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The 25 Best Progressive Rock Songs Of All Time: Part One (Revisited)

May 21, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Really Don’t Mind If You Sit This One Out…

Progressive rock came and went, but opinions differ on what specific years it covered and which artists epitomize it. Perhaps this is unavoidable, because this so-called era isn’t easily packaged into a particular time period or specific aesthetic, and what we are left with is the all-encompassing yet ultimately unsatisfactory moniker of prog-rock, which manages to be inadequate, overly simplistic, reductive, portentous and… perfect?

The reason, at the end of the day, that so-called classic rock (in general) and progressive rock (in particular) endure is the most simple of all: they deliver the goods. Prog-rock satisfies the faithful and is entirely capable, on its own without aspiration or interference, of converting new acolytes every single day.

“You had to be there” does not apply when it comes to this music (or any music), and this is the elusive alchemy that best illustrates its staying power. Moments in time, whether artistic, political or social, that are defined or defended by those who took part in them, are necessarily exclusive—not that there is anything wrong with that. Expression that, for lack of a better cliché, transcends time and place is created and exists on its own terms, so there is no barrier of language, ideology or agenda that prevents it from finding its audience. The only requirement is a sufficiently open mind and ears (or eyes) capable of picking up what is being put down.

For the purposes of this list, the prog-rock era will include songs recorded between 1969 and 1979 (though, as will presently be made clear, the majority of the songs come from the first few years of the ‘70s). There are likely a song or two that some readers won’t recognize, but I endeavored to not make this an exercise in obscurity (a person willing to rank prog-rock songs does not—or should not—need to further bolster his ambiguous street cred by listing songs nobody is remotely familiar with). As such, most of the usual suspects are included, and several of those bands have multiple entries. I tried not to list two songs from one specific album, which made the project only slightly less impossible than it already was. I look forward to hearing which songs I missed (and I’ll honestly reply if the songs you would have picked were on my master list or if I overlooked them, intentionally or not).

25. Pink Floyd, “Atom Heart Mother Suite”

Pink Floyd was still an underground band of sorts (albeit a very successful one) circa 1970, mostly because they didn’t bother to write hit singles. For the fans that did not jump ship after Syd Barrett‘s departure, the efforts between 1968 and 1972 were transition albums from a prog-rock icon in progress. The title song from this 1970 work clocks in at over 23 minutes and has everything from trumpet fanfare to orchestrated choir. Originally and appropriately dubbed “The Amazing Pudding”, this opus crams in ideas (and serious shredding from Dave Gilmour) that would resurface on their ultimate breakthrough, Dark Side of the Moon: the multi-tracked voices, reprises, odds, sods and half-assed grandiosity are waved up a freak flag and remain unabashed and untamed today. It sounds very little like what Pink Floyd would shortly become; it sounds like a band from another planet which, after all, was more than half the point in the first place.

24. Genesis, “Return of the Giant Hogweed”

God bless Peter Gabriel. Appearing on stage dressed like a flower, or a fox, or with a faux-hawk, he had brilliance to burn. Still a tad rough around the edges, Gabriel’s earliest work with Genesis mixes heady ambition with elements of rock’s most admired iconoclasts: there are pieces of T-Rex, David Bowie and Roky Erickson in his approach, but the sum of his artistic personas is utterly unique. This song, about a giant hogweed (obviously) only hints at how wonderfully weird Gabriel was before he became Peter Gabriel. What is generally—and unforgivably—overlooked is how incredible this band was all through the early ‘70s. The song bristles with anger and energy, and while the vibe is unquestionably of its time, everyone seems (and sounds) dead earnest.

23. Judas Priest, “Epitaph”

Before they discovered the liberating ethos of leather and cracked the AOR code toward the end of the decade, Judas Priest was a bit of an enigma. While straddling the landscape of rock and metal, very much in the shadow of Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin and Queen, they borrowed bits and pieces from their better-known brethren and released the not-at-all shabby Sad Wings of Destiny (in ‘76). If the lyrical ground on “Epitaph” was already covered, better, by Genesis (on “Seven Stones” from Nursery Cryme) even Gabriel did not have the vocal range of the young-ish Rob Halford. That falsetto! That pretension! That… genius! A song like this is a make or break affair: if you loathe it or worse, if you laugh, you are a helpless cause when it comes to progressive rock; if you love it or worse, find it more than a little moving... you are a helpless cause. Welcome to the machine.

22. Rush, “Cygnus X-1, Book II: Hemispheres”

This was the last side-long “suite” Rush attempted, and it remains the last necessary one any prog-rock group ever did. Not as incendiary or influential as 1976’s “2112”, it will have to settle for merely being flawless, and the pinnacle of the band’s output to this point. By 1978 the trio was truly hitting on all cylinders, musically: arguably the most ambitious of all the progressive bands (which is really saying something), Rush had spent the better part of the decade trying to make a cohesive statement where all elements came together. Interestingly, if not ironically (since irony is anathema to prog-rock) this album/song that studies, and then celebrates the separate hemispheres (of our left/right brains, of our organized/emancipated natures) matches the smarts and technical proficiency with the ingredient that would play an increasingly obvious and vital role in the band’s subsequent work: soul.

21. Emerson, Lake and Palmer, “Pictures at an Exhibition”

That ELP had the audacity to not only invoke classical music (as King Crimson had done with Holst on “The Devil’s Triangle” from In the Wake of Poseidon) but to actually “cover” a celebrated masterwork was not surprising. This band had the ego and indifference necessary to conceive such sacrilege; they also had the ability and vision to pull it off. A band like ELP not only invited critical venom, they practically begged for it (when they titled a later album Works it signified, possibly, the shark-jumping moment of the decade). On the other hand, they did not pander and they could not be pigeonholed: none of their early albums sound especially alike, and they were really interested in satisfying nothing else but their own curiosity. It is debatable that the only thing that pissed off the purists and prigs in the “critical establishment” more than their homage to Mussorgsky was how wonderful they made it sound.

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R.I.P. Chuck Brown and Donna Summer or, 1979 Forever

May 17, 2012 By Leave a Comment

When you mourn an artist who helped make your life better, it is inexorably a selfish act.

So first and foremost, R.I.P. Chuck Brown and Donna Summer. I hope your family and close friends find comfort knowing how well you were loved.

For me (and doubtless many if not most of my peers) both of these artists are inextricably associated with 1979, a year I celebrated in detail here (keyword: Slush Puppie).

