Tag Archives: Music

What we’re listening to — These Days by Jackson Browne, Nico, Gregg Allman & Paul Westerberg

Once in a while I like to compare the same really good song done by two really good artists. In rare cases, you can get several versions that all work in different ways. Four is pretty unprecedented but In this case it’s warranted. Because the song in question is the reflective, melancholy Jackson Browne classic, “These Days.” Logically, most of us tend to think of the great singer-songwriter’s own version as THE version. It was released on his second album, 1973’s For Everyman, with a beautifully clean and relatively spare arrangement, highlighting Browne’s distinctively straightforward and non-self pitying vocals as they play against the very sad lyrics and the evocative guitar solos.


But Browne’s years as a teenage songwriting prodigy meant that this was not, in fact, the recorded debut of “These Days.” That honor would go to the enigmatic German artist, Nico, most famous for strangely yet appropriately taking lead vocals on 3 tracks for the Velvet Underground’s debut album (at Andy Warhol’s insistence). When Nico went solo for her 1967 album, Chelsea Girl, there was “These Days” with then-lover Jackson Browne on acoustic guitar, no less, and six years before he would get around to recording it for himself. If you’re a fan of Wes Anderson’s The Royal Tannenbaums, you’ll know this version, where Nico’s trademark Teutonic non-emotive, not-really-singing seems to fit the bittersweet, offbeat comedy of that great movie.

 

More cover versions would not be confined to the past, though. Like few other songs in Rock, “These Days” was certified catnip for different artists’ interpretations. No sooner had Browne recorded his own version of the song, putting Nico’s in the rearview, than Gregg Allman almost simultaneously released a version for his 1973 solo debut album, Laid Back. In truth, Allman had helped Browne with his For Everyman arrangement so it seems only fair that the Southern Rock god would get to interpret it his way. Allman’s take was so good, with his trademark weeping guitar and the stoically resigned double-tracked vocals, that Anthony DeCurtis of Rolling Stone called it “the definitive version” of the song, better even than the songwriter’s own. High praise indeed, even if Mr. Browne and his die-hard fans might disagree.

 

However, DeCurtis’s declaration predates another very fine version of “These Days” that I’m especially fond of. Paul Westerberg of Replacements fame covered it for his excellent 2003 solo album, Come Feel Me Tremble, speeding it up a bit from the song’s traditional dirge-like pace, adding a loping, almost dobro like guitar in place of the standard 1970s country-rock flatpicking and playing against a nicely chugging rhythm section for momentum.

 

I think the interesting thing about Westerberg’s version compared to the other three, aside from his trademark ugly-beautiful, slightly wobbly and cigarette-damaged vocals, is that Paul was much older than the other three when he came to record this classic song of regret and resignation. Amazingly, Browne claims to have written “These Days” at the age of 16 (!), so his intense evocation of adult setbacks and heartbreak is precocious in the extreme. By the time he got around to recording it, Browne was still only 25. Allman was likewise a young man of 26 and even the eternally gloomy Nico was only 29 or so. Obviously Rock years are not like regular human years and you could say that even in their mid or late 20s this was a trio of old souls. In fact, Allman had lost his brother Duane and another bandmate, Berry Oakley, the year prior to tackling “These Days,” Browne was already a Rock veteran by 1973 and god knows what Nico had been through in her young life between her time in New York with Warhol, Lou Reed and the Velvets. But when then 44-year-old Westerberg begs “Please don’t confront me with my failures/I have not forgotten them,” you can tell that by this point in his life and career he’s had his fair share.

Any way you slice it, “These Days” is an amazing song open to different interpretations that still retain the essential forlorn quality of the lyrics. And no matter which version you prefer, you’ve got to hand it to the author for writing one of the great rock ballads. In fact, it’s hard to believe it sometimes gets overlooked in the vast Jackson Browne canon. I suppose you could chalk this post up to making sure this gem stays on your radar in one form or another.

What we’re listening to — I’m Bad Like Jesse James by John Lee Hooker

If you’re looking for the ultimate in badass proto-gangster Blues, look no further than John Lee Hooker’s “I’m Bad Like Jesse James.” It’s hard to know where the deadly braggadocio ends and the frightening truth begins on this stone cold chiller of a track.

Adapting the tried and true murder ballad format to his patented thumping one-chord, heavily amplified blues chime, Hooker’s deep-as-a-well vocals are extra menacing. There’s no question that he’s serious as a heart attack and there’s no real subtext here even if he’s telling you to read between the lines. The message is crystal clear: You talk smack about John Lee’s woman after he’s done you a solid, you end up in the river. He’s got some boys to make sure of it — as in, four going down, but only three coming back. And, no, crying won’t help ya none. Not when the late, great John Lee Hooker’s done made up his mind that you got to go. Hard not to believe the man when he says he’s “Bad Like Jesse James,” wouldn’t you say?

