Murphy's Law

There are usually two distinctive types of posthumous releases in music. The first and more frequent is the one that makes you cringe, often involving the rapacious pillaging of the vaults, foisting unfinished or unworthy product on a (mostly) unsuspecting public. Of course the unearthing of an occasional gem (sometimes) compensates for the smattering of detritus an artist never intended to allow into the world, and for good reason. The second instance involves authentic work that was either close to completion, or polished material that for whatever reason never saw the light of day (there are countless examples of this phenomenon in jazz).

The unexpected but most welcome release of Ali and Toumani is, to be quite certain, an example of the latter scenario. Although Ali Farka Touré was taken entirely too soon (despite having lived a long and productive life, artistically and spiritually) in 2006 after battling cancer, the two albums that appeared in rapid succession just before and shortly after his death lessened the blow. The fact that his last proper album, the typically excellent Savane, was heard by the world after he had left it did not cause many fans (at least not this one) much room or reason to hope there was any unfinished business. As it happens, based in part on the rapturous reception his first collaboration with Toumani Diabaté, 2005’s Grammy-winning In the Heart of the Moon, the two men were eager to work on a second recording. Ali and Toumani is the delightful result of this second, and unfortunately final, meeting of the minds.

For anyone who has not yet had the pleasure of discovering either of these indispensable artists, this release is an ideal point of entry. The fact that we got any music from Ali Farka Touré after 1999 was a significant blessing. Touré, who was proficient in the ‘90s, made the abrupt but admirable decision to stop playing music and focus on his duties as mayor of Niafunké. Indeed, it was In the Heart of the Moon that prompted Ali’s return to the scene, as the two men already had a special bond based on mutual respect and admiration. Both are considered masters of their respective idioms: elder statesman Ali plays guitar-based “desert blues” and the much younger Diabaté is heralded as the supreme kora player on the planet (the kora is a 21-string African harp that looks and plays like an oversized lute).

In the liner notes to In the Heart of the Moon Diabaté calls Touré “the lion of the desert”. Famously, there were no rehearsals prior to the recording, at Touré‘s insistence. Touré understood both men would draw upon their considerable knowledge of each other’s work, and the improvised results were equal parts confidence and comradery, drawing upon traditional songs as points of departure. A similar strategy was employed for the Ali and Toumani sessions, and the results are equally stunning.

Knowing that Touré was close to the end of his battle with cancer certainly adds import to this occasion. As Diabaté says in the liner notes, “Ali was ill. There were moments, when playing a song, that we were forced to stop, because Ali was in so much pain.” Despite Diabaté’s protestations, Ali would insist on continuing. Not for nothing did the great man earn the nickname “Farka” (donkey) as a tribute to his legendary stubbornness. That strength and focus is evident in these recordings, as it is in practically everything Touré did—musically and otherwise.

It would seem perfectly straightforward, then, to discuss music with (almost) no vocals that consists (mostly) of acoustic guitar and kora. But in part because these two geniuses are capable of sounding like a miniature orchestra, and in part because the sounds they make are so rich and teeming with emotion, it is actually rather difficult to do this work justice. So let’s just say it is a complete triumph and anyone with even a passing acquaintance with either musician can count on guaranteed satisfaction.

The opening track, “Ruby”, was an untitled composition Touré brought to the studio, which he subsequently named in honor of Diabaté’s five-year-old daughter, who was present throughout the recordings. As is the case with most of the songs, Ali plays the tune while Diabaté embellishes, managing to sound like he is commenting as well as anticipating the next note from the guitar. It has a consistently hypnotic effect: the guitar is a waterfall and the kora is the whirlpool it continuously drops into.

There are no dull or mediocre moments, but a few songs immediately stand out. The third track, “Be Mankan”, is a tranquil waltz that features a subtle but striking kora performance. As Touré establishes the melody and reiterates it, Diabaté echoes every move, like a mono recording spliced with a stereo overdub. “Samba Geladio” is another irresistible groove that is quite reminiscent of “ASCO” (from 1999’s Niafunké).  Indeed, it is very like an acoustic version of that jam. “Sina Mory” is one of the few tracks with singing, and it was inspired by the suggestion that Touré recall the first song that inspired him to play guitar. Needless to say there is a full-circle element to these moving circumstances, with memory living—and kept alive—through music.

This is a deep, darkly beautiful work. The interplay between these two men is exceedingly rare in any type of music. Ali and Toumani is profound and powerful, with a soft accumulating force, like the individual drips of ice that form a river. This desert music is very much like the desert itself: it is expansive and immutable, and it will endure.

Meanwhile back in the year…1978?

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. The progressive rock monolith (immortalized, or infamous, from the cover of Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s Tarkus… or the cover of any Yes album) was lurching toward its bloated end-game. This was unfortunate, or overdue, depending upon your perspective. If punk rock did not quite reign supreme, there was no question that its DIY ethos was gaining steam. If one image (besides a disco ball) could express the disfavor the stadium-rock old guard was falling into, consider the (calculated) mileage Johnny Rotten received for scrawling “I Hate” above his Pink Floyd t-shirt. Pretense, all of a sudden, was anathema—and if the cash registers were still clanking, they would be replaced by synthesizer sounds and round-the-clock music videos in short order.

Back to basics? How about back to the 18th Century? That is the vibe Jethro Tull was emanating circa 1978. The band that dropped not one, but two single-song album suites (ingenious or insufferable, depending upon your perspective), had evolved into a proficient troop of professionals that incorporated strings, lutes, fifes and harpsichords into their repertoire. Beginning in 1975, with less irony than some might assume, Tull released consecutive albums entitled Minstrel in the Gallery and Too Old To Rock and Roll; Too Young To Die!. Then, as if doubling down on their never hip (but, to their credit, never affected) sensibility, they released Songs From The Wood (’77) and Heavy Horses.