Obviously as I grew older and learned more about music, and culture and history, I understood that Chuck Brown was not just a local hero, he was an industry unto himself. Now that he has gone to that great big Go-Go in the sky, I have no other option than to to celebrate the song that rocked many of our worlds circa 1979. Of course it still does and always will. (And, inevitably, there is a reason James Brown is called, amongst other things, The Godfather. It all begins and ends with him. You hear it here, and if there is anything wrong with that there was never nothing right.)

It’s possible, though unlikely, that you lived through the late ’70s and did not know who Chuck Brown was (my condolences), but if you were sentient during the late ’70s you knew who Donna Summer was. Period, end of story. Not until Michael Jackson a few years later was there an artist (much less a black artist) as ubiquitous as Donna Summer. Anytime I hear “Bad Girls” I’m back in 1979 and that is a very good place to be, with or without a slush puppie.

Yeah baby. That was the perfect song for a world that was still grappling with disco and what the Bee Gees had wrought (having once owned the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever functioning as a kind of eternal, existential aesthetic walk of shame, despite the redeeming value of “Disco Inferno” and the Tavares doing “More Than A Woman”. And, if pushed, a few of the Bee Gees songs as well. Damn it.)

Let’s break it down: this was pretty racy stuff, circa 1979, at least for mainstream radio. And this was all over the radio. For a nine year old straddling the line between young boy and adolescent (or between Kiss and The Beatles, before realizing the world could –and should– exist quite peacefully with both…and it does), this was not quite sexy but certainly not innocent. And I’m not talking about the lyrics, or even the music, necessarily. I’m talking about the groove, the feeling. It did what it had to do, on cultural and pop-culture levels, and it endures. That still sounds great. Dare I say: Disco is not dead?

Now, I can understand if you think I’m being nostalgic, even sentimental to a fault. Cherishing my memories of Donna Summer is one thing, but…Barbara Streisand? Yes. I can’t remember the last time I listened to this (but I’m glad I just had an excuse), although I certainly can remember the first times I heard it. Let’s name names. Many of my peers, at least the ones who, like me, went to Forest Edge, then Terraset, and eventually Langston Hughes (Panthers!), will remember Mr. Bryant. Spencer. He was so old school he was pre-alphabet. Afro: check. Rocking the ‘stache? Check. Working the gum like it was his job? Always. But aside from his inimitable voice and manner of speaking (straight street mixed with cool and, since this was the late ’70s I am allowed to say it, jive). He was at once intimidating, amusing and, in a way, inspiring. He did not just encourage us to be good, he demanded that we not be bad. I know Mark Seferian will remember Health class in 8th grade and the immortal promise he made on the first day of school: “You only get but one grade, A or F.” (No one said, isn’t that two grades?) If Mr. Bryant is around I hope he is well and I’d like to thank him for being himself.

And mostly, I’d like to thank him for playing music in gym class. Does anyone else remember that he would bring in the ancient school reel-to-reel tape player (big enough that he needed a TV tray to hold it) and play funk and soul music? He blared it. I distinctly remember hearing “She’s a Brick House” for the first time (circa ’77) at Forest Edge. By ’79, at Terraset, it was all Donna Summer, all the time. As far as I recall, none of us complained. And of all the songs I remember hearing as we played kickball or dodgeball, it was “Enough is Enough” and loving it. And him.

So I guess what I’m saying is that I’m sad to see Brown and Summer go, obviously. But I can –and will– appreciate the symmetry of them bustin’ loose from this mortal coil so close together, since they are so directy connected, culturally and for me, personally. Again, it’s inevitably a selfish act, but what else is an honest celebration than a sincere acknowledgment of happiness and gratitude? That is what this is, and all I have to do is listen, again, and it’s 1979. But it’s also today. And tomorrow.

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Jethro Tull: Too Old To Rock ‘N’ Roll…Too Young To Die!

May 16, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Once again I’m indebted to my man Robert Rodriguez (and once again: if you are a music fan and especially if you are a Beatles fan, you need to get to know his work, STAT). Via his daily Facebook posts (get in on the action and like it here) I learned that it was on this day in 1976 that one of the more controversial albums by Jethro Tull, Too Old To Rock ‘n’ Roll, Too Young To Die!, was released.

Controversial mostly because it was supposed to be a rock musical (for the stage and/or screen), which would have upped the ante from the album-length concept albums from ’72 and ’73 (the beloved Thick As A Brick and the not-so beloved A Passion Play). Like yet another concept album gone awry (or reigned in, depending on your perspective), 1974′s War Child, this one became a semi-straightforward album with proper songs. It occupies a place in the Tull cataolog that ranges from overlooked to misunderstood. Of course some of the more hardcore fans find much to recommend, and the hardest core would argue it has some of Tull’s best material. Personally, I find it a bit of all these things: it’s definitely overlooked and underappreciated, and it has a couple of throwaway tunes (“Crazed Institution” and “Taxi Grab”, while not stinkers, are far below the quality Ian Anderson usually insisted upon). And, finally, it does indeed contain some of their best work. Even a listener who has never heard this particular album should be blown away by the acoustic tour-de-force that is “Salamander”, while album-closer “The Chequered Flag (Dead or Alive)” is just about as good as prog-rock got in the mid-’70s.

Coincidentally, if conveniently, it was only earlier this week that I addressed the song that gives this album its name if not its sensibility (a full review of Anderson’s latest work is here). For some folks, this is one of the handful of Tull songs they hear (and hate) on FM radio; for others it is something else (good, bad or ugly, and personally, I think it’s a bit of all these things):

However unwittingly, Ian Anderson wrote his artistic epitaph all the way back in 1976. “Too Old to Rock ‘n’ Roll: Too Young To Die!”, the hit from the album of the same name, used music as a metaphor (or vice versa) where he, understandably, wondered if—or when—a musician might be reasonably expected to retire. The answer, of course, has always been straightforward: when the musician feels like it. Whether written off by critics, ignored by trend makers or still selling out arenas, only the artist can decide when it’s finally time to walk away.

It was more than a little prescient for Anderson to skewer himself, the industry and his audience by at once admitting it was ridiculous for an “aging” rock star to keep both feet in the spotlight, while celebrating it with appropriate defiance. What else is a rock star supposed to do? Of course, this message does not remotely apply only to rock music. As the hippies and baby boomers see –or at least sense– the shadow of that chequered flag, they can pick up what he was putting down. It wasn’t a joke then and it’s definitely not a laughing matter now.

