On Saturday — the second of the festival’s three nights — I took in two shows of note. I had tentative plans to check out some other sets, but these two were so compelling, I stayed for the entirety of the performances.
Music fans of a certain age – and perhaps other, younger ones – will recall the left-field Top 40 hit of 1980, Gary Numan’s “Cars.” With its gurgling and keening synths, its stiff beat, and its cold, dispassionate lead vocal, the tune (from his second LP, 1979′s The Pleasure Principle) was quite unlike most of what was played on pop radio, then as now. And while Numan had a back catalog even at that point (as member of the even lesser-known Tubeway Army), the unlikely success of “Cars” would yield the dubious dividend of labeling Numan as that most dreaded of all things, the one-hit wonder.
Clearly Numan himself never got a memo to that effect. Likely he never had major commercial breakthroughs as part of his plan anyway; his musical approach was too unique for such a thing. Instead, he soldiered on, and unlike other lesser-talented denizens of the new wave era, he never went away. Between 1980 and 2013, he’s released no fewer than thirty(!) albums.
And while – as is to be expected with a catalog so deep – those albums vary in quality, and none were major chart smashes, Numan has charted his singular musical path, proving that while “Cars” may have been a fluke, he’s no such thing.
Numan’s latest album is 2013′s Splinter (Songs From a Broken Mind), and it’s among his finest efforts. While detractors in the old days compared him to “Heroes”-era David Bowie, Gary Numan has never been about aping the style of others. And to those unfamiliar with his oeuvre, those who might have expected him to glide onto a stage filled with synthesizers and drum machines, Numan provided a welcome shock to the system.
Ably backed by a standard – yet industrial(!) strength – rock lineup (two guitars, bass, drums, and two keyboardists), Numan held the audience at Asheville’s Civic Center transfixed. Rocking much harder than anyone could have expected, he moved about the stage ominously yet without artifice; though he occasionally played bits of keyboard (and did a thing or two with an electric guitar), his role was largely to sing the songs and draw all of the attention. This he did well, performing several songs from the new album, plus a scattering of older material, stylistically updated just enough to blow away any nostalgia.
That said, the room came even more alive when the band launched into “Cars.” A group of concertgoers dressed as garden gnomes initiated a conga line through the crowd; their internally-lit pointy caps danced through the packed floor. This was perhaps the only time during which Numan and band commanded less than full attention, and they seemed pleased enough to continue.
Numan didn’t speak to the audience once during his set, preferring to let his music be the medium, and after a quick bow and wave he was gone. But those who witnessed the set – a rarity in the southeastern USA – won’t soon forget it.
Godspeed You! Black Emperor
If Gary Numan wasn’t thrillingly downbeat enough for you, all you needed to do was stick around while the stage crews set up for the next act. Unlike nearly anything else in rock – and they’re not really rock at all, come to think of it – Canadian collective Godspeed You! Black Emperor can best be described as detached.
It’s not fair to judge them by the standards generally applied to rock acts; they don’t speak to the audience. There weren’t even microphones placed onstage in case one of the nine or so players wished to toss out a spontaneous “Hello, Asheville!” But then that wasn’t likely to have happened anyway. With a semicircle configuration of amplifiers – lots of ‘em – and chairs and stools for the players, it was clear from the outset that this would not be a set filled with visual pyrotechnics from the musicians.
No, as they began their set – initially just a violinist and upright bassist – their slowly-building compositions groaned into being, like an ocean liner being launched into the sea for its maiden voyage. The men and women of GY!BE use volume and dynamics as their tools rather than beat and melody. You won’t come away from a GY!BE show humming their tunes, nor is that the band’s goal. Instead they conjure a set of emotions (perhaps unique to each audience member) that includes horror, dread, joy, exhilaration.
Some players were seated on the floor, working pedals. Some were in chairs. They occasionally seemed to communicate among themselves via nods (or rare whispers) but for the most part, they wordlessly delivered their compositions, shrouded in darkness. Above them, a large screen depicted strange, disorienting and lo-fi images, but these were clearly carefully chosen to match the sounds that GY!BE were making onstage.
