of the bunch. Amy’s spirit is fully engaged on this one, and with a great melody, and a tasty arrangement. The whole band’s paying tribute to the classic Motown sound, and it’s jumpin’. Had the entire LP offered this, my rating would have risen considerably. And remarkably, Amy was actually touched by a moment of insight. I don’t recall hearing anything like this on her debut LP: ‘I should just be my own best friend. Not fuck myself in the head with stupid men.’ Yes, Amy, yes. There it was, sister, within your grasp. Had you only followed through on your own inner wisdom. The final song, ‘Addicted,’ left me 50/50. Silly lyrics, but to a swingin’ tune, highlighted with a terrific jazz flute. A strange pairing, those lyrics and this tune. And to close an album, too. Perhaps it offers a glimpse into the confused mind of an addict: Well, of course I don’t need rehab. What’s that? The final song on my new LP? Addicted. Songs as good as ‘Tears Dry on Their Own’ on an album as bad as 'Back To Black' leave me both a little sad but also kinda pissed off at what Amy Winehouse ultimately did with her talent; and, the sole, sorry reason why- areas with which I’m not entirely unfamiliar myself.

Imagine being the co-vocalist in a band with Rod Stewart. While Ronnie Lane is a great bass player, often underrated and overlooked among the other classic rock players, he’s not that great of a singer. Ringo Starr was generally allowed one song on each Beatles LP, and while he’s not that great of a singer either (especially in relation to the other lads in the band) at least he’s in on the joke, and certainly not taking himself very seriously. Everyone knows that Ringo knows that he cannot sing like Paul McCartney. More importantly, the ‘Ringo’ song never interrupts the movement of the whole LP. ‘With A Little Help From My Friends’ still sounds like the Beatles and Sgt Pepper’s. I wish I could say the same about Ronnie Lane’s singing on 'A Nod Is As Good As A Wink To A Blind Horse'- ‘You’re So Rude’ or the boogie-woogie ‘Last Order Please’ or even his best of his three, ‘Debris,’ set to the accompaniment of Allman Brothers sounding acoustic guitars. They’re not bad songs, just songs badly sung. Lane’s lead vocals are only average, and that’s being generous. The joy of a Ringo vocal is utterly absent from Lane’s repertoire. And allotting more than one song- a third of the album- does interrupt the movement of the whole. One listen to a Ronnie Lane lead vocal followed by a Rod Stewart will tell you all you need to know. Lane clearly needs to stick to bass duty, and singing back up only. Rod Stewart’s voice is just too unique, too good, the perfect rough and ready but at the same time melodic style befitting a swaggering early 70s British rock n’ roll/soul band. And the Faces do know how to put the roll in the rock on the Stewart numbers: the loose, ‘Miss Judy’s Farm’ or the Stones-like ‘Too Bad’ (actually, badly in need of a Mick Taylor lead guitar solo) or especially the rollicking ‘Stay With Me,’ this LP’s big hit. This is quintessential Faces. But, alas, this rock n’ roll train stopped in too many stations, even derailing on Chuck Berry’s ‘Memphis.’ I’m not generally a fan of a guitar played through a Leslie effect, not finding the sound particularly pleasant, no matter how well it’s played. This is not a knock on Ron Wood, who is more than competent on his guitar. He’s in his comfort zone all over this LP, opting for mostly rhythm, interspersed with lots of nice chops and hooks, rather than scorching, flashy leads, very similar to the technique of his good mate, Keith Richards. Oi, it’s good ol’ fashioned, down and dirty, early 70s pub and cock rock. Hoist a few pints along with this listen, maybe attend to the bathroom or have a smoke outside during the Lane numbers, and don’t take it too seriously. Save your intense listening for the next Stone’s album that followed, 'Exile On Main Street.'