Speaking of prescience, how about the satirical meat hooks Anderson puts into the quiz-show craze of the time. Consider how quaint that seems given our current state of reality TV where knowledge and talent often take a back seat to willful and very public humiliation.

For anyone who never thought prog rockers had a sense of humor…well, it’s understandable. But whoever you are you did not listen to enough, and you certainly did not listen to Jethro Tull. Appreciate the tongue-in-cheek “celebration” of the counterculture, or the finger in the eye of snobbish society. Or both, and more…

Bottom line: not only is this album far from a failure, it is an album that was (doubly ironically, considering its title) a bit ahead of its time and as a result it’s aged quite nicely. The musicianship is, as ever, top notch and Anderson is hitting on every conceivable cylinder, lyrically. (A few sample grabs: “Old queers with young faces/Who remember your name”; “I’m self-raising and I flower in her company”; “I’ve a tenner in my skin-tight jeans/You can touch it if your hands are clean”; and, finally, the opening salvo that holds as true today as it did in the bell-bottom era: “The old Rocker wore his hair too long/wore his trouser cuffs too tight/Unfashionable to the end, drank his ale too light”).

But for the full monty, we must go back to that last song, where Anderson uses several minutes to cover several albums (or novels) worth of themes and issues: birth, death, despair and death. You know, the usual rock and roll cliches.

In sum, isn’t it grand to be playing to the stand, dead or alive? Fucking-A right it is.

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Donald “Duck” Dunn, R.I.P.

May 15, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Did you know how great this guy was?

Nevermind the fact that his best friend, the equally brilliant Steve “The Colonel” Cropper –who played with him for more than four decades– recently remarked that Dunn was the best bass player to ever live (and the best guy, period: check out a nice obit here).

By all available evidence, Dunn was a genius and a gentleman. His life was music and he helped make music better (and more inclusive, and groovy) for all of us. A life to be celebrated, and a man to be missed.

It’s all on the record, on the records.

Yes, he was a crucial member of the immortal Stax house band, Booker T & The MGs, and took a well-deserved (and, one hopes, well-paid) victory lap as an honorary member of the Blues Brothers.

As usual, the best way to articulate the greatness of a particular musician is to let them do the playing.

Did you know how many epic songs (albums) Dunn played on? Here’s a sampler.

“Time is Tight”:

“I Can’t Turn You Loose”:

“Hold On I’m Coming”:

“I Almost Lost My Mind” (author’s note: getting a hold of this Albert King album might be the best choice you ever made):

“Shotgun Blues” (a bit more on The Blues Brothers here):

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Ian Anderson: Living in the Present

May 14, 2012 By Leave a Comment

However unwittingly, Ian Anderson wrote his artistic epitaph all the way back in 1976. “Too Old to Rock ‘n’ Roll: Too Young To Die!”, the hit from the album of the same name, used music as a metaphor (or vice versa) where he, understandably, wondered if—or when—a musician might be reasonably expected to retire. The answer, of course, has always been straightforward: when the musician feels like it. Whether written off by critics, ignored by trend makers or still selling out arenas, only the artist can decide when it’s finally time to walk away.

For an iconoclastic prog rocker who is currently enjoying his 44th year as leader of Jethro Tull, it’s at once ironic and appropriate that his first single, from 1969, is entitled “Living in the Past”. The next sentence is inevitable: whether or not Anderson is figuratively wallowing in the brighter glow of glory days long gone, he soldiers on. As it happened, he was—and is—not yet too old to rock and roll. (That sentence was inevitable as well.) Jethro Tull continued to make remarkable music throughout the ‘70s and was steady if not always impressive during the ‘80s. Things slowed down dramatically in the ‘90s and no new material has surfaced in almost a decade. Nevertheless, Anderson has been an indefatigable performer, leading his ever-evolving line-ups on tour pretty much without pause. If his voice was effectively shot many moons ago, the crowds still turned up for the shows.

Was he supposed to fade away or quietly tend to his salmon farms? We tend to mock our elder statesmen when they get lazy or lose inspiration. (This begs the uneasy question: is rock and roll almost exclusively a young musician’s game? With few exceptions in terms of both quality and consistency, the answer is a resounding yes.) And so: what is there to say about someone who continues to make music past retirement age? Fair play and cheers to anyone who is willing and able to stay in the game. All of which is to say it was surprising, but not disheartening to hear a new album was in the works. On the other hand, revisiting—and updating—a progressive milestone and masterpiece? Hmmm.

Ian Anderson, who has cycled through sidemen the way his more hedonistic compatriots once speed-dialed through dealers, has yet another cast of characters for this recording. The gentlemen from the ‘72 line-up have been gone for ages. The one exception, throughout, has been Martin Barre, lead guitarist from the second album on. Distressingly, if revealingly, Barre is nowhere to be heard on these proceedings, which are intriguingly (if revealingly) entitled Jethro Tull’s Ian Anderson: TAAB2 (Thick As a Brick 2). Hmmm.

Expectations were moderate, to put it mildly. Simply, if harshly put, the notion of this entire enterprise seemed like a recipe for fiasco, an exercise equal parts ill-advised nostalgia, indulgence and obvious lack of inspiration. Recent years have not been kind to either Anderson’s voice or, judging from the scarcity of new works, his muse. In the great old days, these were the two sharpest arrows in his quiver.

And yet, here he is, pressing on because he can; because he needs to. The verdict? It’s not terrible. It’s not even bad, actually. And yet, it is difficult to determine if it’s really very good. It is not remotely an embarrassment which, given the stakes and circumstances, is not an inconsiderable achievement. Of course there will be fans prepared to protest Anderson’s audacity: how dare he meddle with the legacy of a dearly-loved album, etc. Those unforgiving, unimaginative folks are advised to give this one a miss, though they may in fact be missing out on material that is interesting and more than occasionally quite satisfactory.

Martin Barre is sorely missed (on principle if nothing else) but in fairness, his young replacement Florian Ophale acquits himself more than adequately. The rest of the band, including drummer Scott Hammond, bassist David Goodier and keyboardist John O’Hara may not make anyone forget the ’72 crew, but—again, in fairness—few outfits (then, now) could.