When they finished, they left the stage as they had entered it – one by one – and left their instruments droning and groaning behind them. As modern chamber music with more than a hint of influence from no-wave composer Glenn Branca, it was thrilling in its own way, and the audience’s reaction was appreciative yet muted. Anything else would have been incongruous.
When endeavoring to judge the merits of a soundtrack album, there’s always the quandary of what measure to use. Should one judge it on the merits, strictly as a thematic collection of songs? Or measure it as an audio companion to the film?
With regard to CBGB: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack, I’m going with the former. There are two reasons for this. The first is practical: I haven’t seen the film yet (it premieres in New York City tonight). The second is more subjective: I like the disc a lot, but suspect it works far better viewed as a collection than as an adjunct to the film.
Twenty songs on a single disc means that CBGB gives good value for the money. And the selections are – almost without fail – uniformly excellent, both thematically and just-plain musically. Now, some of the artists on this set never got anywhere near the famed Bowery club, and if they did, it wouldn’t have been called CBGB then, anyway. Since the club opened in 1973, The Count Five (responsible ofr the classic nugget “Psychotic Reaction”), the (original) Stooges (1969′s sonic barbed wire of “I Wanna Be Your Dog”), and The Velvet Underground (“I Can’t Stand It”) all folded too soon to experience the glories of the club’s notoriously filthy restroom. But the aesthetic of all thee bands – in turns, garagepunkpsych, dark proto-alternarock and anarchic punk – is wholly in line with the outsider sensibilities the club engendered.
CBGB plays much like the various entries in Rhino’s 1990s DIY series, most notably Blank Generation: The New York Scene (1975-78). Surveying as it does a host of NYC bands (and/or bands associated with the city’s nascent punk/new wave scene), CBGB serves as a tidy sampler of the various styles of music showcased at the club. And drawing from the original versions means that listeners aren’t subject to something odd and potentially displeasing, like, say Stana Katic (who’s otherwise quite lovely) singing in Genya Ravan‘s stead. (Apologies to Val Kilmer).
There are, natually some serious omissions. No New York Dolls? How did that happen? (It’s probably own to licensing.) No Suicide? That one’s a little tougher to figure. And what exactly The Police (“Roxanne”) are doing here besides adding some non-punk hit value is also a tough question to answer (Joan Jett might have made a bit more sense).
But such arguments are mere quibbling. Taken as a bunch of songs, CBGB is a fun, nostalgic listen. No, MC5 don’t really fit in here – they rocked way too hard; only Dead Boys’ “Sonic Reducer” comes close to that level of intensity here – but there’s rarely a time when “Kick Out the Jams” isn’t welcome. Also welcome is Johnny Thunder and the Heartbreakers‘ reading of “California Sun,” one of the lesser-heard tracks on this set. At just a shade over an hour, you’ll likely be surprised how quickly it blows by.
A pair of modern-day tracks are admittedly relevant yet odd. The production values on a 2013 re-recording of Blondie‘s “Sunday Girl” feel a little too modern to fit seamlessly, though Debbie Harry‘s voice seems more intact that you might’ve guessed. And CBGB club owner Hilly Kristal gets the last word with a ditty called “Birds and the Bees,” recorded way back in…2005. As far as his singing and songwriting abilities, let’s just say that Kristal was an important club owner. On the upside, weighing Kristal’s presence reminds us that Joey Ramone (“I Get Knocked Down (But I’ll Get Back Up)”) was a better singer than he often got credit for.
With those DIY discs long out of print, CBGB: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack is a concise sampler of the late 70s NYC musical scene., and for that alone it’s worth picking up.
Doubtless you’ve heard the old saying, “If you remember the 60s, you weren’t there.” Well, for whatever reason – perhaps because it didn’t host the ascendancy of the baby boom during its decade – nobody says anything similar about the 1980s. I blame it on the fact that in the 60s, there were so many baby boomers that they (okay, we) were the majority in those days, so to some degree boomers got to write the history. By the 80s, the American population was starting to age, and the country was led (after a fashion) by an old, out-of-touch Hollywood actor whose idea of pop culture was Bob Hope and Yakov Smirnoff.