To put more plainly, the same years The Clash, The Ramones and The Sex Pistols were establishing a radically new and brazen rock aesthetic, Ian Anderson appeared on an album cover flanked by two Clydesdales. Out of time and possibly out of touch (but still remarkably successful, for all the right reasons), Jethro Tull were, first and foremost, a band for people who craved intelligent and occasionally challenging music, played convincingly by exceptional musicians. How quaint.

In any event, it was while touring for the recently released Heavy Horses (the title track being a prescient—and unironic!—tribute to the working horses of England who, much like prog rock, were soon to step aside; their demise having less to do with trends and tastemakers than technology) that the band had the privilege of transmitting a show live, via satellite, from New York City to Britain. That Jethro Tull was the band selected for this historic occasion should adequately signify how huge they were at that time. Not for nothing (even though 1980 and alas, a new line-up ushering in a lesser era lurked unknowingly, just ‘round the corner), this was arguably Tull’s ultimate cast of characters.

The band, including mostly unheralded drummer Barriemore Barlow and the brilliant keyboardist John Evan, along with David Palmer (arranger/keyboardist) and Tony Williams (gamely filling in for bassist John Glascock, who would pass away a short time later at the absurdly young age of 28) as well as Anderson’s right hand man, lead guitarist Martin Barre, were a force to be reckoned with. These lads brought the noise—so to speak—in the studio and were quite capable of recreating their material on stage.

And the above point gets to the heart of the matter in regards to the merits of this new release. For a band that has toured almost ceaselessly for four decades (!), there is painfully little footage available of Tull in their prime. The year 1978, then, finds them suitably confident and eager for the occasion, and they acquit themselves with flying colors. The DVD, like the gig, was necessarily unorthodox: the satellite feed was transmitted to UK households watching The Old Grey Whistle Test. As such, the band was obliged to play a three song “warm up” (seen only by the live audience at Madison Square Garden), then re-start the concert, play until the allotted time ran out, “end” the show and then come back out for several more songs (again only seen by the live crowd).

This detail is intriguing not only as back-story but to marvel at how incredibly far we’ve come, technologically speaking, in only a few decades. The evening’s performance is included on this DVD, which generously includes a bonus CD with the same tracks (a fact that should elevate this offering from interesting to imperative for Tull fans).

The show itself is quite satisfactory: Ian Anderson, ever the showman, may have slowed down a step from his “Mad Dog Fagin” days, but he—and the rest of the band—is still fit, trim and full of fire. The highlight of the concert (and the “opening song” for the UK audience) must be “Thick As A Brick” which represents (at least for now) the definitive live version of this extraordinary tune.

The recent albums are nicely represented with spirited takes on “Songs From The Wood” (wherein the audience is literally challenged to “join the chorus if (they) can”), “Heavy Horses” and “No Lullaby”. As always, the band is obliged to perform crowd favorites “Aqualung” (which never translates particularly well live) and “Locomotive Breath” (which does), and there are some pleasant surprises such as “My God” and “One Brown Mouse”.

Live At Madison Square Garden 1978 is indeed a very worthwhile—and somewhat overdue—addition to the Tull catalog, and hopefully this signals an imminent willingness to explore the vaults for more (preferably even earlier) material.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/review/117708-jethro-tull-live-at-madison-square-garden-1978/

During my recent discussion with Dan Auerbach, there was heavy construction underway in the unit above mine: the refrain of hammering, drill work, and boot steps were like a Greek chorus constantly trying to get a word in. Annoying as this was, it was also quite appropriate. After all, it would be difficult to name a more workmanlike artist in today’s music scene than Auerbach. In less than one calendar year, he has delivered the latest Black Keys album Attack and Release, a concert DVD Live at the Crystal Ballroom, and his first solo album, Keep It Hid. In addition, and in keeping with the manufacturing metaphor, he recently completed his own studio, Akron Analog.

“The great moments in music always seem to revolve around a certain scene; there were a handful of studios where musicians would create together,” he remarks, when asked to elaborate on what drove him to construct a studio in his hometown. Clearly, he is intrigued by the idea of establishing an environment that encourages the sort of inspiration that commonly accompanies like-minded musicians coming together. Auerbach is consciously invoking the impetus behind some of the more fruitful collaborations, what might be called happy accidents, in rock history. Virtually all the stories involving Abbey Road, or Electric Lady Studios and, of course, Muscle Shoals, involve interaction amongst the assembled musicians. Sometimes the solidarity was a simple matter of proximity: one thinks of Led Zeppelin IV being recorded in the same building while Jethro Tull were assembling Aqualung, or the baby-faced members of Pink Floyd (working on their debut The Piper at the Gates of Dawn) sneaking peaks at the fab four as they concocted Sgt. Pepper, or, of course, Steve Winwood and Jack Casady (among many others) getting involved during the marathon late-night sessions that led to Jimi Hendrix’s masterpiece Electric Ladyland.

“Too often, it seems that in today’s scene, people can use computers and multiple studios, and we kind of lose the human connection,” Auerbach says. “I wanted that human element to be part of Keep It Hid.” He is not bemoaning the positive aspects of technology that have democratized the process—even, in some cases the basic ability—of recording; rather, he is interested (some might say obsessed) with the idea of authenticity. Working live in the studio, without the safety net of overdubs and production tricks, is one of the hallmarks of the distinct niche he’s carved out, along with Patrick Carney, in the Black Keys.