Earworm of the day — Don’t Take Me Alive by Steely Dan

Saw Steely Dan live not too long ago and this song has been bouncing around my brain since then. Don’t let the highly refined sounds fool you — this is one dark & paranoid mofo!

 

From 1976’s The Royal Scam, the Dan’s fifth studio album, “Don’t Take Me Alive” features the typcial tight musicianship, tricky song construction and world weary lyrics the group’s fans treasure so dearly. There’s also the requisite killer guitar solos, this time from studio ace Larry Carlton. Between his searing licks here and on “Kid Charlemagne” you can see why he was one of the most in demand session guitarists in his day. And with lyrics like “Got a case of dynamite/I could hold out here all night” the song is steeped in that creeping dread and burnt out neurosis so specific to the dystopian 70s. Is the protagonist a refugee from the Weather Underground making a last stand? A lone renegade fleeing familial discord under Shakespearean circumstances? Both and neither? Let your imagination fill in the blanks while Donald Fagan’s uniquely evocative singing voice dovetails with the elusive meaning as perfectly as on all the best Steely Dan tracks. Besides, once this song gets its hooks in you you’ll definitely want more than one listen to figure it all out for yourself.

What we’re listening to — Peter Gabriel

As time passes, it becomes clearer that Peter Gabriel was a victim of his own massive success. After being a cult figure as leader of the pre-Phil Collins/pre-Top 40 Genesis, immediately after leaving the group he produced some of the more intriguing and idiosyncratic music of the late 1970s and early 1980s. His uniquely theatrical, art house style seemed to find its climax in the catchy but weird “Shock the Monkey” and its improbably popular video coming right at the dawn of the MTV revolution circa 1982. Surprisingly, though, Gabriel had something even bigger up his sleeves. Just a few years later, in 1986, he unleashed the bona fide mainstream smash hit album So, which featured a plethora of hit singles & videos, including the omnipresent all-time number one most-played MTV video, “Sledgehammer”.  Produced by then-U2 helmsman du jour Daniel Lanois, it’s no hyperbole to say that So became a touchstone for a generation. Its pop culture impact was confirmed when a young John Cusack used the hyper-romantic “In Your Eyes” to woo Ione Skye via boombox in the archetypal 80s teen coming of age story, Say Anything. To the uninitiated it seemed an improbable success. But the cleverness of Gabriel was that he was perfectly attuned to the demands of MTV, having been an often-flamboyant performance art innovator for years with a penchant for the dramatic and offbeat that perfectly suited the new visual taste-setting medium. The fact that he was well ahead of the musical curve in terms of both digital production and the use of “world music” influences — see the incredible vocal solo by Senegalese singer Yousou N’dour on the aforementioned heart-melting “in Your Eyes”, for example — also seemed perfectly aligned to the prevailing zeitgeist in which David Byrne and Paul Simon were incorporating African and South American vibes into their standout 80s work, as well.

But all that radio/video play and overwhelming success led to burnout on Gabriel, as the once outside artist became a mainstream pop superstar. To be honest, I listened to so much Peter Gabriel back in the day that I took about fifteen years off from his music. But I’ve been coming back to it lately and damn if it doesn’t hold up well. And not only in that “old friend you haven’t seen in a long time” way either. No, it’s of its time for sure but definitely among the best of that time. So here are three pre-So tunes — since everyone’s heard every cut off that album so damn much — that I think are worth revisiting.

“Solsbury Hill” from Peter Gabriel I [Car] (1977):

All about Gabriel’s trepidation and hopes after splitting from Genesis, 1977’s “Solsbury Hill” from his debut solo album would have been his one-hit wonder… if he hadn’t gone on to have so many other big hits. The spiritual and optimistic tone of the lyrics highlight PG’s very good, slightly raspy Rock voice and the sterling musicianship in the service of the appealingly folksy-but-not-cloying song construction serve notice that this is a mega-capable songwriter. At the time it could have gone either way. But in retrospect the lovely, ultra-catchy “Solsbury Hill” was not a one-time flash but Gabriel’s opening salvo, laying down a marker that he was an artist to be reckoned with.