The impetus of this endeavor is a doubling-down of sorts, revisiting a gambit employed for the original. Thick As a Brick, as the elaborate faux-newspaper packaging declared, featured lyrics from an eight year old wunderkind called Gerald Bostock. Now, 40 years on, Anderson imagines the various paths this fictional character’s life may have taken. As such, careers ranging from banker to soldier to preacher are explored, with varying levels of effectiveness.

The lyrics are mostly okay, but seldom encroach on the rarefied air Anderson occupied for the initial decades of his career. The music is, frankly, better than any reasonable fan could hope for. At least the instruments are all being played by human beings and there is a merciful minimum of studio tinkering and technological trickery (thanks in no small part to mixing engineer—and prog rock MVP—Steven Wilson). The vocals? There is no way around it, the vocals are weak. At this point Anderson utilizes a strategy of necessity, half-speaking in a sing-song style. Unfortunately there are also sections of deadpan narrative delivered in an unembellished speaking voice. These moments are aesthetically disappointing, more so for their unoriginality and the last resort of sorts that they signify than anything else. Overall, there is sufficient variety, in terms of the pacing and the sounds, to result in a discernible, sporadically pleasant flow. The packaging is neither as clever nor as impressive as the original, but the old version didn’t come with a bonus DVD featuring interviews, a making-of feature and lyric readings (this one does).

The key question remains: is it memorable? Will it be returned to with any regularity? Check back in a month, or a year, or a few decades. Grading on the curve, it seems unsporting to be excessively harsh. This project could never replace or even compare favorably with the first one, but not many albums could. To this listener (and long-time fan) the results are much more lively and worthwhile than anything Anderson has done since the early ‘90s. That he had the tenacity to pull this off without resorting to self-satire puts him in a better light than most of his peers who are safely enshrined in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and/or debasing themselves during the Super Bowl.

Bottom line: the effort does little to affect the impact of the ‘72 release. Or any of the albums that preceded or followed it. It puts the clearest perspective possible on the question only the most ardent fans bother to ask (and, as such, serves as a curious kind of public service): what would happen if Ian Anderson had stuck around for another 40 years after he created Thick As a Brick? Answer: this is what would have happened.

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Beauty and The Beast, Featuring Sonny Sharrock

May 7, 2012 By Leave a Comment

The name alone is epic: Sonny Sharrock.

I won’t resist the urge, because I can’t, to pick a low-hanging pun and opine that Sonny put the rock back in jazz.

Still blazing down the trail Miles helped forge with the genre-obliterating Jack Johnson sessions (which Sharrock made an appearance at), Sonny seamlessly wove angular, concrete-hard riffs into compositions that were just on this side of free jazz. He was recognized as a genius fairly early on, which naturally meant he had no chance to make a decent living as a musician. He dropped out of the scene for many years and came back (and/or was goaded back by the indefatigable Bill Laswell, not only one of the all-time heroes of postmodern jazz, but a man who has helped create, collaborate on and produce more albums than some people will ever listen to), invigorated and en fuego. He made, arguably, his best music at the end. Just as he was on the precipice of way-overdue major label acclaim he was felled by a heart attack. He remains not only a guitarist’s guitarist, but a jazz guitarist’s guitarist, which naturally means not nearly enough folks know about him.

Consider this a primer.

If you take my advice just once this month, pick yourself up a copy of his masterpiece Ask The Ages. You can download this for less than six bucks @ Amazon. Less than one dollar a song, folks.

Check it:

Anyone with ears can understand the beauty there. But Sonny was also a beast, and he brought the pain with an intensity that has not been rivaled by many names outside of Greek mythology.

Exhibit A: From the same album, this one really showcases the incomparable Elvin Jones and Sharrock’s closest aesthetic compatriot, Pharoah Sanders. It’s okay to be afraid; that is what happens just before you break through to the bright lights.

If you’re looking for truth in advertising, sometimes a song title really can tell you what it’s all about. And then there’s…”The Past Adventures of Zydeco Honeycup”? (I know).

And in case there were any lingering questions.

Remember what I said about the bright lights?

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Adam Yauch, R.I.P.

May 4, 2012 By Leave a Comment

This hurts. Word is hitting the wires that Adam Yauch, a.k.a. MCA, has succumbed to cancer. This is awful news, obviously, but also surprising since it sounded like he had been kicking cancer’s ass. Of course, cancer seldom has the good grace to stay down once it’s been beaten, so we should never be shocked when it rears its insidious head.

Let the tributes flow, and they will (as they must), it’s enough to lament the loss of a talented man, a cultural icon (anyone who was at least fourteen in 1986 has indelible memories of the way Yauch and his band exploded into the public consciousness like bozos with a bazooka) and a dude who left his imprint on music.

By way of appreciation, I feel obliged, albeit happily, to reprint a piece that went live almost exactly three years ago. The occasion was the remastered reissue of Check Your Head, the album I still maintain is their greatest achievement. With respect –and gratitude– I offer up this blast from the past.

MCA: I hope there are skate parks, soulful sounds and smiles wherever you’re at.

Any discussion of Beastie Boys’ third album is likely to divide fans into two camps: those who contend that Paul’s Boutique was—and remains—their masterpiece, and those who feel that their second album, while amazing, was also a necessary gateway for their best material. Put another way, they had to make Paul’s Boutique, and once it was out of their systems, they could embark on new challenges. This reviewer thought Check Your Head was a surprising and refreshing leap forward in 1992, and the passing of 17 years has done little to diminish its enduring appeal. It remains vital and engaging, in part because of the way it documents a particular moment when the band embraced the past while anticipating the future. A forward-looking album that establishes a distinctive ‘70s-era soul vibe? Only this band was capable, at that time, of pulling off such an ostensibly paradoxical achievement, and bringing the masses along to the party. That the group was able to establish a foundation from which their future work would flow was only slightly more momentous than the ways in which they turned a white-hot light on the myriad influences they wore so gleefully on their sleeves.

When the boys picked up instruments and actually proved they could play them it was intriguing; that they produced an album brimming with original, occasionally indelible material remains something of a revelation. Who woulda thunk it? This is the same band that announced themselves (quite successfully) to the world as wiseass clowns on License to Ill. They rallied the underage troops to fight for their right to party and, beer bongs in hand, a nation of nitwits made them millionaires. But there was always a sense that this was a naked, calculated ploy for commercial success. To their credit, it worked. So it was impressive and, frankly, astonishing, to see how quickly they put away childish things and got busy concocting Paul’s Boutique. Indeed, the prepubescent fan base deserted them as quickly as it had embraced them, and their second album earned instant street cred simply for not being a retread of what had worked so wonderfully the first time.