Anyway, plenty of influential pop culture stuff took place in the 80s. Some of it has worn well (though as I write this I’m hard-pressed to think of an example) and some of it – poofy hair, shoulder pads – not so much.
As far as music, “new wave” took hold over punk (which never really had a chance in the marketplace, and commercial success was antithetical to its very concept), and the Age of Synthesizers was upon us. True, synths had been around and in practical use for more than a decade, but the modular Moogs and ARPs were pretty well the domain of fusion acts and/or those with especially impressive chops or forward-looking technological approaches. Edgar Winter, Gary Wright, George Duke, Herbie Hancock, Jan Hammer, Keith Emerson…all artists most closely associated with the 1970s and the relatively bulky synthesizers of that decade.
But by the dawn of the 1980s, technology had developed to the point at which these machines were hacked down to a manageable size. Moreover, they were built using more stable circuitry, meaning that they did fancy things like stay in tune through a whole song. And with the advent of presets, a musician didn’t always have to have fifteen keyboards onstage; s/he could change the settings between numbers.
Some artists took full advantage of these innovations, and crafted music built around the synthetic textures. The best of these did something even more impressive: they introduced emotion and expression into the playing of these cold, unforgiving beasts; the results could be icily distant, melancholy, exciting, foreboding…the full range of human emotion could be expressed through them. If, that is, the artists had the capacity to write and arrange such music. But synths cut both ways: in the hands of lesser talents, the results could be bloodless, robotic. The ascendancy of the dreaded sequencer meant that a performer onstage could pre-program a melody, and when the song started, press a button and walk offstage (trust me: I did this in 1982).
Still, Gary Numan, The Human League, Depeche Mode…all of these and others were successful to varying measure at achieving the goal of bridging the gap between technology and emotion.
Like all trends, the Age of the Synthesizer gave way to other fashions, but as a component of rock and pop, the synthesizer never went away. Sampled sounds meant that now keyboard players could reproduce the sounds of other instruments onstage: now complicated arrangements that were previously studio-only could be played live. Yet as sampling took hold, the more “synthy” sounds fell out of favor; when they were sparingly used, it was often as a cursory nod to the past.
Which – with a few leaps convenient to this narrative – brings us to 2013. Superhumanoids are decidedly not old enough to remember the 80s, except perhaps as youngsters. The Los Angeles based group combines an unabashed fondness for those early-to-mid 80s synth tones with a focus on trance-y, dance-y pop. They combine the best of those two styles into something that’s clearly indebted to the past, yet firmly footed in the present.
Now, finding out much about this trio (plus a live drummer onstage) requires a measure of effort; their web site tells you nothing about them other than offering tour dates, video clips and links to Facebook, Twitter, Soundcloud and such. Their Facebook page only tells you their first names. The point, I think, is to let the music do the talking. Onstage Max St. John handles keyboards, Cameron Parkins plays electric guitar, and Sarah Chernoff takes most of the lead vocals plus more synthesizers. Occasional lead vocalist (and frequent harmony vocalist) Parkins cuts an unlikely figure for a band so steeped in 80s synth culture; his close-cropped hair and longish beard give him a look more common to current indie and/or Americana bands. But his Fender Telecaster (with whammy) and arsenal of pedals plant him firmly in rock territory. That said, Parkins’ guitar work is more often given to providing texture – something that the two synth players are simultaneously delivering in spades – rather than laying down blistering lead solos.
The sound coming form the trio-plus drummer (and said drummer adds a lot in the way of moving Superhumanoids away from the cold end of the 80s synth spectrum) feels more like one big electronic organism (so to speak) than a collective of musicians; thanks in part to the dark draperies hiding the keyboards (and the elevated stage) the audience at Asheville’s Orange Peel didn’t see anything along the lines of fleet-fingered keyboard soloing. Combined with Parson’s atmospheric approach, it was near impossible to tell who onstage was making what sound.
