Archive for the ‘reissue’ Category

Boots by George Harrison, Hair by Robert Smith: The Posies Interview, Part Five

Friday, September 19th, 2014

Continued from Part Four…

Bill Kopp: For a lot of people, myself included, Dear 23 and/or Frosting on the Beater are cited as the best Posies work. With Amazing Disgrace, you went in a much harder rocking direction. There wasn’t really anything on Failure that sort of hinted at that sort of future. Was the change a sort of natural progression for you both, or was a conscious decision: “hey, let’s rock out on this one.”

Ken Stringfellow: It’s very easy to explain. When you listen to Failure, you’re listening to a duo who had never toured, never played in a club. We had played two acoustic shows. By the time of the release Dear 23, we had been playing as a local band quite a bit, but had done very minimal touring. But then we toured and toured and toured throughout the US. And then we played empty clubs for a year, and then we toured with The Replacements, which was obviously much better. And then after that we were a touring juggernaut. Venues were packed. And it upped the ante on our live show. The energy you have playing in clubs for four people night after night, I’m sad to say, is different than playing to 500 or 800 people who are really into it. We gained confidence, and we enjoyed playing intensely. And that resulted in a more rock kind of presentation.

Jon Auer: It wasn’t a conscious move, not at all. I wish I could say The Posies were calculated, but we really weren’t. When I look back at things, I see that we just went where the music took us. Every one of our records from that era is incredibly different. Amazing Disgrace is an eclectic bunch of songs, if you really listen to it. By the time we made that record, we were a little angrier. We had gone from youthful enthusiasm to early adulthood, a time when you’re figuring out how the world works for you.

Even from the time of Dear 23, if you had seen us onstage, we were a rock band from the get-go. By Frosting on the Beater, it became more about the visceral side of things; there was still craftsmanship, but it was more about the energy.

Bill: If you’ve got a rhythm section behind you, kicking your ass, then it’s going to rock harder…

Jon: And playing in front of people makes a difference. You can be precious about things in the studio, but I’ve found that doesn’t transfer live. I want energy when I see someone play live; otherwise, what’s the point? I can stay home and listen to the record.

Bill: The last Posies album was Blood/Candy, and that was four years ago…

Jon: It’s really cyclical with The Posies, because we both have a lot of things going on otherwise. It’s a long term relationship, so it’s good for us to be able to do all these other things. We’ve got these reissues happening, but we don’t want to just be pushing the old; we want to push the new, too. So while I can’t say when, I feel like it’s going to be sooner than later. I wouldn’t be surprised if you see something new [from The Posies]  in the next year…or two.

Jon and Ken also talked with me at some length about Big Star. We reflected on their experiences as young musicians discovering the band for the first time, and then upon later years as members of the re-formed lineup. I’ll share those in a feature that will be out later this year, around the time of the release of a Memphis Big Star concert. – bk

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Boots by George Harrison, Hair by Robert Smith: The Posies Interview, Part Four

Thursday, September 18th, 2014

Continued from Part Three

Bill Kopp: There’s a track of yours on Yellow Pills Volume 2, “Saying Sorry to Myself.” To my ears it has all the hallmarks of the first album. I like the way you take a bit of the lyric of “The Ballad of John and Yoko” and stand it on its head. Does the song date from the period around the making of Failure, or is a later recording?

Ken Stringfellow: It’s funny that you bring that song up. We haven’t played it in ten, fifteen years. I just had someone write me from Japan today, asking me if I had the lyrics to that song handy. I said no; I hadn’t even thought about it in fifteen years. By the time we got around to recording “Saying Sorry to Myself,” it was with a full band. It was done, I think, at Egg Studios, an eight-track studio that was owned by the owner of PopLlama.

Jon Auer: It’s interesting that you picked that song to mention. That’s one that kind of got thrown by the wayside. If you consider that it was an eighteen year old singing it, it does have the feeling of someone a little bit older. I’m glad that you appreciate that one.

Ken: That song followed on the heels of Failure, as our songwriting transitioned from the chirpy, bright- eyed, bushy-tailed thing that Failure is. Every line in “Saying Sorry to Myself” is clever wordplay. That clever thing was very appealing to us, because we were not grown up or experienced enough to put that much emotional depth into words. But things started to happen shortly after that; we matured, and some of the darkness that we knew from our young lives started to make its way into the lyrical content. The mood of things got a little deeper even by our next album.

Just as Failure came out, and we did find a bass player (Rick Roberts) and drummer (Mike Musburger), I moved into an apartment in the house that they were sharing. And a month later Mike moved out to his own apartment, and Jon moved in. We had a central room in that house to rehearse in. I dropped out of college and took a job that wasn’t too demanding so that I could have my living expenses covered. And that summer of 1988, we really got into writing a lot of songs. A lot of those songs were in the vein of “Saying Sorry to Myself.” And in that house we wrote a lot of songs that didn’t make it onto our 1990 album Dear 23. We were more dialed into things; three of the four of us worked in record stores, so we had access to a lot of things.