Although it eventually became a cult classic, Paul’s Boutique was deemed a commercial dud when it dropped in 1989. It was such a departure from the simplistic, goofy boys-just-wanna-have-fun shenanigans of their debut, it obviously alienated some, and left many indifferent. By refusing to ride the gravy train, the band drew a line in the sand and has never retreated. It took a while for fans to catch up with them, but enough people eventually gravitated to Paul’s Boutique to ensure they had indeed made an astute decision, artistically and commercially. And so, some of these newer fans must have been shocked when, three years later, Check Your Head appeared, signifying another radical musical makeover. The response this time was immediate and undeniable, with the album breaking into the Billboard Top Ten. The first single, “So What’Cha Want” was so good, and so fresh, it managed to turn haters into backers. It was, and still is, a magic nugget of pop perfection.

Not everyone loved this release, and a critique that resurfaces to this day is that the album lacks cohesion; that it’s an uneven mess with some great moments, some weak moments, and some middling material. Another way of looking at it is to suggest that the rap-to-rock kitchen sink methodology works just fine, and is in fact an ideal strategy that allowed Beastie Boys to embrace their disparate interests and obsessions. The authentic DIY sensibility wins style points while augmenting what was, at the time, a burgeoning aesthetic integrity. If they couldn’t acquit themselves on their instruments, or their composing chops were weak, all of this would have been exposed and the album would have been a failure. By taking off the sample-phile training wheels, they effectively boxed themselves into a corner and put the onus entirely on their collective creativity. Where they once relied (too much?) on a hodgepodge of pirated pop culture treasure (courtesy of the justly venerated Dust Brothers production team and their set the controls for the heart of the sample M.O.), Check Your Head places the band itself in the spotlight and the focus is evenly split between music and mood.

Not to worry, the rhyming and stealing is still on display, but ultimately the words are part of a much bigger picture: where Paul’s Boutique was an elaborate comic book, Check Your Head is like a successful remake of an old B-movie. The music itself is the star attraction, with Adam (Ad-Rock) Horovitz handling the guitar, Adam (MCA) Yauch on bass and Michael (Mike D) Diamond doing drum duties. It is worth remembering that these gentlemen first formed a group in 1979, so it wasn’t as if they had never played instruments before; of course, it was as a punk/thrash outfit that they first gained attention. The best supporting actor is keyboardist Mark Ramos-Nishita (Money Mark) who makes crucial contributions throughout, adding color, flavor and sometimes a whole foundation the band builds on. It is difficult to overstate how important the organ player’s presence is: Money Mark is the fourth member of this outfit in much the same way George Martin functioned as an indispensable fifth Beatle on much of their later work.

The songs that retain their capacity to impress and amaze are the same ones that opened eyes all the way back in ’92: the instrumentals. Altogether, there are three tracks without any sort of vocals, a handful with minimal vocals and a couple where the vocals function as a part of the music (the chanting on “Something’s Got to Give” and the practically whispered words on album-closer “Namaste”). All of these songs are successful: once the novelty of these clown princes of rap playing instruments wears off, it quickly becomes evident that they also can compose memorable tunes. They have gone from sampling Curtis Mayfield (on “Paul’s Boutique”) to creating bona fide slinky ‘70s soundscapes. And yet, even as they are taking fairly giant strides forward, the band can’t help looking (lovingly) backward: many of these tracks invoke the aforementioned ‘70s soundtrack vibe (“POW”, “In 3’s”) while others recall the past as a springboard for the band’s unique vision (“Lighten Up”, “Gratitude”). And then there is the funkified anthem “Groove Holmes”, an unadulterated tribute to the jazz organist generally considered one of the forefathers of acid jazz. It was never this good before, and never got this good again.

Of course, there are some rambunctious reminders of the good old days, with marble-mouthed rapping front and center on songs like “Finger Lickin’ Good”, “Stand Together”, “The Maestro” and “Professor Booty”. The highlight of the band’s rap-and-roll 3.0 is the tour-de-force “Pass the Mic”, where they demonstrate that they can still pull off what worked best on Paul’s Boutique. This is their tightest, most authentic rap song, a tag team effort crammed with ideas and energy, incorporating everything from Jimmy “Kid Dy-no-mite” Walker to James Newton (a five second flute sample that inspired an ultimately unsuccessful lawsuit). Obviously words can’t convey what sounds achieve, and the best way to “feel what they’re feeling” is to watch and listen:

Sample junkies can have a field day with what could (should?) have been a simplistic throwaway, the infectious “Funky Boss”. In actuality, it is a clinic of sound-collage adrenaline, from the bongo beat/cop-show theme introduction to samples ranging from Barrington Levy, Ohio Players and Richard Pryor—all in just over 90 seconds. “Finger Lickin’ Good” goes all the way from Rahsaan Roland Kirk to Sly and the Family Stone to…Bob Dylan (!). Speaking of Sly Stone, the band’s cover of “Time for Livin’” is like a brick through the window: a short, sharp shock wherein they manage to represent their hardcore roots while working in some borrowed lyrics from the immortal Lee “Scratch” Perry. And here again is an opportune time to reiterate why this album somehow manages to be slightly better than the sum of its parts. An entire album of (or, even a couple more) punk rock workouts would be entirely too much of a not-so-good thing; but coming as it does between the droll “The Biz vs. The Nuge” (sampling Ted Nugent’s “Homebound” with the irrepressible Biz Markie’s serenade) and the almost shockingly subtle “Something’s Got to Give”, it explodes as a one minute and 48-second smoke bomb.