48 minutes that mysteriously feels like 48 hours. 48 intense, stimulating, unsettling, glorious hours. OK, getting the obvious out of the way, yes, the recording is primitive and the instruments are often out of tune. And Maureen Tucker’s drumming on ‘Heroin’ is unlistenable. Unless it was some kind of artistic choice to, every so often, allow the beat just to randomly wander from the rest of the band? If so, avant garde genius. Who knows? This ain’t King Crimson, that’s all I’m saying. But neither are Neil Young or Bob Dylan (both of whom have, at times, intentionally left mistakes on recordings) going for the sparkling perfection of, say, Rascal Flats. The Velvet Underground’s sound does not require Steely Dan proficiency. This is street stickball, not Major League baseball. And sometimes, that’s where you want to play. Then again, play might not be the best word to use for this particular LP. No one’s better than The Velvet Underground at offering a sweet, simple, almost lullaby type tune set to sour, complicated, dark lyrics: ‘Sunday Morning,’ ‘Femme Fatale,’ ‘I’ll Be Your Mirror,’ all three songs featuring Nico on lead vocals. Nico is like escargot, an acquired taste you either love or hate, no in between. But the entrée to these appetizers are really the Lou Reed led numbers, even darker lyrics and set to darker tunes: ‘I’m Waiting for the Man,’ ‘The Black Angel’s Death Song,’ and especially, ‘Venus in Furs,’ a most unsettling song set to a mostly drone tune (a musical genre the Velvet Underground mine well and often), sustained by the shamanistic beat of Tucker’s tom and accentuated by the haunting middle-eastern moan of John Cale’s electric viola (which is also featured in the terrific free association exercise of ‘The Black Angel’s Death Song.’) ‘Venus in Furs’ is a heady experience, where five minutes casts a spell that seems to last for fifty, concluding in the chilling lyric: ‘Strike, dear mistress, and cure his heart.’ Lou Reed and company are not all doom and gloom, though. They enjoy a perdcic kicking up of their heels, too, as on the very Highway 61 Revisited sounding, ‘Run Run Run,’ or the uptempo pop of ‘There She Goes Again.’ I love Reed’s spontaneous joy and laughter at the end of ‘I’m Waiting for the Man,’ not to mention Sterling Morrison’s adventurous walking bass lines. And, believe it or not, some genuine gentleness and caring is expressed on the lovely and comforting ‘I’ll Be Your Mirror.’ So there are some characters and situations in the Velvet Underground’s world that lean more towards the velvet than the underground. Just not many. The song to end the LP, ‘European Son,’ was dedicated to Reed’s literary mentor, poet Delmore Schwartz, who died alone three months after the recording. The lyrics are sparse and bleak, but the extended musical jam is extraordinary, a precursor to the noise rock of groups like Sonic Youth. Each player is allowed to run free, yet together, and somewhere in the cooperatively created cacophony glory blooms. I was a little winded at the end of the near eight minute track. All this, and an Andy Warhol original on the cover? 'The Velvet Underground & Noco' is embarking upon a journey down a red velvet carpet into a dark cavern. Be prepared for any eventuality.

I came to the Sonic Youth party just a little late, and missed their first few LPs, including this one, the third in their catalogue, and the first to feature drummer Steve Shelley. His shuffle style is fundamentally important to the overall sound of the band, but on E.V.O.L. he’s still searching for his place. Likewise, the rest of the band have not yet completely found their signature sound yet either, making for a musically disappointing experience for this listener, an otherwise big fan. Melody isn’t at the top of Sonic Youth’s composition list to begin with, but I couldn’t locate a one in the bunch on this LP. I also found myself questioning the point of the ambience on ‘Secret Girl’ or ‘Death to Our Friends,’ as two examples. What significance does it play? How does it serve the song? Neither Thurston Moore of Kim Gordon’s vocals ever rose to the occasion, and Lee Ranaldo’s sole composition (usually one of the best on any of their LPs) was just ok as a spoken word performance, but I couldn’t discern a song amidst the din. Lastly, to include Mike Watt, the legendary Minutemen bassist, on two songs and not be able to even hear him kind of defeats the purpose of inviting him to play in the first place. This hurts me to write this review, because beginning with their very next LP and for the next three decades that followed, Sonic Youth put out some of the finest, most creative and enjoyable music around. Alas, I’m unable to give much E.V.O.L. for this one. Truer still, I couldn’t really find much to even E.K.I.L.

Maybe, face to face, the Kinks are really something to look at. Unfortunately, 'Face To Face' is nothing much to listen to. This might be the only time I can remember liking a single (‘Sunny Afternoon’) less after listening to the LP. I’ve never fancied the Kinks much, nor understood why they are so often exalted to the same stature as their British musical colleagues, namely, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and The Who. While Ray Davies does sing with conviction on 'Face To Face,' expressing cultural commentary with a lot of snippy humor, there’s not a lot else to his vocals or lyrics. Likewise, the band is competent, but nothing and no one really stands out, save Nicky Hopkins’ terrific keyboard work throughout. Only trouble is, he’s not even in the band! Apparently, the Kinks made a conscious move away from their former garage band rock n’ roll to more of a softer pop sound. Girl, they really got me before. But on 'Face To Face,' I just kept wanting to be released. Most of the LP is a critique on England’s class and socioeconomic issues in 1966, which works as a snippet of history, but not as an enjoyable or inspiriting musical experience. On second thought, it only partly works as a snippet of history, a contextual one as seen from the have-nots in the industrial part of the city scoffing at the general commercialism in Britain during the mid 60s… at least when they’re not coveting the haves’ stuff over on the wealthy and posh side.