And in turning this chirpy, clever kind of melodic pop songwriting into something with more depth, it was at this time that we were introduced to the music of Big Star. And that was thanks to some of the more wise fellows who worked in those record stores. And that changed our songwriting: here was great, exuberant pop music with a lot more depth and wistfulness, a whole ‘nother emotional dimension. And it was made by people who were our age: when #1 Record came out, Alex Chilton was about 20. They set our bar to a whole different level.

The subsequent intertwining of The Posies and Big Star and REM is getting into the quantum physics field. It’s so odd that I went from such a distant observer of these bands to entering their lives.

Jon: I’m the guy who had to go through the archives for all these reissues that are coming out. After Failure, eventually Dear 23, Frosting on the Beater and Amazing Disgrace are all getting this reissue treatment from Omnivore Recordings. And I think that “Saying sorry to Myself” has definitely got to be a bonus track on the Dear 23 reissue. I had forgotten we had so much stuff; these reissues are not going to be like just repackaging. We’re going to have a hard time figuring out what not to put on these things.

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Boots by George Harrison, Hair by Robert Smith: The Posies Interview, Part Three

Wednesday, September 17th, 2014

Continued from Part Two

Ken Stringfellow: Listening to Failure, it would be hard to tell what we were listening to. Because the album has a very sixties vibe to it, kind of like if some sixties beat group moved to California. But I can give you a breakdown that will show you where some of these songs came from. I can tell you what I think they’re direct rip-offs of, and you’ll see through the sixties-ness of them to the original source.

“Under Easy” sounds a bit like The Byrds or something like that. But it really is [based on] a Bob Mould song. There’s so many Bob Mouldisms in the chord progression and melody; it’s just that the production fools you into thinking it’s sixties-based. We were absolutely obsessed with Hüsker Dü; they were heading into a more songwriter-y vibe; they had left the punk sound behind.

Jon Auer: Two bands that we absolutely worshiped were The Replacements and Hüsker Dü.

Ken: “At Least for Now” is maybe a little closer to its source. It’s a less agonized version of a Paul Westerberg song. Imagine it as a slightly more cheerful version of “Here Comes a Regular.” We were massive Replacements fans. And what was a nice turnaround is that when this record got released as an LP and started to get national airplay, it really became a favorite of Paul Westerberg’s. He took us on tour shortly thereafter.

“I May Hate You Sometimes” seems like it’s some sort of Beatles ’65 thing, but if you listen to the wordplay and the nonstop vocals, it’s a little bit of Elvis Costello. It’s a title that has so much irony in it that it’s not clever enough to be great irony.

Jon: You can certainly hear the influence of The Beatles, but any record made past a certain time has that influence on it. If you wanted to compare “I May Hate You Sometimes” with “The Word” from Rubber Soul, we copied the cowbell, the percussion track. It’s pretty much an homage; we just ripped ‘em off.

Ken: Of course we had the sixties music influence because of our parents and their record collections – those were the first records we were encountering – but at the time, we listened to a lot of the great, clever songwriters of the UK scene: Squeeze, XTC. In fact the drum intro in “Paint Me” is directly lifted from XTC’s “Ball and Chain.”

Jon: A band that cannot be underrated as an influence upon us at the time is XTC. So while we were into the sixties scene, we were influenced by artists who had been influenced by it as well. Skylarking is one of my favorite records; so much so that on our album Frosting on the Beater, we tried to sequence the songs in the same way that they did on Skylarking. I’m giving you way too much information; you get the gist.

Ken: “The Longest Line” is [based on] a Smiths song on Meat is Murder. And you can hear REM influence on “Believe in Something Other than Yourself,” even down to the chord progressions. It’s dangerously close to the chorus of “Radio Free Europe.” And there’s a thing in “What Little Remains” with a kind of reverb-y backing vocal; that’s directly ripped off from REM’s “Pilgrimage.”

I was really into the California punk scene with Black Flag and Dead Kennedys; and Blue Note Records stuff was a big influence on me…even though there’s no bebop on this album. We were into a little bit of everything. Being small town people as we were, in the pre-internet age, music listening was based on opportunity, on what things came your way. At this time, we were still learning. We weren’t old and experienced enough to have a body of work to synthesize into new things.

I love musical quotes; now I like to weave a musical pun into every album I make. But I vary it, and most people never discover them. At that time we were less subtle.

Bill Kopp: Your vocal harmonies have long been the main signature of The Posies. When you started out – and now, even – did you have to carefully work those individual parts out, or did they evolve naturally as you worked on the songs?

Jon: The singing is probably one of the most natural things about The Posies. This is going to sound horrible, but Ken and I were in the choir at our school. So even though we weren’t singing together in a band per se, we were learning about things like harmonies and counterpoint. To even further the geek ante here, we had extracurricular activities together that involved singing: we were in a thing called jazz choir. And to make us sound even geekier, we did that in the mornings before our first class. We didn’t wait until after school; no, we got up an hour earlier to go to this thing.

Bill: So I suppose whether it was conscious or not, there was a fair amount of musical theory underpinning your vocal arrangements on Failure

Jon: Well, again, I’m going to give credit to that early choir training. It certainly didn’t hurt.