“This originality is the aspect of older music I like the best: it’s timeless and pure. Just musicians in a room, interacting.” Indeed, his first solo album is very much a collaboration (for more details about the various artists involved and the process of recording, a review of Keep It Hid can be found here). “Listen, I love The Black Keys, and this album is not a step away from that band. I just feel it’s necessary for Patrick and I to explore, and learn, and grow as much as we can.” (For any fans understandably concerned that, in accordance with one of rock music’s more unfortunate clichés, just after the band released what is arguably their best album in Attack and Release, Auerbach is now breaking off to do his own thing, be comforted by Dan’s insistence that a new Keys album is already in the works.)

Asked to expound upon his quest to learn and grow, Auerbach is quick to praise the individuals he has worked with lately. “I’ve learned a whole lot. Working with Danger Mouse (who produced Attack and Release) was great. Really, I learn something new each time I work with anyone.” He has particular praise for the band he discovered and whose album he produced, Hacienda. “Watching them working out harmonies in the studio helped me realize there is a sort of science to it. It was like watching someone who had the code: I tapped into it, and I learned as I went, incorporating that into my own songwriting.” Hacienda is currently backing Auerbach on his American tour, proof positive that the association has been mutually beneficial, and rewarding.

Another epiphany that was a crucial component of Auerbach’s ongoing evolution as a songwriter was the experience of making Attack and Release. The somewhat mythical story is that this album was written for Ike Turner and, after his abrupt death, it became, by default, a Black Keys album. The reality is at once simpler and more complicated. Dan was indeed asked to write songs for Turner, but only a handful of those tracks were actually recorded. The process was taking longer than Auerbach (and Carney) were accustomed to, so they let the Turner project simmer on the back burner while they continued to create and record new songs. It was those subsequent tunes that comprise the bulk of Attack and Release.

Nevertheless, the process of writing songs for another individual was an illuminating experience. “I was writing in the third person, for the first time; it was more like writing stories than songs in a way.” He found this challenging, but ultimately liberating. “I felt like I was unlocking a door, and it was a whole new way to approach the idea of how a song is crafted.” Some of those songs, like “Oceans and Streams”, “So He Won’t Break”, and “All You Ever Wanted” wound up being particularly strong cuts on Attack and Release. The concept of storytelling within a song carried over to the Keep It Hid sessions. Songs like “The Prowl” and “Keep It Hid” were approached in a similar fashion. “I feel better about the songs,” he says. “When I first started out, I had no idea, really, how to write a song. We were just having fun!” The process of figuring it out is the history of The Black Keys, and the growth is measurable, in terms of craftsmanship and scope, with each successive effort. Progress, of course, is positive. “I’m not a kid in a basement anymore,” he says, laughing.

Discussion eventually and inevitably turns to the late Junior Kimbrough. It certainly makes all the sense in the world, with Auerbach’s proclivity for genuine sound, stripped-down recording and honest approach to songcraft, that Kimbrough has loomed large as a role model and inspiration. “He embodied so many parts of music, but only ever sounded like himself. I never like when people call his music “blues”; that is lazy, because he is so much more than that.” To say that Junior Kimbrough is his own paradigm, while accurate, does not account for what he represents—and what we are losing, as the older (mostly obscure and already forgotten) generation of southern Delta musicians pass on. Kimbrough, as much as any late-20th century musician (many of whom are lovingly represented by the heroic efforts of Matthew Johnson and his cohorts at Fat Possum Records, operating out of Oxford, Mississippi), represents a history of American music, but also something deeper and less definable. “It’s like hypnotic dance music,” Auerbach says. “You hear soul, rock ‘n’ roll, blues, even rockabilly, but also a kind of weird African thing.” That weird African thing is, of course, the undercurrent informing the earliest American blues. Filtered through acoustic, primitive folk and, later, amplified blues-rock, this is the type of “dark Americana” featured on Fat Possum. “Matthew is right in the middle of it; if it wasn’t for him no one would be listening to Junior, or R.L. Burnside and T-Model Ford.”

Asked to assess how he feels about the present and, more importantly, the future, Auerbach is typically humble, but positive. “I’m in a good place,” he says. “I feel better about songs and how to write them.” Days later, I caught Dan’s gig in D.C, which happened to be the opening show for his solo tour: he was in fine form; full of energy and enthusiasm. Not surprisingly, he uncorked a brand new tune (the not-quite-believably brilliant “Money and Trouble”) which bodes well for that forthcoming material. Hopefully, he’ll remain locked into a zone where nothing can slow him down. In addition to the aforementioned next Black Keys project, there is a steady stream of touring and recording already planned. “I’ve got my shows coming up, and then playing some festivals, solo and with Patrick. It’s going to be another busy year, and we’ll see if I end up taking a vacation.” The word vacation does not seem to be in Auerbach’s vocabulary, but then, it is abundantly clear his day job provides him more joy than most folks can conceive.

“The music is more about who I am than about what I’m trying to do,” he explains. In other words, the experimentation, the confluence of disparate source material, the superhuman productivity are all part of what makes him tick. “No matter how the work was received, I’d still be playing this music.” Not that he is indifferent to acclaim and acceptance. “Of course I want my albums to be successful, but ultimately I don’t care too much what anyone thinks. I mean, I’m going to sound this way, no matter what.” That is the essence of Auerbach’s sensibility, which combines a restless quest to grow with an eye (and ear) keenly attuned to tradition and the best music that’s already been made. An important distinction Auerbach himself is at pains to point out is that while the old music speaks to him in a special way, he is not attempting to be “retro”; he is looking to tap into that organic vibe that is too easily, if correctly, called timeless. This simultaneous invocation of the masters with the cultivation of a distinctive style is one way to describe the trajectory of Auerbach’s career: the relentless search for authentic sounds.