And, one suspects, that’s just how Superhumanoids like it. While they performed songs from their debut album Exhibitionists, they didn’t overtly interact with the audience in any over way, beyond a few pleasantries and heartfelt thanks. They were there to play their songs. Chernoff’s clear vocals were slightly lost among the high-volume bass bombs (for which she may or may not have been responsible; see above); listeners unfamiliar with the lyrics of ear candy like “Too Young For Love” would have to be content to enjoy her lead vocal as another textural element along with the even-more-80sish-than-usual 80s synth sounds. Whether or not the crowd was familiar with “So Strange” will remain unknown; what’s clear is that they dug its infectious, upbeat melody as delivered this night.
And the audience – in attendance to see the night’s headliner, the always reliable Mayer Hawthorne – reacted enthusiastically. Asheville audiences have a well-deserved reputation for giving love to opening acts, but the reaction this night went well beyond any polite applause. Should Superhumanoids follow up with another album and a headlining tour, they will likely be well received in Asheville.
Note: be sure to read all the way through; there’s a new Monochrome Set DVD reviewed as well.
The Monochrome Set were one of those bands who never broke stateside. Though they enjoyed critical and (limited) commercial success in their native England, in the USA they were all but unknown. With a sort that seemed like a cross between early XTC and The Jam with a cafe society vibe, in some ways they’re the musical missing link between Paul Weller‘s first group and his Style Council releases.
But of course Weller had nothing to do with the Monchrome Set. Led by the one-named Bid (on vocals and guitar) and ably backed by the cleverly-monickered Lester Square on lead guitar plus drummer J. D. Haney and bassist Jeremy Harrington (the latter was replaced in 1980 by Andrew Warren), the band played a unique set of songs (all composed by Bid solo or with various bandmates) that remain stylistically difficult topin down. There are hints of dub, ska, punk, new wave, no wave…you name it. Ansd Bid’s laid-back vocal style adds a romantic, devil-may-care air to all of the songs, regardless of the style in which they’re played.
Volume, Contrast, Brilliance…Sessions & Singles Vol. 1 (there would never be a second volume) collected odds and ends form the group’s heyday (1978 through 1981, with a few stray tracks from 1986). Originally issued in 1991 on Cherry Red, the album is now the latest in high-quality, vinyl-only releases form UK-based Optic Nerve. A splendid purple-blue vinyl LP encased in a sturdy sleeve, the reissue also includes a lovely three-color poster depicting the album’s cover art.
The album bookends many of the radio tracks with brief intros and radio interviews that show the band’s sense of humor (check out some of the song titles, such as “Silicon Carne”), and the fact that radio programmers often didn’t know what to make of them.
Perhaps the finest track on the set – both musically and lyrically – is “The Ruling Class,” from a Do It radio program session in 1981; here the band sound a bit like Jazz Butcher. “Viva Death Row” is oddly reminscent of Tav Falco’s Panther Burns at their most rickety, crossed with the danceable white funk of Gang of Four. Decidedly uncommercial-sounding, The Monochrome Set are nonetheless intriguing and often fun.
But wait, there’s more!
That a Monochrome Set live visual document should even exist is a surprise; even more so that said video captures the group in one of its few American performances. Dating from early in the band’s career, the newly-released M-80 DVDshows the original lineup onstage at a “new wave” music festival in Minneapolis MN. With only about a half dozen songs in common with Volume, Contrast, Brilliance, this DVD includes an enure 18-song set in pretty good audio quality.
That’s the good news, however. The images (which I’m pretty sure were originally shot on black-and-white video rather than film) look as if they were downloaded off of YouTube. Pixelated and blurry, the video is watchable, but not much more than that. And the band adopts a jaded attitude onstage: they play at top speed, but Bid and his mates affect a bored vibe throughout. The contrast between high-speed, off-key playing and monotone, off-key singing might have been tres cool in 1979, but watching it on this poor quality video, it’s none too exciting. In particular, Jeremy Harrington’s pulsing bass work is rendered flat here, though that may be down to the audio mix rather than his playing. Regardless, M-80‘s existence is more than justified by its rarity. Just know that you’ve been warned.