Ken: The harmony vocal parts came very quickly, very easily. The chord progressions lend themselves very easily to being made with harmonies. That was always there with us; they were not labored over. There’s a lower second harmony in the verse of “Under Easy.” That just happened on the spot.

Jon: If people ask me what makes The Posies unique, I’d say its the harmonies. We did all of the vocals for the album in one weekend. Lead, harmony and backing vocals – all of them for that record – were done in a two-day period. All twelve songs.

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Boots by George Harrison, Hair by Robert Smith: The Posies Interview, Part Two

Tuesday, September 16th, 2014

Continued from Part One

Bill Kopp: I thought it was a nice bit of contextualization to include Veronika Kalmar‘s snarky and negative review in the liner notes of the Failure reissue. It might be tough for you to cast your minds back to that time, but how did you react when you first read it in that magazine?

Jon Auer: I have to be honest: I was really hurt when I read that review. As a naïve, music-loving innocent eighteen year old, I didn’t consider that people could try to do you harm publicly. It wasn’t just a bad review; it was a targeted piece. It really cut us down.

Reviews are ultimately opinions, but people read them, and when it’s put into the context of a magazine, it’s an important thing. Everybody’s got an opinion, but the don’t have a vehicle for it. Well, of course now they do; it’s called the internet. There’s another great quote – I’ll paraphrase it because I don’t have it handy – that suggested the magazine made a poor choice of reviewers. [the letter writer] likened it to having a skinhead cover an Al Green concert. I thought that was pretty great.

Ken Stringfellow: Well, something had to come up; things were just going too well for us. And the story didn’t really look believable. It really is unbelievable what happened to us. So it looked like there was some payola, or some weird anti-marketing going on. There must have been a master plan to make a band from Bellingham — a duo as unlikely as us – to suddenly be everywhere at once. It defied the laws of credibility. We were two cuts deep into Seattle commercial radio a hundred hours after releasing this homemade cassette; it just didn’t make any sense. And over the course of that summer, it grew so rapidly. If we did a free show where kids could attend, we’d have thousands of people showing up. And we could fill clubs by that summer.

Jon: We became vilified by a certain segment, but it worked in our favor in a way: we kept the letters section in the magazine alive for six months.

And, you know, Veronika apologized to me. She said she didn’t think the review was fair, though she didn’t think it was the greatest record. So there you go. Sometimes you have to wait awhile in life for things to reveal their true colors.

Bill: And in her note included in the liner notes for Failure‘s new reissue, she does refer to Dear 23 as “a masterpiece.”

Jon: But she still thinks the lyrics are too angst-ridden and teenager-y. And you know what? I’ve got to agree with her. Some of the lyrics are that way for me, too. But I was sixteen years old when I wrote half of those songs. We sort of incubated for a couple of years in Bellingham, writing songs until we had enough to make Failure.

Ken: We weren’t from the same music scene as the bands we’d come to know as the recognizable SubPop bands. They were all nascent at that point, just about to happen. Those guys were all just a few years older than us, so they had played in bars; they could hang out in bars! So they had that scene going; Seattle and its environs didn’t really have an all-ages scene. We weren’t old enough to hang out in bars, so nobody knew us. So, who were these dorky-looking dudes playing this dorky music, anyway? It took awhile. So I think Veronika’s reaction at the time was based on an assumption that there must be something un-DIY about us.

The music’s good, I think, but it seemed like more than it just being good: a whole bunch of dominoes fell at once.

Jon: We were hand-dubbing cassettes, and selling them out of our backpacks. We moved like 800 copies that way. That’s not insignificant without anybody helping you.

Bill: In hindsight, Failure is really pretty out of step with what people now think of as the Pacific Northwest scene of that era. What sort of music were you listening to in the period when you were writing the songs that ended up on that first album?

Jon: Oh, jeez. There were things we were listening to that might make you think Failure was the obvious result. But you’re talking about a couple of guys who listened to everything growing up, who went through every phase. We’re just fans of songs and good music. And that comes in any genre, any shape, size or form. At the time, that would have included anyone from Elvis Costello to The Beatles. Or Depeche Mode, as you can maybe see when you look at the picture on the back of the album. We went through a quasi-goth phase.

In fact, I’ll go off on a tangent here about that picture. It tells you a lot about us then. We were always doing our own thing, slightly out of step with whatever was happening at the moment. We had a complex mixture of elements.

Bill: I look at that picture and I think, “Boots by George Harrison, hair by Robert Smith.”

Jon: Y’know what? Please put that in your piece. Because it’s brilliant.

My first job was working in a record store. I had been one of those kids who went to the record store every day after school. So eventually they just gave me a job. And at the time I looked like I was probably in The Cure or some goth band. But I was into everything musically. I was there when the first CDs arrived in the store, the first ones ever. And you know, of course what some of the first CDs that came out were: reissues of the Beatles albums. It was a pivotal moment; it made those records ripe for rediscovery. I grew up with my parents’ Beatles records, but to get these digital versions and explore them, we started to do that.