What about the obligatory goofball quotient? The balance is just right, proving that the boys, no longer brats, could still be bratty. The gleeful sample from (actual album?) On Wine—How to Select and Serve is a refreshing change of pace, and the faux night club noodling of “Live at P.J.’s” is amusing enough, while showcasing Money Mark’s flawless organ embellishment. But the ultimate inside joke is the opening section of “The Maestro” which utilizes an actual voice mail left for the boys by someone who called the number for “Paul’s Boutique”: “Yo Paul…you can kiss my ass, I ain’t interested in you anyhow…”

Special mention must be made of the group’s tribute to Jimi Hendrix, the moment when all of these elements come together. “Jimmy James” is certainly one of the ultimate opening statements of any album made in the last two decades, and it still reverberates as the shot heard ‘round the record industry. Listening to this one, then, was an immediate announcement that we weren’t in Brooklyn anymore, and listening to it, now, is an unnerving reminder of how many bands (the good, the bad, and the awful) tried to imitate this hardcore rap rock amalgamation, with little success. Of course the boys themselves emulated the great Run DMC. Obviously they understood they could never sound as authoritative (or make it sound as effortless, think “It’s Tricky”). On the other hand, “Jimmy James” sounds quite unlike anything anyone else had done (or has done): building a sound structure from the ground up, all on a groove from an obscure Curtis Knight song (“Happy Birthday”, featuring a young Hendrix). It anticipates Beck and the full fruition of live music married to samples on Beck’s (Dust Brothers produced) Odelay. Here, the sick sounds of the B-Boys’ science coalesce: the raw scratching and brilliant sampling interspersed with their newfound joy of playing music. Interesting trivia tidbit: Unable to get approval from the Hendrix estate, the original version was “refined” and the actual Hendrix snippets (from songs like “Third Stone from the Sun” and “Still Raining, Still Dreaming”) were smoothed over; although even in the album version you can hear the split second of “Foxey Lady” that spins the song out. Check out the “Original Original Version”, below:

So why now for the deluxe reissue treatment? This being the 20th anniversary of Paul’s Boutique, which itself was remastered a few months back, means there is no time like the present to spruce up the best of the back catalog (their next album, Ill Communication will follow this summer). Frankly, the sound on the original CD was top-notch (much credit should be given to co-producer and engineer Mario Caldato Jr, aka Mario C.), so while you can certainly hear all “eight bazookas” on this edition, the real draw is the second disc chock full of B-sides and remixes. There is plenty of throwaway material here, but for fans who never splurged on the 12-inches, here is an opportunity to get all the detritus in one place. There are some interesting, if inferior versions (and/or remixes) of the mega-hits “Pass the Mic” and “So What’Cha Want”, and there are some tasty nuggets, such as “The Skills to Pay the Bills”. The true highlight is that “original original” version of “Jimmy James”; you can hear all those Hendrix samples and the groove is as aggressive and gnarly on this take.

As always, the material left on the cutting room floor tends to put the final product in appropriate perspective. The fact that they decided to omit a song like “The Skills to Pay the Bills”, which is, by any reasonable criteria, a better “song” than “Live at P.J.’s” or “Mark on the Bus” is ultimately not the point; it wouldn’t have fit into the flow as well. Each song on Check Your Head eases (or crashes) into the next, coming out guns blazing with “Jimmy James” and drifting off to serenity with “Namaste”. It might be said that this is one of the first CDs that truly approximates the feel of a double LP: it has the ups, downs and (importantly) the in-betweens that ultimately add up to an artistic statement: if nothing worthwhile is being said, it’s forgettable, when the material is tight and timeless, it endures as a stylistic and soulful milestone.

“Gratitude” (A joyful riff on Pink Floyd at Pompeii):

And the original, from Floyd:

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Props on Pops: 70th Birthday Edition

May 3, 2012 By Leave a Comment

I have written more than once about my mother (here and here) but I haven’t said a great deal (here) about my old man. That is, in part, because he is still very much with us, and our story is still unfolding. For a variety of obvious reasons, I hope that continues to be the case for a long, long time.

But anyone who knows me understands that my relationship with the old guy (Pops, to me; Jack, to others, Pa, to his two grandchildren), which I’m happy to report has always been more than solid, is a non-negotiable facet of my existence. Certainly, after what he and I (and my sister and her husband) went through during and after the death of my mother, things could never be the way they were. On literal and figurative levels. When I talk to others about this inevitable part of many people’s lives (e.g., losing a parent long before it’s expected or acceptable), I usually offer the opinion, based on what I’ve witnessed and experienced, that the crisis either pulls families closer together or pushes them farther apart. At least once a day, on some level, I’m grateful that our family had the foundation to rally around one another and work together on healing, a process that is measured not in years or months or even weeks but in days and sometimes minutes. We went through it, together and we’ll go through it, together.

I had the opportunity to toast my old man on his (surprise) 60th birthday party, which occurred at his favorite local restaurant, Dante’s. It was amazing to take him back there Tuesday night for a mano a mano dining adventure (keyword: soft-shell crabs) and reflect on how much has changed in the last ten years. But mostly we did –and will– focus on how little has changed: it’s still family first, we celebrate all of these occasions together and I remain as grateful as I’ve always been that this good man brought me into the world. It’s a world I would have been ill-equipped to enter, as an adult, without his guidance and support. It’s a world I’m more grateful than I’ve ever been that he is still very much a part of. We will celebrate those bonds of love and devotion tonight, like we always do.

Enough. There are plenty of things to say about Pops, but today, on the occasion of his 68th (EDIT: 70th!) birthday, I would like to acknowledge, and celebrate, the bond of music that we (like my mother and I) share. Pops is no aficionado, but he has (some) game and I always am pleased to recall the handful of original LPs I happily stole from his collection. One of my earliest musical memories, along with the old Fantasia coloring book sessions, was Curtis Mayfield’s masterpiece, the soundtrack of Superfly. It is not an overstatement to suggest that this album set an aesthetic tone early in my formative development that made me more open (and, of course, susceptible) to all types of music. But no need to linger on the nuances; the nitty gritty of the situation is that holding the original fold-out double album of this blaxploitation classic was a seminal ’70s experience. It was immensely gratifying to give the old man a copy of the remastered reissue of this bad boy on his birthday in 1998.

Curtis Mayfield, “Freddie’s Dead”:

Another one that was in his slight but not unimpressive collection was the original pressing of Janis Joplin’s last joint, Pearl. I even have a picture of him, on his birthday (must have been ’71), happily holding the album up. Shame on me and not getting my scanner set up yet (stay tuned, and be forewarned). Of the “big three” who left us that unfortunate year, Pops never cared much for Jim, and never fell deeply in love (as he should have) with Jimi, but he did –and does– love Janis. Who could blame him?