July 7, 1977: When the two sevens clash.

You can, and should, appreciate Culture’s masterpiece all days of the year, but on July 7 you better recognize.

I wrote about Culture last summer for PopMatters when I did a feature on the Five Reggae Albums You Cannot Live Without.

Culture is immortal for their 1977 tour de force, Two Sevens Clash, one of a handful of albums that can justifiably be uttered in the same sentence as Heart of the Congos. Unlike the Congos, however, Culture continued to make important records after the summer of ’77, and were still going strong when bandleader Joseph Hill abruptly died—while on tour—in 2006.

Anyone in the know already knows two things: no self-respecting fan of music can tolerate the absence of Two Sevens Clash from their collections, and Joseph Hill’s voice is enough to make even the most recalcitrant atheist at least contemplate the possibility of a higher power. A single line from any Culture song makes it abundantly, wonderfully apparent that Joseph Hill was put on this earth, above all other things, to sing.

This is music you can party to but it’s also music you should rally around.

And when it comes to reggae, if one isn’t obliged to consider Bob Marley, one is often compelled to counter the misnomer that this music is lightweight, good-times fare. On the contrary, while even the best progressive music from the ’70s sometimes dressed itself up in self-indulgence and often suffocated in its own pretension as a result, the best roots reggae is deadly serious music made by top tier musicians. And the music deals with many of the so-called big issues that existed before people started making records.

The reality of this music is quite simple: one need not be under the influence to appreciate it. Indeed, an argument might be made (and I’m about to make it) that it can be more fully enjoyed without the aid of any type of chemicals, be they smoked, snorted or swallowed. The sheer musicianship is so tight and first-rate that it is an insult (to the music, to the musicians) for one to even imply that any type of “full effect” can only be attained through the assistance of a substance. This, of course, does not apply solely to reggae music: so many great bands (Pink Floyd in particular leaps to mind) are denigrated and, in some ironic instances, lauded, for being ideal music to accompany an altered state of consciousness. How many times have you heard someone proclaim: if you aren’t high, you won’t be able to truly experience (insert album or artist here)? What a load of bollocks. That certain types of music do undoubtedly lend themselves to certain experiences is undeniable, but the best art is never so one dimensional or short-sighted. In fact, an alternate case can also be made that only an engaged and clear mind can fully fathom the depths and dedication of serious artistic expression. None of this is intended to demonize the harmless (or even the occasionally harmful) use of any type of intoxicants—that, again, is a very separate and sometimes serious matter. Again, the only issue here is the facile association (and/or promotion) of drugs and music, because on a purely aesthetic level it debases both the art and the artist.

This, for the most part, is very serious music about very serious matters. And yet, Hill can’t help but make just about all of it sound celebratory and life-affirming. If, quite understandably, you read the words “life-affirming” and reflexively start to gag, I understand. I also encourage you, if you’ve not already done so, to immediately improve the quality of your life by ensuring that Joseph Hill has a place in it.

The 4th of July presents an at least two irresistible reasons to talk about The Doors.

One: Jim Morrison took his last bath on July 3, 1971 in Paris. R.I.P. Lizard King.

Two: 4th of July being the most American of holidays, what more appropriate occasion to celebrate the most American band?

(Actually, I would be content to simply consider The Doors as one of a handful of most American bands. There are a handful of others who could fairly lay claim to that title, including Creedence Clearwater Revival, Lynyrd Skynyrd, R.E.M., and, of course, the Jonas Brothers.)

What is not debatable, however, is the fact that “Light My Fire” is the seminal American rock anthem. That is the star spangled banner of psychedelia, and it endures.

I wrote, in what most normal people would consider painful detail, about The Doors in late 2006 and early 2007 for PopMatters. The first occasion was to take a stab at the Jim Morrison mythology, from a 21st century perspective; the second occasion was the release of the group’s thrice-remastered back catalog. I’m not sure I have anything else to add to those two detailed, if exhausting analyses, but I’ll cherry pick some of the more salient observations for those who understandably don’t wish to suffer through the original efforts.

Ten days, ten thousand dollars. That is the time and money required to craft one of rock music’s significant debut albums. If the Doors had simply disbanded after their eponymous first effort, they would unquestionably hold a sacrosanct space in the ‘60s canon. Recorded around the same time as Sgt. Pepper (not after, which is noteworthy), The Doors helped establish the possibility that a rock and roll album could—and should—be a complete, fully-formed statement. If, inevitably, this raising of the artistic bar inexorably led to unwelcome excesses, such as the progressive rock “concept album” in the early-to-mid ‘70s, it also elevated the music from the short, fluff-filled releases of the early-to-mid ‘60s.

A propitious way to create a near perfect album is to begin with an indelible opening salvo, and “Break on Through”, the first song and first single, still sounds fresh and essential 40 years later. This song delivers in every way: a signature sound (nothing else, then or now, sounds anything like this) and an urgency that balances aggression and acumen, in under three minutes. In terms of influence, it should suffice to say that the testimonials from bands in subsequent generations are numerous, and from a historical perspective, this dark but dynamic concision anticipates punk rock every bit as much as, say, The Velvet Underground.