When Raekwon and Ghost Face Killah conclude on this LP’s closer, ‘What do you believe in? heaven or hell? You don’t believe in heaven cause we’re living in hell,’ I believe it. 'Only Built 4 Cuban Linx' features heavenly talent traveling through hellish scenarios, the stuff of which this genre of rap is known for: violence (both on the street but also the lauding of gangsters and the martial arts), materialism, drug (soft and hard) and alcohol use. Words tumble out of the lyrically prolific Raekwon like a pair of dice tossed in desperate hope against an alley wall. Each song is a little vignette into the world in which he and his crew (an array of hip hop artists including several members of the Wu-Tang Clan, Nas, Blue Rasberry) live and move. I was surprised, pleasantly, at the minimalist background instruments and samples, often only a simple drum beat, one or few notes played repeatedly on the piano, and a simple synthesized string part. Some rap can get a little too busy, over produced. 'Only Built 4 Cuban Linx’s' space was much more Spartan in its delivery, or perhaps, more appropriately, Zen Buddhist (in the aesthetic sense rather than as a lifestyle.) From the git-go Raekwon is self-admittedly ‘Striving for Perfection,’ and claims he’s going to give this one last shot, and is encouraged by his crew to ‘Keep our heads up.’ ‘Let’s do it,’ Raekwon announces, with nothing left but conviction, confession, and talent, qualities the denizens of heaven share themselves. In addition to the circumstantial hell Raekwon finds himself in, might it be helpful for him (and us) to further consider just how much of that hell is self-imposed?

A mesmerizing blur, this lot. You know, I was fully prepared to not like this LP, but for the life of me I don’t know why. The only real thing I know about My Bloody Valentine is just their name and genre. I can’t imagine where I picked up the pessimistic attitude. But the opening song got my attention, and in a positive, albeit perplexing way. I certainly wasn’t expecting the sound of woozy synthesizers, liquid swirling around a sledgehammer of an electric drum beat. The instrumental equivalent to operating with a chain saw. All this and lyrics poetically describing the various feelings associated with sex. Although set to an odd tone, to say the least, it was curiously not uninviting. Indeed, by the second song, I was hooked. ‘Lose My Breath’ was a lovely acoustic oddity of a tune- perhaps visualized as dead roses in a vase- the chords just dissonant enough to be effective, and pleasantly disorienting, too, like the feeling of spinning around a merry go round a couple of times. ‘Cupid Come’ shows the band’s creative way of moving a song along with a more freely fluid structure than the strict meter of conventional pop. And, following the song’s allowance to meander a bit, they concluded with a terrific ‘noise’ outro. The fourth track, ’(When You Wake) You’re Still Sleeping,’ though, is when things really got interesting, at least for this listener. Both the instruments and vocals blended together to the extent of being almost indistinguishable. A regular mashed potato of a mix. After a couple of minutes, this blur of sound puts one in a near meditative state. I’ll have to experiment with different settings, volumes, and such. Definitely a listen on headphones. The sixth track, ‘All I Need,’ took this mud to an even deeper place. The lyrics are of virtually no consequence, seeming only to serve the greater overall atmospheric vibe designed to touch places other than the rational mind. Even the beat was buried so far underneath things as to be almost non-existent! The following track, ‘Feed Me with Your Kiss,’ found the instruments easier to differentiate, but only relative to the prior noise. It also came with (this is going to sound weird) pleasantly off-key vocals and a punk/metal kind of guitar riff to frame the whole thing. ‘Several Girls Galore’ featured the first truly dissonant slide guitar solo I think I’ve ever heard, as well as another guitar strummed in an entirely different key than the slide; but, I liked it. The second to last number, ‘Nothing Much to Lose,’ offered a periodic and unusual 6/8 pairing with most of the song’s 4/4 time signature. Odd, for sure, but again, good. Finally, 'Isn’t Anything' closes with a relaxed ‘I Can See It (But I Cant’ Feel It)’ with an extended catchy chorus of ‘ooo-oos’ sung in harmony. Referred to as Shoegaze, lo-fi, dream pop, I feel obliged to add a new category: spectral rock (and, there is definitely enough rock to lift My Bloody Valentine out of the pop category.) After all, a ghost often seemingly appears as 'Isn’t Anything.' But there is most certainly something there, regardless, for those properly attuned.