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Boots by George Harrison, Hair by Robert Smith: The Posies Interview, Part One

Monday, September 15th, 2014

While grunge or alternative might be the first rock genres that spring to mind when one thinks of the 1990s, an unlikely group from the Pacific Northwest had already gained a foothold – both commercially and critically – with their brand of melodic guitar-based pop. The Posies – eventually a band, but originally just a duo featuring teenagers Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow – recorded and released their first album, 1988′s Failure – in what would come to be thought of as an early example of DIY success.

Failure would go on to be reissued by a proper label, and the group’s fame grew, thanks in part to their being championed by influential tastemakers who counted themselves as fans. But it has always been the music – and the pair’s trademark vocal harmonies – that have brought The Posies their well-deserved success. Failure has just now been reissued yet again, this time by Omnivore Recordings, who have appended eight bonus tracks to the CD, along with fascinating liner notes. In my conversation with Ken and Jon, I asked them about the development of that first album, and how it fit into the arc of their constantly evolving musical style. And I learned that the coming months will see a good bit of additional Posies (and related) material released on Omnivore.

Bill Kopp: You were both short of 20 years old when you recorded Failure. I really like the production style of the album: unadorned, gimmick-free, and always in service to the songs. When you cut the album, what kind of goals or aspirations did you have? Did you think you might make the big time, and if so what would “the big time” have been for you?

Ken Stringfellow: When we started recording Failure in 1987, I was 18 and Jon was 17. We had a very fortunate situation in that Jon and his dad had put together a small studio in their family home; that was an incredible gift. We had an eight-track analog tape machine. The production limitations are more or less based around track count. We recorded eight tracks of music, and then bounced that down to a cassette, believe it or not. And then we used those mixes from the cassette on two tracks, and did six tracks of vocals. That approach dictated how the record sounded.

As far as our aspirations, we really made this record as a demo. Basically, we couldn’t find anyone who wanted to play in a band with us.

Jon Auer: I probably wouldn’t have wanted to play with us, either!

Ken: We couldn’t really explain our concept: it was so gimmick-free that there really wasn’t an “elevator pitch.” Other than writing great songs, and what’s the elevator pitch for that? So we really just wanted to find people to form a full band with. The demo would show them our tunes so that they’d kind of get the idea.

As we realized this might actually be a record, our friends who heard it were feeding back to us that, hey, this is something very special, things happened very fast. We put it out as a DIY cassette, it got on commercial radio, we had offers for shows. Everything happened at once. In ten days we went from zero to being able to fill venues. It was insane, and we saw none of this coming. We were completely overwhelmed, as you could imagine.

We wanted to be part of this local label called PopLlama. They picked it up and reissued it on LP. We wanted to play this local festival called Bumbershoot, and we did. And all that was as far ahead as we had thought. We already had interest from some major labels, but we hadn’t even conceptualized something like that. We just got carried along in the slipstream for a couple of years.

Jon: The “big time” was never a consideration. We were just very much thinking of modest goals in the beginning. We hoped we’d get to open for a band we really admired, and still do: The Young Fresh Fellows.

What I liked about Failure is that it was made in a very pure environment. It had nothing to do with wanting to get noticed in a major way at all. It was something that we did because we wanted to do it. Maybe we weren’t very smart; maybe we should have considered other things – like the potential trajectory of our career – more [than we did]. But we were just having a good time. And we were lucky because I grew up in a home that had that small but powerful home studio.

And the realization of all of our eventual goals was something that happened naturally; it was never a case of us trying to force things.

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Album Review: The Small Faces — There Are But Four Small Faces

Friday, September 5th, 2014

History has a way of playing tricks on us. How many of us American fans of Beach Boys music remember that Pet Sounds was – upon its original release – considered something of a commercial failure? The album’s subsequent elevation into the Pantheon of great albums has caused us to forget that inconvenient bit of trivia.

So, too, do many of us – and I’m first thinking of myself here – fail to recall that as impressive a body of work as they created, The Small Faces were not hit makers on the US charts. Chalk it up to any of several factors: “they were too British” is a common explanation. They themselves in interviews have opined that their lack of touring stateside had a good deal to do with it.

No matter. The music they created is filled with charms. And with the benefit of hindsight and context, it’s very much of a piece with the best of the era’s rock, and doubtless influenced those other artists who did hear it.

The group’s 1967 album There Are But Four Small Faces may well be the group’s most accessible entry point for the uninitiated. The following year’s legendary Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake is arguably even better, yet at the same time more idiosyncratic, giving rise to those “too British” sentiments. But on There Are But Four Small Faces, the quartet’s brand of rhythm and blues-influencd rock meshes nicely with Summer of Love styles and sentiments. From the memorable “it’s all too beautiful” refrain of “Itchycoo Park” to Kenney Jones‘ phase-shifter-treated drum fills on the same tune, the album is that rarest of creatures: very much of its time, yet somehow timeless. The stomping r&b of “Talk to You” – featuring some lovely piano figures from Ian McLagan – is a near perfect balance of finely-tuned subtlety and uncompromising rock. Throughout the twelve-track album – now reissued on vinyl alongside a 2CD version that features stereo and (DJ promo) mono mixes and bonus tracks – the Small Faces assert their right to the label “best British band you’re least familiar with.”