The music scene likes its labels, it it has always been thus. It’s the rare band that defies easy categorization and still enjoys some measure of commercial success; one has to play the game to win, so to speak. But one band that critics and others never really could pin down stylewise was Atlanta’s Swimming Pool Q’s. They hit the scene in the era of Athens/Atlanta scenesters R.E.M., Pylon, the B-52′s, the Swinging Richards, the (Georgia) Satellites, The Producers, The Coolies and other regional successes, but sounded resolutely unlike any of those other acts. With their two lead vocalists (guitarist Jeff Calder and Anne Richmond Boston), there were – though I only hear it now in retrospect – some sonic similarities to Jefferson Airplane/Starship, specifically when the two would sing together (Calder’s smooth yet husky pipes sound a tiny bit like Paul Kantner).
But if Anne Richmond Boston’s richly clear and distinctive voice invites comparison to anyone, it’s Christine McVie of Fleetwood Mac; both singers have voices that cut through their musical backing, but do so in a way that never slices, never leaves a scar.
All those comparisons aside, musically the Q’s had more in common with the intelligent end of the powerpop spectrum, though that comparison only works so far, too. The Swimming Pool Q’s really were an anomaly: clever, catchy songs with hooks, superb vocals and an overall sonic sheen that – while not really “new wave” in any real sense – appealed to those listeners attuned toward newer sounds.
The band never hit the national charts in any meaningful way, but in the wake of their 1981 indie release (on dB Recs) The Deep End, they were successful enough to get picked up by A&M (that label did its best to make forays into the “new rock” scene of the 80s, with mixed results). For that established national label, they cut two albums: the self-titled 1984 release and 1986′s Blue Tomorrow. Like so many other excellent bands of the era, they would return to smaller labels (in their case, back to dB) for subsequent releases, and though they have endured some personnel comings-and-goings, the group continues to this day.
The two A&M albums are now reissued as part of an impressive box set titled The A&M Years. With an additional 17-track disc of demos and rarities called Pow Wow Hour, the new set includes detailed liner notes as well. But it’s the music for which most will come to this set, and that music has stood the test of time quite well.
There are a few sonically dated flourishes on the pair of A&M albums: a gunshot-snare here, a now-dated synthesizer patch there, an occasional pig-squeal guitar line. But overall, the double-whammy of opening tracks “The Bells Ring” and “Pull Back My Spring” show why the Q’s deserved their major label shot.
“Purple Rivers” features an instrument that sounds like a hybrid of a synth and a mandolin, and Richmond’s soaring voice recalls Vicki Peterson of the Bangles. While the band was never part of any of the “paisley underground” revival or the harder-edged punk scene, modern-day listeners might hear similarities to Rain Parade (their instrumental approach) and X (the male-female vocal harmonies). The Swimming Pool Q’s could deftly weave in Southern touches (mandolin, even a splash of banjo) without sounding especially Southern. And skewed tracks like “She’s Bringing Down the Poison” showed that the band would bristle at pop convention, always staying ambitious enough to keep things interesting. The chiming guitars were often offset by spooky (but judiciously used, in this era of profligate overuse) synthesizer lines.
The cover photo and the opening synth patch of Blue Tomorrow might suggest to first-time listeners that the group had softened its approach. But Blue Tomorrow is every bit the stylistic equal of its predecessor (and perhaps even a notch better). “Now I’m Talkin’ Bout Now” takes its sweet time to unfold, but it’s worth the wait. The snaky surf-n-spy “She’s Lookin’ Real Good (When She’s Lookin’)” is the Swimming Pool Q’s hit that never was (but should have been). And “Pretty on the Inside” is a shimmering pop tune of the first order as well.