Janis Joplin, “Get It While You Can”:

 

Wonderful memory: remember back in the ’80s when radio stations (even before “classic rock” stations became all the rage mid-decade) used to do their Top 500 countdowns on holidays (often either Memorial Day or Labor Day but occasionally July 4)? I used to live for those things and would listen, dutifully scribbling down the entries. Anyway, back in the early ’80s it was very unusual to hear unedited, long songs on the radio. So a song like Peter Frampton’s “Do You Feel Like We Do” was one of those rare treats you’d catch a couple of times a year, if you were lucky. I didn’t own that album (yet) but that only made it more of an event if/when it came on. During one of the countdowns, on July 4, this one came on and Pops and I were heading back from the pool to cook out pre-fireworks. The famous “talk box” section was yet to occur, so we pulled up in the driveway and Pops simply let the car idle. Too enraptured in the moment to even miss a few seconds before we could dash into the house and turn it on the stereo, we sat there, in our soaked swimsuits and savored the moment. These are the types of shared encounters that, I suspect, sustain the father-son relationship a decade down the road when curfews are being tested and new boundaries are being established.

Peter Frampton, “Do You Feel Like We Do”:

 

1980: there weren’t a ton of bands (or albums) that all of us could enjoy (and by all of us, I mean my parents and me because my sister was never on board although, by 1980 she was already a teenager, so we’ll forgive her), but Bob Seger’s Against The Wind definitely made the cut. In fact, that may have been the only album (aside from The Beatles’ Blue Album) that we owned on LP (mine), cassette (hers) and 8-track (his). Pops has always had a thing for Seger and insists he is a better live performer than Bruce Springsteen (he has never seen either in concert, so we’ll forgive him).

Bob Seger, “No Man’s Land”:

Speaking of 8-tracks…

The Ford Grenada (speaking of the early ’80s!) sported an 8-track and anyone who lived then may recall the not exactly cutting edge way this “technology” handled the transition from one “track” to the other: if a song had not ended before the next “track” was programmed, it would just fade out where it was, then click, and fade back in (I’m sure the artists at the time were thrilled with this development and the ways it butchered their songs). There are more than a handful of albums we owned that, to this day, I can remember (and still, not without some fondness, hear) where these transitions occurred. One of the albums from that era that warrants a serious reexamination is Pat Benatar’s debut In The Heat of the Night. That album holds up remarkably well (indeed, the only two songs I don’t listen to these days are the two hit singles, the generic FM paint-by-numbers anthem “Heartbreaker” and the egregious Blondie rip-off “We Live For Love”). I’m serious. If you haven’t listened to this one in ages, or never owned it in the first place, I’m sure you can –and should– get a used copy real cheap at Amazon.

Pat Benatar, “In The Heat of the Night”


Another band whose catalog we owned on 8-track was Heart. Speaking of another band that deserves a sustained critical endorsement (mental note): their first five albums were solid, and while Little Queen and Bebe Le Strange are minor masterpieces and the first album, Dreamboat Annie, has one of the great first sides of the ’70s, for my money their finest hour is 1978′s Dog and Butterfly. This one got much play in the Grenada and it still gets a lot of play at my crib. When she was in top form, as she is throughout this album, there were few voices as compelling and out and out sexy as Ann Wilson’s. (Pops had the LP version of Little Queen and I used to happily gaze at that front cover for hours. Still gives me a little tingle even today.)

Heart, “Mistral Wind”:

Pops is from Boston (as was my mother), so in addition to the accent he’s never lost (much to many of my friends’ delight), we cruised up north each Christmas and most summers. These were eight or nine hour jaunts (more if traffic or weather were issues and one or both invariably were) and I recall fantasizing, as a ten year old, how amazing it would be to just kick back and watch movies in the back to pass the time. I think of this now and how lucky today’s snot-nosed little brats are (not that I’m bitter or anything) to have video-on-demand installed into the headrest in front of them.

We got through those trips the old-fashioned way: painfully. Lots of reading, Mad Libs and music. Especially music. By the time I got to high school, sis was in college (ironically, in Boston) and moms usually flew the friendly skies, so it was a mano a mano adventure for many years. My father, being very much a man of routine, had (and has) his favorite discs (then cassettes) for each trip. Many, which we fortunately agreed upon, were mandatory, such as CCR (see below), Skynyrd (ditto), The Beatles (see above), Heart (ditto) and a handful of rotating flavors-of-the-year (I’m still not sure I’ve recovered from his infatuation with the Fine Young Cannibals circa 1989).

Funny story: one of the worst fights we almost got in was not due to alcohol, drugs, or a pregnant cheerleader, but whether or not we could (should) listen to the full (and, in hindsight, insufferable) 18 minute version of “In-A- Gadda-Da-Vida”. The fifteen year old me voted yes. Let me explain: this was the summer of either ’85 or ’86 and I was already long past the point where I took music a bit too seriously. At his request, I brought along one of my mixtapes (a long lost art I could have done graduate work in or made a career out of, had the world ever been kind enough to offer graduate degrees or paychecks for such consequential and benificent endeavors). Anyway, that song came on and about half-way through my pops –because he was sane– grew tired of the interminable organ and drum noodling, and since (although he is a seismologist, has a profoundly anti-technology acumen) he could not figure out how to fast forward the tape (you know, that fast forward button) he told me to move things along. I invited him to do it himself if he was so eager to get through the song. Hilarity ensued. Not one of my finer moments, but it was a matter of principle. And, considering I really did like that song at one time, and had not done any drugs, this proves two things: one need not be stoned, only immature, to find pleasure in Iron Butterfly; and I was, clearly, already pretty far down the rabbit hole in terms of the whole music thing.

Iron Butterfly, “In A Gadda Da Vida”

Usually, there were no issues regarding music. Mostly because it’s not that difficult to fill up nine hours. The trips almost always kicked off with CCR, not only one of the all-time great American bands, but absolutely perfect road trip music. Full props to the old man for having an original LP copy of the almost-immaculate Cosmo’s Factory, which I spun like a squeaky clean Jeffrey Lebowski.

Creedence Clearwater Revival, “Long As I Can See The Light”:

 

Otis: Because sometimes you have to break out the big guns.