I love strong, bold roasted, black coffee, in all of its various applications: in a pint of stout, for example, or a crust application on a steak, or most definitely in the Italian dessert, Tiramisu, with its foundation of coffee-soaked ladyfingers upon which to build the layers of sweetened mascarpone cheese and cocoa. Think of each of the songs on 'Snivilisation' as laying a foundation- sometimes beginning with synthesized percussion, other times with, say, the alternating use of two synth bass parts to set the beat before the electronic percussion jumps in (‘Science Friction’); once, even, on ‘Kein Trink Wasser,’ a full three minutes of simple piano chords rapidly played- upon which layers and textures are then laid, musically constructed. There’s an awful lot of creative playfulness that went into this recording. The opening song, ‘Forever,’ was led by a spritely cymbal tapping beat to which lush synthesized string chords were added, eventually settling into a nice groove, until a surprisingly catchy bridge just slithered into the song like a snake and lingered for a while, longer than most bridges, almost like a wholly other song. ‘I Wish I Had Duck Feet,’ is as good an example as any of Orbital’s flawless skill in syncopation, with a kind of a latino flavored bit of electronica. Imagine Kraftwerk covering Santana. Keys that seem to be letting off sparks are played over a crazy chord progression on ‘Philosophy by Numbers.’ A clever synthesized xylophone arrangement is featured on ‘Science Friction.’ And Allison Goldfrapp’s periodic non lyrical vocals were a welcome intrusion, all caramel sweet and rich, with just a hint of B’jork. I’m not sure if ‘Quality Seconds’ and it’s techno-meets-thrash metal fits on this particular LP, but at a minute and a half it was quickly forgotten during the next fifteen plus of ‘Are We Here?’ I really like the Ambient genre of music, and while I favor the more a piacere compositions, I’m also finding that I enjoy some of the techno-ambient stuff out there, like this LP. Scratching my head over the title, though. It’s not spelled ‘snivel,’ so we’re not talking crying eyes and runny noses. The only information I could find was that the numerical value of Sinvil (whatever that is?) in Pythagorean Numerology is 4. And the letters ‘D,’ ‘M’ and ‘V’ all carry that same value. Some subtle reference to (and perhaps ranking of?) the cultural anthropology of the Department of Motor Vehicles? (Look at the cover art before entirely dismissing this ridiculous theory.)

I like stouts, and a while back I drank one with a uniquely Mexican take, flavors of chocolate and cinnamon, and then the bite of some jalapeno heat. It’s one of the best stouts I’ve ever had. Likewise, on 'Wild Is The Wind,' Nina Simone brings the rich smoothness of chocolate, the spice of cinnamon, and definitely the passionate pepper heat to create her own intoxicating brew; and, it’s heady stuff. I was emotionally worn out by the end of the fourth song, ‘Lilac Wine,’ a particularly soulful rendering, sung with incredible heart, and an ending I can best describe as true. Ms. Simone’s powerful vibrato heralds her passion, her vocals at times sheer power, but also showing great restraint when the mood is required. The way she relaxes into each word, often patiently drawing out syllables, allows time for the listener to really let the lyrics settle in. The total length of the LP is under 40 minutes. It felt longer, and in a good, satisfying way. The variety on Wild Is The Wind is pretty amazing. I counted no less than seven genres of music, including R&B/Soul, rock n’ roll, blues, jazz, pop (the first four songs), folk, and believe it or not, to close the LP, doo-wop! Shoot, Nina could probably take on country and make it her bitch, too, if she wanted. Apparently, she desired only minimal accompaniment, and it works, revealing a very intimate and honest look into the emotions of her heart and mind. That said, the musicians who do accompany her from the tasteful stand up jazz bass on ‘That’s All I Ask’ to the controlled gallop of the drummer on ‘Break Down and Let It All Out,’ are all terrific. Including, of course, Nina’s own heartfelt piano playing. Her accompaniment on ‘If I Should Lose You’ is simply lovely. 'Wild Is The Wind' definitely brings the feel of 1966. The overall sound’ll take you right back there before the opener, ‘I Love Your Lovin’ Ways,’ finishes it’s first verse. As for Nina Simone and her piano? Well, that’s a little harder to pin down to any one time or place, much like a wild wind itself.