Elsewhere, the band show their mastery of styles on “Laredo Radio” (shades of TheBlasters) and the insistently rocking “More Than One Heaven.” The last of these features Boston harmonizing beautifully with herself while the band lays down ace backing. Only the drum sound pegs this otherwise timeless tune as mid-80s. A big guitar sound on “Corruption” evokes memories of Guadalcanal Diary, while Calder’s mannered vocal is redolent of Wall of Voodoo‘s Stan Ridgway. And restrained-yet-expressive use of synthesizers leavens the Southern vibe of “Blue Tomorrow,” in which The Swimming Pool Q’s sound their most dB’s-like. Boston shows off her stunning vocal control and range on the lovely “A Dream in Grey,” the best Fleetwood Mac song the Mac never wrote. A remake of the band’s “Big Fat Tractor” sounds like a rocked-up B-52′s, with Boston doing her best Kate Pierson impression; yet the end result betters any thing the B-52′s ever did.
The bonus disc is full of ephemera and odds-and-sods, yet it holds up quite well as a pure listening experience. Alternate versions and demo run-throughs are alongside non-album tracks; the result is as close to a “legitimate” album as can be expected of a comp of this sort.
Taken as a whole, this package chronicling the major-label era of this under-appreciated band is well worth seeking out by anyone who appreciates the best of that era’s music.
Note: Growing up in Atlanta, I saw the band several times onstage. The photos shown here are from a 1982 gig they did opening for Split Enz on the latter’s Time + Tide tour.
In addition to their esteemed role as one of the go-to labels for new powerpop (and, I understand, alt.country), Kool Kat Musik has taken on an additional role: powerpop archivist. With their latest unearthing of the 1980 self-titled release from True Hearts, the label continues its fine work.
The songs on True Hearts absolutely scream 1980, but there’s not a thing wrong with that. New wave was bubbling under, and the influence of The Producers, The Knack and other bands of that caliber were exerting their influence on countless local/regional bands, in a manner similar to (but on a much smaller scale than) the garage scene of the mid 1960s. Houston-based True Hearts were one of myriad tuneful rock bands plying their trade in those days, but their songwriting and arrangement styles took many of the right cues from some of the best that pop music had to offer at the time.
True Hearts were a four-piece, and their studio arrangements seemed – either by design or necessity (or perhaps both) to stick to a sound that could be recreated live onstage at the local bar. You won’t hear a surfeit of overdubs and/or production flourishes; while the production (ostensibly by the band; an engineer is credited, but not a producer per se) is clean and straightforward, it’s sharp and not at all demo-ey.
Most of the songs are built around the basic guitar-bass-drums arrangement, but occasionally the band takes a side trip down retro paths, as on “If I’m Late,” with its shades of ’67 Beatlesisms. The mercifully brief “A Girl in a Men’s Magazine” is borderline fey; it might have seemed adventurous in 1980, but it hasn’t worn well. But when the band sticks to is strong suit – four-on-the-floor, riffy rock, they fare much better. After awhile, songs like “Trust Me Candy” and “God’s Gift to Girls” begin to tumble into one another – True Hearts’ rocking songs aren’t a varied lot – but they’re fun while they’re playing, and might make the listener wish for a t-top Camaro in which to play the disc.
The brief liner notes don’t make clear which of the four takes most of the lead vocals (they all sing on the album), but what is clear is that he sounds uncannily similar to Graeme “Shirley” Strachan, lead singer for Australia’s Skyhooks (without the Aussie accent, of course). And while drummer Rick Holeman‘s incessant roto-tom fills start out as merely an amusingly dated characteristic, they soon become (though injudicious overuse) an annoying tic: did he have some sort of endorsement deal that required him to use the rotos on every song? But those are minor quibbles, and every era has its musical clichés (wah-wah pedals, the Patented Phil Collins Gated Reverb Drum Sound™, etc.) so they get a qualified pass here. Less forgivable are the tight-yet-somehow-flat backing harmony vocals on “Talkin’ Bout Girls.”