Let’s face it, one reason it is so easy, even imperative, to poke fun at the Doors is because Manzarek himself, who has been anything but tongue-tied in interviews over the years, seems entirely too eager to elucidate the ways in which the band consciously emulated John Coltrane while composing their most important song. It might have behooved him a bit to understand that the considerable majority of even the most proficient jazz musicians are wary of drawing any sort of overt comparisons to Coltrane (mostly because the first thing it does is amplify the rather extreme divergence between the very good and the Great). And yet. Robby Krieger, through lessons and discipline, had developed a facility on the flamenco guitar before moving on to amplified blues, then rock; John Densmore received classical training and played in jazz bands for years; Manzarek too had classical training. Nevertheless, there is no shortage of musicians (in rock and even in jazz) who have all the technique and ambition in the world, but cannot craft truly original, irrevocable melodies. Only the most obstreperous haters will deny that, as a tune, “Light My Fire” is irresistible … at least the first million times.

Only the authority and influence of the first album keeps its follow-up somewhat in its shadow. More than a few fans, however, might insist that Strange Days is actually superior. Overall, the sophomore effort (also released in 1967) sounds more tied to its time, but as an artifact of that era, it holds its own all these years later. Not unlike the first album, Strange Days features an extended closing statement, the more straightforward but also more calculated (and less arresting) anthem “When The Music’s Over”. To its credit, the band did not ardently attempt to duplicate the formula that worked so well the first time around (not that this would have been possible anyway), and were willing, even eager, to take some risks. The results are mixed, but mostly very good and occasionally exceptional. For starters, the somewhat overproduced title track (with its dated echo effects on the vocal) might not catch LSD in a bottle like “Break On Through”, but it more than adequately conveys, lyrically and musically, a foreboding menace that anticipates the not-so-loving summer of ’68:

Strange eyes fill strange rooms
Voices will signal their tired end
The hostess is grinning
Her guests sleep from sinning
Hear me talk of sin and you know this is it.

Love (or even tolerance) of the group’s next two albums is what separates the cautious Doors fans from the true believers: each is extremely brief with several throwaways and a handful of the band’s better moments. Waiting For the Sun is the one that almost never got made, discourtesy of Morrison’s now chronic capriciousness; the antics that bolstered his myth, but more often than not derailed the delicate act of making good music. The obvious example of this dynamic is epitomized by the song that is not on the album. An ambitious composition, “The Celebration of the Lizard”, based on a poem by Morrison, was intended to fill up an entire side of the album. For myriad reasons (Morrison’s histrionics in the studio, the inability to record songs when the singer didn’t bother making it to the studio, general lethargy and uninspired musical ideas), the band never came close to a worthwhile take, and fans would have to wait a couple of years to hear a version on Absolutely Live!. A section of the song survived, and based on the quality of “Not To Touch The Earth”, it might have been the group’s masterpiece.

The title track of The Soft Parade, a cut and paste job of previously uncompleted shreds and fragments, manages to be messy, embarrassing and brilliant, sometimes all at once. Take it or leave it, no other band would ever conclude a song with the words, “When all fails we can whip the horse’s eyes / And make them sleep, and cry”. In between accelerated turns in his coffin, Dostoyevsky had to grin at least a little bit. To be certain, this is a trillion light years from “Soul Kitchen” or “People Are Strange”, but the horns and strings and somewhat indulgent envelope-pushing prove that the Doors were anything but a self imitating machine. Like any other group that endures through successive generations, their songs have an authentic, instantly identifiable sound; even when—as is often the case—the actual songs sound nothing alike. Untalented opportunists have sold their souls for much less, and in fact are doing so right now on prime time TV.

Morrison Hotel was, rightly, lauded as a stunning return to form, although that appraisal is only halfway accurate. It was a return to the days when the Doors put out unreservedly great records, but Morrison Hotel is nothing at all like its predecessors. A stripped down, blues-flavored affair, the entire band is on fire, with Krieger continuing to make a case for being perhaps the most under appreciated guitarist in a major rock group. From the moment this sucker hit the streets, one needed only a cursory glance at the revealing band photo spread out across the inside foldout cover (for those who can recall that album covers were minor works of art in their own right; for those who can recall albums): in a bar, sporting casual threads, surrounded by cigarette smoking, unpretentious patrons, this is a group that had lived a little but was still alive.

If the first two Doors albums are drugs, they’d be of the decidedly psychedelic variety; the next couple are a dangerous cocktail of amphetamines and Quaaludes—highs and lows surging in an uneasy rush. Morrison Hotel is beer: authentic, unfiltered, as American as it gets. Plain and simple, some of the band’s most indispensable material appears on this one, and the tone is set with ballsy assurance on the familiar opener, “Roadhouse Blues”. It is the next song, however, that showcases what this new and improved model sounded like. “Waiting for the Sun” is ominous, yet inviting; there are traces of the psychedelic fog, mostly thanks to Manzarek, but it’s Krieger and Densmore (along with raw and refreshingly live-sounding vocals from Morrison) that propel this song into a new decade. Significantly, the band finally had the wherewithal to complete a track intended to appear on the earlier album that bore its name.

If Morrison Hotel served as an unequivocal acknowledgment that the ‘60s were over (on multiple levels, not least of which the literal one), then L.A. Woman is another stride toward the future. It remains more than a little tantalizing to conjecture what, and how much, ammunition the band had up their collective sleeves, but judging solely on the increasing quality of their final two recordings, it is reasonable to lament some spectacular music that never had the opportunity to get made. Of course, it wouldn’t be a Doors album without some drama. This time, producer Paul Rothchild decided the band was a spent force, or, he had done all he could do to wrangle what he felt were acceptable versions of the assembled works in progress. Based solely on the strength of the eventual results, one wonders what he was thinking. In an inspired move based mostly on necessity, the band rallied around longtime engineer Bruce Botnick and decided to record the album pretty much live in the studio. What happened next could be a combination of luck, skill and the innate advantages of a band operating like a family, but whatever it was, the songs recall what worked so well on Morrison Hotel but also go places the band had not come close to approaching thus far. One obvious difference was the group’s employment of an actual bassist (Jerry Scheff) as well as a rhythm guitarist (Marc Benno); where the band had utilized session bassists on and off, it’s no coincidence that the meatier, bluesier sound is directly attributable to these welcome additions.