Otis Redding, “Pain In My Heart”:

 

I knew I liked Skynyrd (I remember when “That Smell” got played on the radio in ’77/’78, and thinking that nobody else sounded like they did) but I did not know I loved Skynyrd until I asked for –and received– the double LP Gold & Platinum for my 12th birthday. This one has the (incredible) live version of “Gimme Three Steps” and, of course, the ultimate (live) Bic Lighter anthem “Free Bird”. Later on I crafted a mix that incorporated more material from the very overlooked Second Helping, but that original cassette copy kept us energized, and sufficiently southern, as we headed north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Lynyrd Skynyrd: “Simple Man”:

More on the musical memories, and Pops, another time. For now, it’s good enough to give credit where it’s due, celebrate a beloved father’s continued health, and acknowledge 68 (EDIT: 70!) well-lived years. Most of all, it’s nice to know this particular story is still being written.

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Let’s Get Ready To Rumble

May 1, 2012 By Leave a Comment

With a major h/t to my friend, and prolific author, Robert Rodriguez (if you are a music fan and especially if you are a Beatles fan, you need to get to know his work, STAT), I learned that today is Link Wray’s birthday.

For more on him, and his seminal instrumental “Rumble” (a song that launched a thousand surf songs), check it out.

And enjoy the video, below.

One of my favorite moments in recent cinema history is in It Might Get Loud when Jimmy Page pulls out some vintage wax and then proceeds to wax rhapsodic about “Rumble” and the effect it had on him as an impressionable young rock-god in training. To see PAGE air-guitaring to one of his heroes is a slice of heaven.

I don’t need to add anything more, right?

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Beauty is a Rare Thing: Celebrating International Jazz Day

April 30, 2012 By 1 Comment

All hope is not lost. At least enough people are still making –and listening to– jazz that we can even attempt to initiate what hopefully becomes an ongoing occasion.

In a piece celebrating one of my heroes, Eric Dolphy, I made an honest attempt to address what jazz music means to me and why I consider it an obligation to share this passion (full piece here):

I know that jazz music has made my life approximately a million times more satisfying and enriching than it would have been had I never been fortunate enough to discover, study and savor it.

During the last 4-5 years, I’ve had (or taken) the opportunity to write in some detail about, to name a relative handful, Freddie Hubbard, Wayne Shorter, McCoy Tyner, John Zorn, Henry Threadgill and Herbie Hancock. This has been important to me, because I feel that in some small way, if I can help other people better appreciate, or discover any (or all) of these artists, I will be sharing something bigger and better than anything I alone am capable of creating.

Before this blog (and PopMatters, where virtually all of my music writing appears), and during the decade or so that stretched from my mid-’20s to mid-’30s, I used to have more of an evangelical vibe. It’s not necessarily that I’m less invested, now, then I was then; quite the contrary. But, if I wasn’t particuarly interested in converting people then (I wasn’t), I’m even less so today. When it comes to art in general and music in particular, entirely too many people are very American in their tastes: they know what they like and they like what they know. And there’s nothing wrong with that, since what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Also, let’s face it, the only thing possibly more annoying than some yahoo proselytizing their religion on your doorstep is some jackass getting in your grill about how evolved or enviable his or her musical tastes happen to be. Life is way too short, for all involved.

I have, in short, done my best to provide context and articulate why some of us continue to worship at this altar of organic American music. Naturally that discussion has included Miles, Mingus, Monk. And of course, Coltrane. With any honest discussion of jazz we can quickly get dragged into an abyss of snobbishness (however unintentional), trivial footnoting and the self-sabotaging desire (however well-intended) to include all the key characters. So for the novice, it’s not necessary to begin at the very beginning. Indeed, it might be advised to get a taste of Coltrane, who is at once accessible and imperative. Here’s my .02:

For those whose definition of genius is either too encompassing or excessively narrow, John Coltrane poses no problems: there isn’t anyone who knows anything about music (in general) and jazz (in particular) who would contest that he is among the most prominent, impressive and influential artists to ever master an instrument. Furthermore, to put Coltrane and his unsurpassed proficiency in its simplest perspective, it might be suggested that no one has ever done anything as well as Coltrane played the saxophone.

Plus, he was an exceptionally gifted composer and bandleader and, by all accounts, he was a generous and gentle human being, as well. All of which is to say, if there is anyone worthy of celebration in our contemporary American Idol Apocalypse, Coltrane should serve as both antidote and inspiration.

Entire piece here. Also, this:

The title of this post comes courtesy of the brilliant Ornette Coleman (speaking of misunderstood geniuses; to call him an iconoclast is like calling Marine Boy a good swimmer). More on him here and a crucial preview of the shape of jazz that came, below:

Jazz is not only fun to listen to (duh), it’s fun to analyze and obsess over. For instance, a short treatise on some of the more sublime sax solos can be found here. A case is made for the best jazz outfit ever assembled, here.

And a loving ode to contemporary jazz (for all the haters who won’t acknowledge it and the uninitiated who are entirely unaware of it). A taste:

What happened next is, again depending on one’s perspective, the languid death march of America’s music or a continuation of an art that seamlessly integrates virtually every noise and culture from around the globe. A certain, and predictable, cadre of critics submerged their heads in the sand and bitched about better days. The awake and aware folks who make and receive these offerings celebrate an ever-evolving music that resists boundaries and is capable of communication transcending language and explanation. At its best it is an ideal synergy of expression and integrity.

Anyone who knows anything understands that some of the best jazz music ever was created in the ’70s (no, really) and a great deal of amazing music was made in the ’80s (seriously). But in the ’90s and into the ’00s we’ve seen jazz music consistently –and successfully– embrace other forms of music (rock, rap, electronica, etc.) and end up somewhere that remains jazz, yet something else altogether. There are myriad examples, of course, but this small sampler of five selections might be illustrative, and enlightening. The uninitiated may be surprised, even astonished, at how alive and accessible this “other” music really is.

One could (and should) say more about artists such as Lester Bowie, Jamie Saft, Marco Benevento, The Bad Plus, Critters Buggin, Garage a Trois and Mostly Other People Do The Killing, all of whom have incorporated our (increasingly) info-overload existence into their sound. Slack-jawed and stale-souled haters may demur at even calling this Jazz, or course. And of course the last laugh is on them because most of these musicians would care less than a little what you call it. They understand that the shape of jazz that came is always turning into what we’ll be listening to tomorrow.

The entire thing, with some very tasty audio samples, here.

For now, this (which does more to convey the ecstasy of improvisation and community, not to mention solidarity and soul, than a billion blog posts ever could):

In the end, jazz is always about now and the wonderful possibilities of tomorrow, but it also achieves what the best music of any genre does, and brings us back, always, to the beginning.

To be continued…

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