“Family Snapshot” from Peter Gabriel III [Melt] (1982):

After 1978’s perhaps overly arty and abstracted Peter Gabriel II [Scratch] failed to build upon the success of “Solsbury”, Gabriel really found something extra for his third studio effort in 1980. Nicknamed “Melt” for the disturbing Hipgnosis cover art, Peter Gabriel III is strong from beginning to end and features standout tracks with troubling psychological overtones like “Intruder”, “I Don’t Remember”, “No Self Control” and “Not One of Us”. Prefiguring Gabriel’s increasing human rights activism, an amazingly beautiful political anthem to slain South African civil rights leader Stephen Biko closes the album. “Games Without Frontiers” was the de facto hit, although in more of a cult fashion than a chart-topper. And perhaps its rather heavy handed metaphor about nations acting as children has not aged as well as the rest despite its undeniable angular catchiness. So for me the exceptionally creepy “Family Snapshot”, which not implausibly imagines a Lee Harvey Oswald-like character motivated by his loveless childhood, is the standout track. Continue reading →

Earworm of the day — Arms Around Your Love by Chris Cornell

This beauty by the great Chris Cornell popped up on my workout mix the other day at the gym and it’s been bouncing around my brain since then like it was brand new again.

Of course it’s not new… but it is still true. “Arms Around Your Love” comes off of the former Soundgarden front man’s 2007 solo effort, Carry On, which also featured his bruising Bond theme for Casino Royale, “You Know My Name”. It falls into that relatively rare subgenere of power ballad: the romantic advice song. It’s bloody good, though, and the hard-earned wisdom shines through every soaring note of Cornell’s preternaturally powerful voice. Play it once and you’re guaranteed to play it again. And also best to heed the man’s advice and tell your lady how much you think of her while you’re the one lucky enough to be holding her. You would’t want some other guy getting that honor, now would you?

Earworm of the day/A little Wednesday comedy

Ever since I flew back from vacation a few weeks ago and killed some time with the obligatory viewing of The Big Lebowski, this song has been rattling around my brain. You know the one — the psychedelic side of Kenny “The Gambler” Rogers? Who knew, right? Works on a few levels — period pop, ironic delight, its permalink with a cult classic movie. And, oh that Coen Brothers “video”!

Are you ready for the sequel?

RIP B.B. King, 1925 — 2015

B.B. King, one of the legends of the Blues and arguably the man who did the most to popularize it with a diverse worldwide audience, has died at the age of 89. Sometimes overlooked by Blues “purists”, King was nevertheless an authentic Mississippi Delta original, albeit a performer who incorporated external influences such as Big Band Jazz and R&B in creating a signature sound with broad popular appeal. A tireless, good humored performer forever on the road playing one-night stands first to all-black audiences then to all comers, B.B. King’s very endurance insured that he would be able to capitalize on the big Blues revival of the 1960s. Sure enough, his biggest hit, the seminal “The Thrill Is Gone”, came in 1969, over 20 years after he had left a life of sharecropping and poverty on the Delta for the lucrative rewards of DJing and performing in Memphis, Tennessee.

While not name-checked as frequently as some other Blues guitar legends, King’s expressive playing style was nonetheless influential on generations of musicians. He made his big, curved Gibsons, always named Lucille, sing and cry with restrained, elegant power. His wonderfully well-modulated yet still raw singing style was indelibly unique — when you heard him sing an opening verse you knew right away just who was doing the singing. And by dint of his longevity, his many skills as a performer and showman and his pure enthusiastic passion for playing B. B. King came to embody “The Blues” for generations of listeners.

The excellent multimedia New York Times obituary is here.

Earworm of the day — Fireside by Arctic Monkeys

OK, so I’m sort of obsessing through Arctic Monkey’s AM track by track. Got a lot of intense noctural listenings down in Mexico on headphones amidst the susurrations of the palms and the moonlight so the album’s kind of burrowed in there. But suck on “Fireside” for a bit and see if its propulsive groove and longing lyrics don’t work their way into your brain pan too.

Documentary view — Big Star: Nothing Can Hurt Me

Of all the legendary, cautionary tales of shoulda’ been contenders in Rock history perhaps none went on to have as profound an influence on future artists as Big Star. After all, the losers, beautiful or otherwise, are supposed to remain in the cut-out bins with a small but dedicated fan base of maybe a couple of hundred stalwart fans proudly fanning whatever flickering flame remains. But the funny thing about Big Star was that the couple hundred stalwarts who kept their flame alive after they never caught on the first time around were mostly rock critics and aspiring rock performers. And what happened in the intervening decades is that the music of Big Star, a truly lost band during the 70s, wound up being disseminated through a thousand music reviews and a thousand demo reels going forward to become something like an archetype, a touchstone for the entire Indie and Alternative Rock scene. It somehow became instant street cred to name check Alex Chilton and Chris Bell, to seek out the original vinyl of the band’s seminal albums back in the days where you couldn’t just hit up iTunes and own it in an instant, to lay down a ragged cover of “Back of a Car” during a gig. But beyond the entrancing complexity and slowly dawning greatness of their ostensible pop music, Big Star was also shrouded in mystery, with a lot of vague tales about record deals gone bad, mental illness and creative self-destruction. Which, of course, only added to their mystique. At long last, 2012’s comprehensive documentary, Big Star: Nothing Can Hurt Me, shines a light on the mysteries that beguiled and bedeviled their fans for so many years. It also proves yet again that all that retrospective adulation was well earned, however bittersweet their career trajectory.