One of the great one-two punches in the Doors’ catalog concludes side one: “Cars Hiss By My Window” is arguably the band’s best song that no one has heard:

Headlights through my window, shinin’ on the wall
Can’t hear my baby, though I call and call …
Windows started trembling with a sonic boom
A cold girl will kill you, in a darkened room.

If you gave Lightnin’ Hopkins a lot of acid, he might have sounded something like this: lower than mellow, aged way beyond his years, but still seeing the sweetness and the humor and mostly telling it like it is. As straightforward as this song is, it is deceptively deep and reveals the considerable dividends of Scheff and Benno’s presence. Morrison’s human guitar howl at the end of the song sets up a sublime segue into what might be the band’s ultimate song. The title track is not as long or loquacious as the epics that closed out the first two albums, and while it is every bit as dark, it is also accessible and direct, a love letter and farewell note to the city the singer embodied:

I see your hair is burning
Hills are filled with fire
If they say I never loved you
You know they are a liar …
Are you a lucky little lady in the City of Light
Or just another lost angel … City of Night.

Morrison captured L.A. for the ages, and notably, he did not need to status-check at the Chateau Marmont to conjure it up. The city was in his blood: it was the back-alley bars, rat-trap hotels and squalid side streets that he prowled, equal parts inspiration and escape. So much dissipated potential, to be certain, but it’s also reasonable to suggest that his accelerated stretch in the spotlight enabled him to write the songs on L. A. Woman, not unlike Malcolm Lowry’s extended period of self destruction instigated Under the Volcano.

There will always be plenty of speculation about how much more Morrison could have done, what he might have achieved, what other things he had to say. On the other hand, looking back on the way he left things, what more needed to be said?

When it comes to the Doors, the world generally breaks into two camps: those who hate them and those who do not. Amongst those who do not, there are those who like them, and those who really like them. And then there are the real fans. This is not an uncommon spectrum for any well-known band, but considering the Doors released their last official album in 1971, their continued relevance—and the cult of personality disorder Morrison still enjoys—is impressive and more than a little inscrutable (and, for the haters, more annoying than anything else). Amongst the critics, the so-called experts, there tends to be an increasing dichotomy: those who regard Morrison as a poetic genius (or better still, a poet), a Lord Byron of the late 20th century; and those who actually read some poetry after high school and consider him a clown, a poseur whose laughable lyrics don’t merit a second thought.

The reality, as it often insists on being, remains pretty squarely in the middle. Compared to the Romantic poets, like Shelley or Keats, Morrison ain’t much (then again, who is?); although, compared to the Beats—as he often is—he comes off okay. And if that assessment tends to underscore the observation that the Beats weren’t all that, so be it. The only pertinent criteria should be: when measured against rock musicians who came before and after him, Morrison more than holds his own. The list of articulate wordsmiths who tower above the Lizard King is substantial, but the number of those who cower beneath him is incalculable.

And so, in spite of Oliver Stone’s best efforts to immortalize a few of his favorite things (About Jim Morrison? About the ‘60s? About himself? All of the above?), he mostly achieved—in his inimitably over-the-top way—the opposite of what he ostensibly intended: a hysterically sophomoric parody that celebrated virtually every irritating trait that made Morrison an insufferable man-child much of the time. Suffice it to say, his tantrums as well as the evidence of his untapped potential have been abundantly documented by a variety of individuals who, unlike Stone, had the advantage of actually being there, and being sane.

Morrison, like Hemingway, or (insert-name-of-notoriously-tortured-artist), had periods of productivity that preceded or followed, or happened alongside the drugging, drinking, and debauchery. Not focusing on (or even acknowledging) his more mundane—if lucid—moments is somewhat understandable given the constraints of a two hour movie, but it does any artist a considerable disservice to trivialize the efforts and industry that commonly accompany even the slightest of achievements. To be certain, Morrison was seldom sober in the recording studio, but that’s one reason he wasn’t a novelist. It is also why he is no longer alive. Oliver Stone’s ass-backwards hagiography is a quintessential slab of outsider’s groupie-envy, and despite what he may actually have intended, he turned his hero into a rather uninteresting cartoon character. In the final analysis, Morrison may have cared too little about his life, but he cared a great deal about his work.

Did you know freedom exists in a schoolbook?
Did you know madmen are running our prisons
Within a jail, within a gaol
Within a white free protestant maelstrom?
We’re perched headlong on the edge of boredom. 

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Morrison, not to praise him…

Well, at least the carefully manufactured, sacrilegious icon, fashioned from that most contemptible of forces: the artless imitators who seek to project their own half baked and unrealized rock star fantasies and, of course, the soulless record execs, whose gluttony launched a thousand greatest hits collections. And it hasn’t exactly helped that the people who claim to love him best have done the most to consummate and capitalize on the pseudo-mythology of a man who somehow gets younger every year. Death has been very good to Morrison, but it’s been even better for those who continue to profit from his fleeting but fruitful body of work. Not to mention his body.