“I’m Only Dreaming” utilizes gentle piano and vibes, and finds Steve Marriott leaning in a melodramatic crooner direction, but the song’s dynamics include plenty of space for the vocalist to belt it out as well; that shift in tone inside a song was a hallmark of the group, and served to showcase all of their strentghts within the confines of a three-minute (or so) pop tune. And echoes of that style can be heard in subsequent material from The Marmalade and Grapefruit, two of the many acts greatly influenced by The Small Faces. (The fact that you may well not have heard of those groups is yet further testament to The Small Faces limited chimerical reach in the 60s).

“I Feel Much Better” weds a twee “do waddy waddy / shang a lang” vocal chant to some thunderous bottom-end work from bassist Ronnie Lane; the group seemingly had an endless knack for melding the sweet and sour, the light and the heavy.

The albums’ song most well-known (to Americans) is “Tin Soldier.” McLagan’s memorable electric piano introduction, followed by an overdubbed organ, joined then by Marriott’s crunchy lead and the rest of the band: all these together would be enough to render the tune a stone classic. But it develops from there, showcasing the ace riffage and vocal-chord-shredding performance from Marriott and his band mates.

Perhaps it’s mild overstatement to compare a brief tune such as “Get Yourself Together” to the mini-operas Pete Townshend was writing – see: “A Quick One (While He’s Away)” – but the variety put into Small Faces tunes such as this often rivaled the intricacy of late 60s songs from The Who.

“Show Me the Way” (not the later Peter Frampton tune) is built around some very baroque harpsichord work from McLagan; it’s the most of-its-time sounding track on There Are But Four Small Faces, but it’s an understated gem nonetheless.

Owing to its clear drug-taking lyrical references, “Here Come the Nice” was a controversial tune in the UK. But that didn’t keep it from being a great tune. And “Green Circles” is reminiscent of some of the Yardbirds’ late-period pop experiments; again that combination of heavy rock and light-classic influenced pop is a winning recipe.

The album wraps with “(Tell Me) Have You Ever Seen Me,” ensuring that There Are But Four Small Faces is a no-filler album, itself a rarity in the mid 60s. The CD reissue version’s inclusion of the mono mixes – designed for maximum impact on AM radio – are enjoyable in their own way, but as the stereo album is relatively free of wide-panning stereo gimmickry, the two mixes are not a world away form one another. The CD set comes in a very nice hardbound book, plus a well-put-together booklet of photos and essays. But there’s something about the vinyl. Unlike me, you might not need both. But if you appreciate any of the best rock the mid 60s had to offer, you need at least one.

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Album Review: Wendy Carlos (and Journey) — TRON Original Motion Picture Soundtrack

Wednesday, September 3rd, 2014

The soundtrack of the 1982 motion picture TRON showcased the work of synthesist-composer Wendy Carlos in a more commercial context than was normally the case for her work. A new 2LP edition restores deleted material that wouldn’t fit on the original single-LP version.

After the brief “Creation of TRON,” which barely registers as tune, “Only Solutions” features – of all things – Journey, doing what soundtrack supervisor Michael Fremer characterizes as their best Police impersonation. (The Police were in fact Fremer’s first choice to provide the required pop track for the film.) Aside from gated reverb drums, it’s not a bad tune. Journey were near the apex of their commercial viability in ’82, and — consistent with the tenor of the times — the studio (Disney) threatened not to release a soundtrack album without a potential single.

Most of the remainder of the TRON soundtrack album is Carlos’ work. Perhaps surprisingly, the material is the opposite of what one might suspect: the orchestral parts – courtesy the London Philharmonic Orchestra – were cut first; only then did Carlos judiciously add her synthesizer parts to the score. The result is an album that’s richer – and far less dated – than synth-centric works tend to be.

Like any science fiction movie with dramatic content, parts of the TRON score recall Gustav Holst‘s “Mars, the Bringer of War” from The Planets. But Carlos does so in a way that’s not overstated; her synth parts on “Ring Game and Escape” put more sonic distance between her and Holst.

Clearly, the music was intended to convey and support the emotional themes displayed on celluloid: the workmanlike titles (“Love Theme,” “Ending Titles”) make that explicit. But the music stands well on its own. Carlos’ synthesizers do form the basis of a few tracks, most notably “TRON Scherzo.”

The Sweeping, magisterial “Miracle and Magician” wouldn’t be out of place in one of the Lord of the Rings films. And “Theme from TRON” has almost no synth, Carlos’ composition relying instead on the LSO for its delivery. “1990′s Theme” is Journey’s second and last appearance on the soundtrack. As an instrumental theme, it works well. But as the track is full of what now sound like 80s pop tropes, its whiny guitar effects and stiff drum tracks feel dated.

With heavenly choirs and orchestral arrangement, “Love Theme” seems a bit over the top; but probably fit perfectly with its film scene. If you were a kid when you saw TRON, this is probably the moment in the film when you got up and went for another bucket of popcorn.

“Tower Music – Let Us Pray” is the album’s most effective pairing of electronic and orchestral sounds; unless one listens very closely, it is difficult to discern which sounds are from which. And on a good stereo system, the lower register notes on “Sea of Simulation” will shake your home’s foundation.