Bonus points to True Hearts for not taking the easy way out and tossing a ringer of a cover onto their album; nearly all of the songs are composed solely by the group’s multi-instrumentalist (and probable lead singer, now that I think about it) Terry Carolan. Perhaps the strongest cut on the album is also its speediest: “Sleep Tight” would have been the best contender for inclusion on a powerpop compilation of the era (as it happened, a song the liner notes describe as “the anthemic ‘Everyime’” did earn that honor, but it’s not included here). The liners also tell us that True Hearts’ total recorded legacy is seventeen songs; the eleven on this set represent the output of the original lineup.
Not deathless music, and somewhere short of essential, True Hearts remains worth hearing for fans of the 1980 brand of powerpop, and for anyone who wished Skyhooks made an album in which they dialed back their bent humor. And of course perversely misguided fans of those f&#@ing roto-toms will treasure this one forever.
Not that anyone asked, but we now have an answer to the musical question: what might a Public Image Ltd album sound like without the involvement of John Lydon? The new album Yin & Yang is credited to Jah Wobble and Keith Levene, two prime movers of PiL during its most creatively fruitful period. And not to take away from Lydon’s considerable (no, really) talents, but these guys are players: Wobble is a thunderous, dub-influenced bassist (and lyricist), and Levene is an imaginative guitarist. As the liners tell us, all basses and guitars on Yin & Yang are by the duo, otherwise assisted by a very short list of musicians; Wobble handled production, “editing” and mastering.
The songs are rooted in arresting riffs and hooks – often built around Wobble’s snaky bass lines, as on the instrumental “Strut” – and Levene’s varied guitar work conjures all sorts of textures out of his axes: jagged, atonal skronk, lovely acoustic picking, and sexy circular riffage…sometimes all in the same song.
Sometimes, Wobble declaims his lyrics like a street corner poet: this approach forms the centerpiece of the title track and “Jags & Staffs,” the latter featuring some noisy guitar and beats slowed to near the stopping point. Wobble’s bass lines on many of Yin & Yang‘s tracks will test your system to its limits; listening to this album on stock computer speakers is not recommended.
It wouldn’t be accurate to call this album punk, but it doesn’t easily allow classification into any other box, either. Dub-metal-trance, maybe? And then just when you think you’ve pegged the album’s style, “Mississippi” comes on: it’s nothing if not a pop song, sort of a Rolling Stones or T. Rex from another dimension, filtered through a cassette deck with serious oxidation problems. Its so catchy, it’s completely unnerving. Then there’s the matter of a ghostly, warped cover of The Beatles‘ “Within You Without You.” In the hands of Wobble and Levene, the George Harrison composition is transformed into some sort of dub extravaganza built around Revolver-esque bass lines and featuring some vaguely psychedelic guitar work from Levene. Key pieces of the song are broken down and reassembled, in a way that recalls the methods – if certainly not the sounds – of modern jazz.
The instrumental tracks on Yin & Yang are often built upon a hypnotic bass figure from Wobble, and some heavy-but-simple drum work, leaving plenty of space for Levene to layer his guitar work; this approach is the hallmark of “Back on the Block” and “Fluid,” though the latter features some atmospheric horn section (trumpet and flugelhorn) work as well. “Understand” sounds like it would have been the ideal place for Lydon to make a guest appearance; instead it’s one Nathan Maverick on vocals. The production style throughout is dry and intimate, suggesting that the duo could reproduce this stuff in a live setting quite well.
A strange and alluring “psychedelic dub” album, Yin & Yang shows that thirty-five years after they were half oft he team that made the postpunk classic Metal Box, Jah Wobble and Keith Levene have plenty of jagged ideas left in ‘em.
Here’s another installment in my occasional series of capsule reviews, this time covering new reissues and compilations. My self-imposed limit for this particular exercise is 150 words on each album.