This is not the end, my friends: despite misguided movies and the money-driven marketing machine, the music does endure simply because it continues to resonate with an always expanding audience. Forty years after “Light My Fire” Jim Morrison, to borrow an infamous headline, is still hot, he is still sexy, and he is still dead. But mostly, the Doors are very much alive.

A writer should always set challenges: it keeps things interesting and guards against formulaic and predictable assessments. Still, as Harry Callahan sagely observed, “A man’s gotta know his limitations.” I can’t say I would have felt the compulsion to attempt an appraisal of Fantomas, Mike Patton’s side project supergroup. How do you get a handle on vocals without lyrics? How do you describe what is essentially a sonic Molotov cocktail of Melvins, Mr. Bungle and Slayer? Perhaps by suggesting that Fantomas are a Molotov cocktail of Melvins, Mr. Bungle and Slayer.

So when PopMatters decided to continue commemorating its ten year anniversary with a feature dedicated to the most essential albums released in 1999 (they already looked at the seminal movies from that year, and I took that opportunity to write about The Insider), it was like fate (with a lowercase F) was daring me to do work. No serious discussion of 1999 could fail to incorporate the debut from Fantomas (as well as Mr. Bungle’s California–more on that later in the week…), so I gave it the old post-graduate try.

Link here; (the site also has sound samples from the album) text below:

27 April 1999
Fantômas
Fantômas

Mike Patton has straddled so many genres and appeared with so many different artists (John Zorn, Dan the Automator, and Kaada, just to name three), it’s almost impossible to think back to that time, a little over a decade ago, when Faith No More fans agonized over whether that band would reunite (they would not). At the same time, the smaller, but equally—if not more—fanatical contingent of Mr. Bungle fans wondered if, and how, that band could possibly follow up their uncategorizable shot heard round the underground, Disco Volante. Their prayers would be answered with California, which then sent fans into another prolonged wait-and-see as to whether Mr. Bungle would record again (they would not).

Patton has made so much music that it really is incredible—and more than a little amusing—to remember that he was a straightforward rock deity, relatively speaking, circa 1998. That is to say, he was famous (relatively speaking) for fronting Faith No More, even though that band got (and still gets) more attention for its decidedly mediocre breakthrough The Real Thing (1989) than Angel Dust (1993), which is easily one of the best and most influential albums of that decade. No matter what Patton proclaimed, most folks assumed that Mr. Bungle was a lark, a side project to scratch the creative itches his more mainstream material could not approach.

And so, regardless of what anyone expected, or hoped for, it was less than likely that anyone could have anticipated what the eccentric frontman was cooking up in his laboratory. As soon became evident, Patton was headed in a very different direction indeed, inspiring him to recruit a supergroup of sorts to help him realize his vision. Calling on Trevor Dunn (good friend and bassist from Mr. Bungle), Buzz Osborne (guitarist and mastermind of the Melvins), and Dave Lombardi (the widely worshipped drummer from Slayer), Patton assembled what appeared, on paper, to be a metal lover’s wet dream. Amazingly, the collective turned out to surpass even the wildest hype, gelling to constitute a unified whole greater than the sum of its impressive parts. Of course, musicians of this magnitude can’t help but be brilliant, but the lion’s share of the credit must go to Patton, as this was his baby for every step of the way. The band played and perfected the material Patton provided, and the resulting album hit the streets in April 1999, becoming the inaugural release for Ipecac, Patton’s new label.

Fantômas, named after the very popular, if controversial, early 20th century French crime novel character, is effectively the band that ensured Patton was finished with Faith No More (soon, he would also be finished with Mr. Bungle). It’s challenging to describe what their eponymous debut sounds like, in part because it incorporates so many different styles of music. It is decidedly avant-garde work, with the hardcore flourishes one would expect from Osborne and Lombardo. It is also refreshingly out there, which one would expect from Patton. But this does not begin to address how truly original the album is, or the ways it achieves oddness of a whole other magnitude.

Patton does not sing so much as employ his seemingly limitless vocal range as a fourth instrument—there is not a single intelligible word uttered through the duration of the recording. Indeed, the work itself does not feature songs, but “pages”, the idea being a musical interpretation (or recreation) of a comic book: 30 sonic snippets that accompany the “plot” illustrated in the CD booklet. Frankly, the pictures (though very effective) are not necessary, as the emphasis here is on sounds and feelings, not linear narrative. This is not to imply that the proceedings are unintelligible; rather, the music unfolds with its own internal logic. Impenetrable and abrasive at first listen (Patton sounds like a trapped animal, a human chainsaw, and a motorboat engine out of water, sometimes all in a span of ten seconds), this is challenging material that obliges the audience to surrender expectations and meet Patton on his own terms.

A great deal of time and effort could be dedicated to debating what it all means, or how he did it (as ostensibly free-wheeling as the material may seem, Patton actually choreographed every second of it before the band ever got involved), and where this recording properly fits in an assessment of Patton’s evolution. In hindsight, Fantômas is very obviously a direction—wayward or ingenious, depending upon the listener—Patton wanted to head in, and he’s never backtracked, for better or for worse. To this listener, it represents the first day of the rest of Patton’s artistic life. Fantômas let him break with what he must have felt were the straightjacket-like conventions and expectations of the traditional rock route, and it’s almost like he had to invent his own language to give free expression to what was boiling around inside his mind.

Fantômas is not an album most people would put into the regular rotation. It’s intense, it’s involving, and it requires a full sitting to absorb—although having heard it so many times, I actually can queue up individual “pages” and enjoy them on their own terms: Pages 1, 2, 3, 4, 10, 11, 12, 15, 17, 19, 21, 26 and 29 are endlessly interesting and satisfying, especially if they randomly pop up in the iPod shuffle—and it’s most likely not the music you want on when company is present. Ten years has not remotely diminished its quirky, edgy ambition, and it remains a very unique document, even in Patton’s ever-growing catalog.