“Ending Titles” brings things to a close with some sumptuous pipe organ work under the film’s closing credits; it’s a fitting end to an evocative score.

The new 2014 2LP version of the TRON soundtrack benefits from a remaster, and spreading music onto two discs allows a louder and clearer sound overall. About the only thing that could have been done to improve this vinyl reissue would have been to make one disc translucent red, the other blue. (Both records are blue on my review copy.)

The excellent liner notes (a Wendy Carlos-penned essay from the 2001 CD release, plus a 2014 essay from Fremer) help place this groundbreaking and forward-looking soundtrack album in its proper historical context.

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Album Review: Sade — Love is Stronger Than Pride

Tuesday, September 2nd, 2014

Love is Stronger Than Pride, the third album from Sade (the band named after lead vocalist Sade Adu) was a commercial juggernaut on its original 1988 release, yielding four hit singles in eight months, three of which made the US charts. With its recent reissue, now seems as good a time as any to review it with the hindsight of more than a quarter century(!)

Sade Adu could be considered an Astrud Gilberto for the late 1980s; though Sade’s music wasn’t categorized as jazz, it had an exotic, world-music vibe that was a key ingredient of its success. The soft and sultry voiced chanteuse crafted albums full of mellow, generally minimalistic instrumentation.

The title track opens the record in characteristic fashion, with guitar leads held until near the song’s end. The nearly cymbal-free percussion feels like hand drumming. “Paradise” moves in a more uptempo, dance-oriented direction, though – like most all Sade songs – it never finds its way into rock territory. The tune stakes out a hypnotic beat, while Adu’s overdubbed vocal harmonies are joined here and there by breathy backing vocals.

The sleek arrangement features lyrics that won’t be most people’s idea of groundbreaking poetry, but neither will they embarrass the group. Musically, it’s little more than a two chord jam that goes nowhere, but it doesn’t really need to. It’s greater than sum of its relatively humble parts.

“Nothing Can Come Between Us” starts off as if it were “Paradise, Part Two,” but some nice dialogue between bass and guitar (with electric piano backing) improves things. The song’s reliance (once again) on but two chords threatens to become problematic. For all its charms, it’s a vamp in search of a song.

The Spanish guitar figures that form the basis of “Haunt Me” offer a welcome change from the album’s stasis. Graceful acoustic guitar and Andrew Hale‘s agile piano backing provide a backdrop for Adu’s smooth, yearning vocal. A soulful saxophone solo and subtle string section work provide texture. The album credits mention a solo violin on this track, but it’s so low-key as to be nearly inaudible.

“Turn My Back On You” approaches funk territory – or what passes for funk on a Sade album– in a muted fashion. Here Adu explores the upper register of her vocal range. For the first (and thankfully, almost only) time on Love is Stronger than Pride, the drums have a heavily processed, 80s feel to them. The song is built upon an unusual time signature, but – like many components of the group’s music – it’s so subtle as to be barely noticeable.

“Keep Looking” is more in keeping with Sade’s signature slick European style; as ever Adu seems not to be breaking a sweat cutting her vocal parts. Some tasty guitar soloing from Stuart Matthewman once again mines a Spanish style. “Clean Heart” doesn’t veer far from the confines already established on the disc, but it does feature one of the album’s stronger melodic lines. The track also features some appealing brass section work that’s not heard elsewhere on the record. Congas enliven “Give It Up,” but overall the album’s homogeneity starts to wear thin for the listener interested in a bit of sonic variety. Electric piano gives “I Never Thought I’d See the Day” a contemplative air; the song is pretty but underdeveloped.

It’s curious, then, that Sade would choose to close their third long player with “Siempre Hay Esperanza,” an instrumental groove. The track is pleasant enough but — here we go again — fails to go anywhere; a single bass figure atop an exceedingly subtle two-chord vamp is about all that happens here. But the backing does provide a suitable showcase for some sax work.

In 2014, Audio Fidelity has reissued Love is Stronger Than Pride on limited-edition, 180-gram vinyl. The audio has been remastered, and discs are issued in limited, numbered editions. The sturdy and heavy gatefold sleeve opens to display a full set of lyrics and a curiously low-quality (scanned?) photo of the group. Sade Adu penned all the lyrics, and had a hand in writing all of the album’s music; she also arranged and produced the sessions, which took place in Nassau and Paris. The group would wait four years to follow the album up; 1992′s Love Deluxe offered more of the same styles, and once again charted worldwide.

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“How did we get where we are right now?” A Conversation with Todd Cochran (Part 3)

Thursday, August 21st, 2014

Continued from Part Two

Bill Kopp: We’ve touched on this a bit already: there’s absolutely no guitar on the album. Was that a conscious decision on your part, to arrange the music without the use of guitar? As I mentioned earlier, I come from a rock background, so I’m still learning about jazz. And one thing I’ve learned is that, as often as not, the beat in jazz is implied rather than explicitly laid down. What I find on Worlds Around the Sun is that guitars are almost implied.