Formed in 1971 by Memphis natives Alex Chilton and Chris Bell, the original lineup also consisted of drummer Jody Stephens (the only surviving founding member) and bassist Andy Hummel. Chilton was already well established, having been a teen sensation as the blue-eyed soul frontman for The Box Tops, a well-produced outfit that clocked several hits including 1967’s classic Billboard #1, “The Letter” (later covered to even more dramatic effect by Joe Cocker). Chris Bell was a local kid dreaming of the Beatles and pop success, as well as an outlet for all the achingly beautiful and earnest compositions swimming around in his head. The result of their intersection was Big Star and their debut album, #1 Record, an unusally accomplished masterpiece with roots in the singer-songwriter ethos of the 60s but leavened with the angular hooks of British invasion power pop and more than a pinch of the Velvet Underground’s sonic subversiveness. Cuts such as “In The Street” (later famously covered by Cheap Trick as the title song for That 70s Show), “Thirteen” and “When my Baby’s Beside Me” spin gold from conventional romantic youth rebellion through the freshness of their composition and the unabashed belief in the power of the 3-minute pop single. As drummer Stephens wryly observes in the documentary, it could be said that by choosing such audaciously cocky names for their band and debut album they were tempting the Rock gods, as well as showing confidence (or hope) in their endeavor. But knowing Chilton’s later oeuvre, the implicit irony of such grandiosity seems entirely intentional.

Despite being universally praised by rock critics and industry mags, 1972’s #1 Record went nowhere fast due to the vagaries of bad timing and worse distribution. Continue reading →

Documentary view — Beware of Mr. Baker

Rock musicians are notoriously eccentric as a whole, particularly those whose heyday was back in the anything goes, drug-infused 1960s and 70s. But legendary drummer and wild man Ginger Baker stands out from the crowd in terms of pure insanity and fearsome ill temper. A very large redheaded man with a seriously bad attitude and a taste for mind-altering drugs, Baker is most famous for being one third of the best power trio of all time, Cream. Along with the late Jack Bruce on bass and primary vocals and the inimitable Eric “Slowhand” Clapton on guitar, Cream redefined the sound of heavy blues in the late 1960s and made an incredible impact on Rock despite the fact that the volatile trio could only keep it together for 2 years. The outstanding 2012 documentary Beware of Mr. Baker chronicles those heady days as well as the pure obstreperousness of its larger-than-life subject who left a trail of destruction in his wake across several continents in the years that followed.

With his gaunt appearance, madman’s eyes and predilection towards random acts of violence and self-destruction, Baker makes an ideal subject for a film. Beginning in the present at Baker’s fortified South African compound and horse farm and tracing his life back to his boyhood during Blitz-ravaged London, Beware makes use of lovely interstitial animation to add graphic novel vividness to the biography and never flinches from recounting the legendary drummer’s troubled life starting with the loss of his tough father in WWII. Baker, who might today have been diagnosed with ADD as a boy, subsequently finds his special quality when he realizes that he has “perfect time” and becomes enthralled as a teenager with Jazz drumming. He was taken under the wing of Phil Seaman, the greatest of the English Jazz drummers in the Gene Krupa style, who turned Baker on to two exceptionally important things that would impact the rest of his life: African rhythms and heroin. By his late teen years, Baker was not only a smack addict but also one of the most preeminent and technically accomplished drummers in England or anywhere else. This naturally led to his contributing to the intense and percolating London R&B scene and he quickly established himself as a force to be reckoned with in The Graham Bond Organisation, one of those big-in-England-but-not-in-the-States-type groups. With an appetite for drugs even greater than Baker’s, Bond’s band soon collapsed but not before Baker fatefully met Scottish bassist and vocalist Jack Bruce. These two polar opposites somehow attracted and were soon to become the fiery odd couple of British R&B making Rock history in the process.

While Ginger Baker disparages Bruce throughout Beware (as well as pretty much every other non-Jazz musician on the planet except Clapton), it’s clear that despite their mutual antipathy the two men fed off each other to achieve the greatest of musical heights. When Eric Clapton tired of his purist exploits in John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers and chose to return to the heady world of amplified R&B, Bruce and Baker were a ready made fit for Rock’s first power trio, emphasis on power: The Cream. Continue reading →