Nektar – Man in the Moon / Evolution
Nektar is one of those mildly progressive yet accessible 70s bands that never broke through big time in the USA. Part of that might have been down to them being on smallish labels. Their best efforts are A Tab in the Ocean and Remember the Future (1974), though with some hiatuses, some version of the band has persisted to present day. Their 1980 album Man in the Moon doesn’t quite scale the heights of those two, but it’s quite good stuff and should appeal to fans of Alan Parsons Project and Camel. A new 2CD set includes that record plus a 2004 album, Evolution, which shows the band having maintained a remarkably consistent approach to sound and arrangement, though it leans a bit more (and pleasingly so) in an art/prog-rock direction. Guitarist and lead vocalist Roye Albritton is the songwriter, and the sonic glue that gives Nektar its characteristic sound.
Various Artists – Crime & Punishment: Bloody Ballads, Prison Moans & Chain Gang Blues
The folks at UK-based Fantastic Voyage have built themselves a well-earned reputation for thoughtful compilations. Sometimes they’re historical, label- or genre-based, and sometimes they’re thematic. Crime & Punishment is, of course, the last of these. Two CDs and 50 tracks of murder, mayhem and mama-they-done-sent-me-to-prison are what’s served up here. Music historian Kris Needs’ lengthy and solid essay connects all the tracks together, which is good, since few of these will be familiar to the casual listener. Most of the recordings date from the late 1920s through the late 50s. Some legendary names crop up: Paul Robeson, The Louvin Brothers, Blind Lemon Jefferson and Leadbelly are just a few. Yes, Billie Holiday‘s “Strange Fruit” is here; it’s an obvious if necessary choice. But few other ringers are in this fine compilation. Overall it’s a worthy addition to your library, if not the ideal soundtrack for canapes and light refreshments.
Grateful Dead – Dick’s Picks #30: Academy of Music, New York NY 3/25 and 28/72
I don’t have the will to rag on Grateful Dead live recordings any more, not like I used to. While I haven’t been completely won over by the World’s Most Recorded Band (nor do I claim to fully understand why every note they’ve ever played deserves enshrinement; it’s not as if they’re The Beatles), I will admit that their always ragged / sometimes right approach has its charms. As with any Dick’s Pick‘s set, the goal’s once again to provide as close as possible to a complete aural experience of a given night’s (or residency’s) performance. Across four CDs, the energy ebbs and flows, but the band’s in relatively fine vocal form, and on these dates they stick to playing actual songs as opposed to those interminable flights of not-so-fancy they like to call “Space” or “Jam.” That alone makes this one of the best Dick’s Picks yet.
Graham Parker & The Rumour – Live at Rockpalast 1978 + 1980
Once again the Germans have proven themselves to be among the globe’s best curators of important music. SWR recorded all manner of jazz greats in the 50s and preserved those live recordings in pristine quality for release in the 21st century, and those involved with the popular Rockpalast TV and radio shows of the 70s and 80s did the same for rock. One of the latest is a 2CD set from Parker and his band, at or near the top of their game. On these two dates they tear through a stunning list of songs that – in a just universe – would have been massive hits everywhere. The band plays with fire and tenacity, and Parker is the Parker you’d expect. If you know his work, you know what sort of music you’ll find here; it’s vastly superior to his official live album of the era, 1978′s The Parkerilla.
Jackie Gleason – Music for Lovers Only
People my age remember Jackie Gleason firstly as a popular entertainer who hosted a TV variety hour. One of the regular sketches on the broadcast-in-color Jackie Gleason Show was “The Honeymooners,” which – we’d later discover – had been a very popular standalone half-hour TV show “way back” in the black-and-white era. But Gleason was also a music enthusiast of sorts. His preferred style of music is what was (somewhat perversely, you may well think) called “easy listening.” It’s a term so overused as to be virtually meaningless: Booker T & the MGs had hits on the Easy Listening charts! Fans of syrupy music – the kind that played in era movies during the “sex” scene in which viewers were treated to a soft-focus shot of, say, a lamp – may enjoy this curious straight CD release of the staggeringly (and inexplicably?) popular 1955 monaural LP.