Todd Cochran: Yes. And that came from the Clavinet; that’s what I was thinking about. And the Fender Rhodes electric piano allowed me to dictate that rhythmic aspect much more clearly. The colors that the Rhodes gave to the music were pretty new. Some of those records that you were speaking of by Cannonball Adderley – “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy” and that period – feature Josef Zawinul on keyboards. He was using a Wurlitzer [EP200A]. The Fender Rhodes wasn’t happening yet. The Wurlitzer wasn’t as full and rich as what the Rhodes became. So with that instrument, the music was much more intense. What really changed were the rhythms that the drummers were playing. You’d be immersed in these rhythmic environment. And what the Rhodes and the Clavinet did was provide colors, with a precision that helped define the music more rhythmically.

And you had people who had been used to playing the piano; I had been playing since I was about three years old. So take someone who’s been playing and studying piano most of their life. Then they go into an instrument that’s not an organ, not a Wurlitzer, but something that has almost the full range (the 88-key Rhodes came later). So they’re taking a pianistic approach and applying it to something electric. You had a different kind of sustaining factor, and you might not have the harmonic interaction you’d have on an acoustic piano. But you could adjust volume, phasing, vibrato. And for a pianist, that was a fascinating world to enter.

We’d have these instruments modified – at no small expense – to make them more responsive, to make the attack more precise. And we’d work on the electronics, to make, for lack of a better word, an artist’s instrument.

BK: Sort of like a guitarist changing out his instrument’s stock pickups…

TC: Yeah. And they do things like shave the frets. The same idea. So we were getting into some areas that were pretty exciting. And the drummers were playing much louder to get the sounds that they wanted out of the drums. You would hear the drums on a rock record that you liked, but you would not get drums like that at a jazz club volume; forget it. So when they did play louder, that made it hard for pianists. Club pianos were not that great, so you’d bring in an electric piano, and create your own audio environment. And that had a lot to do with where the music went.

BK: Not that it’s the be-all and end-all of things, but at present there’s not even a Wikipedia entry for Worlds Around the Sun. I suppose that’s because it was unavailable for so long. Used copies of the original LP start at $60. Why do you think it went out of print, after receiving such good critical notices and selling reasonably well?

TC: I think that the company [Prestige], which was owned by Saul Zaentz, was a privately held company. So they had certain assets that they worked on. They could only give certain records a certain level of attention. They were not signing new artists, and I think eventually the company was sold to Concord. And so not only did they get the prestige of having this great jazz catalog, but I don’t think they knew everything that was in the catalog. And I don’t think Prestige was ever in the business of making jazz stars, either.

They weren’t doing tour support or any big promotional campaigns. They worked really well with the press, but they weren’t in the business of out-marketing their competitors. But that’s me speaking with an executive hat on.

The thrust of the company was not that. When you get in that business, you have to have a steady stream of product that represents the brand. They had a great art department, though. It was there in Berkeley, so it had to be hip to a certain level. So that’s a second sort of what-if question.

BK: Worlds Around the Sun is an undiscovered gem that can now be discovered. And it’s great to see Omnivore Recordings doing it; they have quickly developed a reputation for very thoughtful crate-digging, for lack of a better word.

TC: Curating.

BK: Yes, curating: that’s a better word.

TC: And I think that has everything to do with the times. The music that I made at that time, 1972, the music of that time was so different from the expressions that had come before. I don’t think the social commentary and critics of that time fully understood where the music was originating. So it’s really great to be able to revisit it, and talk about it in an expansive way.

People are talking about some of the concept albums that the art rock bands were making; people are very interested in old Genesis records. I went on to work with Peter Gabriel, too. People are interested in Pink Floyd albums, and in these bigger concepts. Those are records that were talking about the emotional and psychological frame of mind of the times. And that’s still interesting to people as we ask ourselves: How did we get where we are right now?

For me, it’s always been about dreaming the life you want to live, and always being curious. When original thoughts are made into something musical, if it’s well done, there’s a reward for the curious.

And I’m excited to the point where I shot a video for one of the tracks from the record. The track “It Ain’t” is basically about the song from Porgy and Bess, “It Ain’t Necessarily So.” It ties into the idea of mythologies. It’s a big thing to go against those, because people have a whole lot of views about music, about people’s aspirations. And the revolution that the we attached to music in the early 70s meant that we were all looking at society and allegiances differently. And that’s fodder for some high creativity. And I’m very appreciative to have been a part of that. Because it set the trajectory of my musical ideals.

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“How did we get where we are right now?” A Conversation with Todd Cochran (Part 2)

Wednesday, August 20th, 2014

Continued from Part One

Todd Cochran: And I worked with John Handy, who was on Columbia. To digress a bit back to your earlier question, which is still going around in my head…John Handy had done some very interesting music with Ali Akbar Khan, who played with Ravi Shankar. Some very interesting music. So there was jazz being blended with East Indian classical music.

Bill Kopp: I didn’t realize that hybrid had happened! There was an album that came out about five, six years ago called Miles From India. But I had no idea such a thing had been explored that far back.

TC: Yeah. John Handy, who had been in Charlie Mingus‘ band, was really a very special player. He played all over the world, and he taught for a time at San Francisco State University. I played with John for about a year and a half. I worked with Woody Shaw; I played with Joe Henderson briefly. I kind of circled Blue Note, but it never “happened.” I ended up producing Freddie Hubbard for Blue Note many years later; I wrote an album for him called Times are Changing.

I’ll give you one little insight here. That record I wrote for Bobby Hutcherson, Head On, was produced by George Butler; Butler went on to be a very powerful A&R guy at Columbia. He was Miles Davis‘ A&R guy, and he also signed Wynton Marsalis. I did a lot of projects with George Butler with CBS/Sony. And it was really something I learned way down the road that Head On was the first record that he had produced!

But yes, to answer your question, Blue Note would have really changed my trajectory. It had a lot to do with the fact that I was in San Francisco. I learned my art there, and I’m very happy to have grown up in that environment. Again, it was about the balance of cultures. Haight-Ashbury, the free speech movement coming out of Berkeley, City Lights Bookstore, the American Conservatory Theater. It was the beginning of a lot of what we’re experiencing now: gay rights and such. It was all there. It was a place for ideas. And everyone was interacting with each other, because it’s a much smaller city, geographically, than, say, Los Angeles.

BK: I hadn’t really thought about the way that a city’s geography can affect its musical character…

TC: Absolutely. Very much so. In San Francisco, The Grateful Dead were playing. The [Jefferson] Airplane. There was Bill Graham, David Rubinson. So much energy. I would say that it was the centerpiece of the American cultural revolution. Forward-thinking ideas were driven by the intellectual community. And there was money there, too. And the money went into these great academic places, so this place that was rich with ideas meant that everyone could have their curiosities satisfied.

But a lot of people felt completely put off by it; it was too intense. People don’t realize just how much came out of that scene. Cal Tjader was there. Dave Brubeck came out of that.

BK: The whole West coast jazz scene…

TC: Vince Guaraldi came out of that too. And Duke Ellington did his spiritual concerts there, at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco. Cornel West had a series that he toured with, with Rabbi Lerner; that was a great, powerful dialog. Everything was there for the taking.

BK: Your wah-wah work on the Hohner Clavinet D6 is a highlight of “Free Angela.”

TC: You must be a keyboard player…

BK: Yes, I am. The vocal chants add a great texture, more musical than lyrical to my ears. I know that there’s a point to what’s being sung, but I hear those vocal lines as a purely musical component. When you composed the track, was the idea of employing the wah-wah pedal – because you’re really pumping it – so prominently part of the original idea, or did it develop in the studio?

TC: I was fascinated by the guitar. I always loved guitar. I’m a pianist, and I come from the classical world. But people were doing such amazing things with that instrument, and then they figured out how to modify the sound electronically. And I’m sure it was some great accident of mis-wiring, but then they created this pedal where you could control the variations in that signal. And it became a complete sound experience. I liked that it gave me the opportunity to get close to what I loved about what guitarists were doing. It’s a bit like what people were doing with brass instruments, using a plunger or other hand mutes. So it became a sort of vernacular expression. You could do it rhythmically, or you could just slowly adjust it. A closed sound would be like the downbeat, and the open sound on two and four would be like the backbeat.

Another thing that I was just learning it that when it was amplified, when you’re in the proximity of the amplifier, you could actually sustain sounds. Feed back sounds. That’s something I explored a bit down the road. But it was a lot of fun.

BK: Worlds Around the Sun is wonderfully difficult to classify. There’s out-there avant jazz, soul, funk, rock texture, pop melodies. There’s something for everyone. You were only 20 when you made the record; what were your thoughts going into the sessions? Did you want to make a record that explored your interests and abilities, to have commercial success, or just to best deliver the set of songs you had written?

TC: All of the above. It was really important to me to be authentic musically. I enjoyed so many musicians, and been inspired by so many great players. I played the Hohner Clavinet with Herbie Hancock on a film called The Spook Who Sat Behind the Door. I was really proud of that; Herbie conducted and I played keyboards on the film score. And the film has gone into the National Film Registry as a representation of the period. I was exploring the D6 a lot on that.

And that’s what the film needed to have, to be fully relevant. I came up at a time when folk music was great, and r&b was moving into these wider expressions where it was not just relegated to subjects of love.

BK: Right; it became much more personal-to-the-universal.

TC: The whole range of expression was opening up, particular for African Americans. And commercial success was important, because that allowed you to be able to go out and play your music. Commercialism was perhaps secondary, as the idea was to make a connection with an audience.

The songs themselves on Worlds Around the Sun had a thematic conceptual approach. Songs like “It Ain’t” were about looking at certain mythologies. The light was shining much more brightly than it had previously; the main commitment was to playing the music as well as it could be played. And the desire to communicate was very, very important. There was music being made at that time that was very technical. It may have been brilliant, but it was not necessarily inclusive; it didn’t invite you in. You might see musicians playing, and you’d be taken in by this mighty relationship they had with their instrument, whereas my interest was to make music or art that was inclusive, that brought them into the melodic and thematic dimensions of the music, where it created a space where maybe we could think about an idea, together. That was what was important to me; not a display of brilliance and technique.

BK: A balance between appeals to the head and the heart…

TC: Absolutely. And I think that’s really important.

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