It’s difficult to determine how influential this work was, because nobody else in the world could ever have conceived this, much less pulled it off. It was an inspiration for the assembled players, as they would collaborate many times in the ensuing years, with predictably engaging results. Whether or not Fantômas is the best work Patton has done is totally irrelevant, but it is perhaps the most important work he has ever done. For himself.

Sean Murphy

Yeah, but could they do it live? Oh, they could do it live.

Ten years is a long time.

Imagine something you love, or crave. Then imagine ten years without it.

Some cravings (indeed, most cravings, it might be argued) involve things like Big Macs or Coca Cola or candy that aren’t good for you and you don’t (or shouldn’t) miss once you jettison them from your wish list. Once you get them out of your system, they are like any bad relationship: you don’t miss them and wonder why it took you so long to move on. In the case of fast food and soft drinks, I went cold turkey on the former more than fifteen years ago and stopped drinking Coke back in college (still had a lingering fondness for Sprite until the mid-90s and only now will occasionally have the random ginger ale, particularly when I’m sick. Ginger ale, and old school Campbell’s Chicken with Stars, are the two things I still tend to require when I have a seriously sore throat). I don’t miss any of those old indulgences, and in fact, can’t believe I ever used to drink this junk (I say this without judgment, especially for my myriad Diet-Coke dependent friends, but just considering how much sugar is actually involved in creating this chemical swill remains revolting). I still have the ephemeral pangs (mostly sentimental, I’d imagine) for Big Macs; kind of the way an amputee will feel the phantom limb that is no longer there. In the case of the Big Mac it’s probably not all that complicated: they were good, then, and I associate the days I ate them with a much simpler time (for both myself and the planet).

I wouldn’t quite go so far as suggesting that Big Macs are for me what the madeleines were to Proust, but you get the picture. In any event, I don’t miss fast food burgers one bit. (I saw the light more than a decade before I encountered Eric Schlosser’s incredible and highly recommended Fast Food Nation but reading that book certainly obliterated any possibility that I may one day backslide.) Being human, however, I would never turn my nose up at some fast food french fries. I mention that just so you know I’m not insane.

However facile it may sound, I have always readily conceded my obessesion with books, movies and music. Especially music. Always music. That is readily apparent to anyone who knows me or has read my work at PopMatters, or just this blog. Aside from the financial implications of being hopelessly, unabashedly addicted to the appreciation and acquisition of art ones loves, it’s difficult to deny this is a very positive thing. It certainly has enriched me in far greater proportion than the filthy lucre I’ve coughed up in exchange for it.

Plus, I know Ludwig Van has my back:

As does infamous Beethoven lover Alex from A Clockwork Orange (as well as Anthony Burgess, not to mention Stanley Kubrick):

So, obviously, when it comes to compulsions there are two extremes (the ones that are inexorably bad for you, like fast food, and the ones that are almost entirely wholesome, like Art-with-a-capital-A). Where it gets a tad more interesting, or complicated, as usual, is when one considers that vast gray area. What about the things that are not necessarily good but not necessarily bad?

Exhibit A: Fisherman’s Friend. In case you are unfamiliar and need the history of these mysterious and alluring lozenges, they are not for the weak-willed, the unimaginative or the salubrious. In other words, not for normal people. But if, like Baudelaire, Rimbaud or Verlaine (just to name some of the famous Frenchmen), this world never quite sits right with you, there is eventually going to be a craving that you cannot contain. For these gentlemen it was Absinthe; for me it was Fisherman’s Friends.

At first it was only for those occasions when I was really sick; in the throes of bronchitis or some combination of extreme indulgence and reduced sleep resulting in a minor case of walking Bubonic Plague, common to the post-college/waiting tables finding oneself phase. When it hurt to breathe, or eat, or drink fluids, or to simply think, it was time to pop in a Fisherman’s Friend, that oddly licorice-like lozenge that (I fancied) did to my bacteria-laden esophagus what scrubbing bubbles did to the soap scum on my bathroom tile: it overwhelmed it. And so, at that time, they were only for special occasions.

You see where this is heading. Eventually, no doubt aided by the sheer regularity with which a young twenty-something with a young twenty-something’s habits tends to fall ill, a tolerance was built. And then the seeds of dependence were planted. Soon, it was a matter of course to step beyond the original flavor and experiment.

Who knew there were so many flavors?

I did. And I tried many of them. Some were interesting, like the Aniseed, some not so great, like the sugar free mint. But it always came back to the original, with its strangely soothing, menthol powers. Not unlike the occasional glass of wine or bummed cigarette becomes a bottle or pack a day, the lozenges ultimately wielded their odd influence. At first it was nice to “take the edge off” the morning coffee: post caffeine buzz and pre-tooth brushing, it was an elixir to ease one into the day. But eventually that little white box was following me to work and I was developing a pouch-a-day habit. I had no reason to suspect these posed any health risks but they were so…strong that I was never entirely certain what they contained–no matter what the ingredients listed on the back. That, and the aftertaste is sufficiently strong you have that heavy licorice-menthol taste on your tongue all day. Not a bad proposition if you are on the crew of the Pequod or the Edmund Fitzgerald or this guy.

If you are sitting in a cube all day, not so much. So I set out in search of a new addiction. Fortunately, as I eased myself off the FF about a decade ago, I came to discover the joys of Ricola. The original flavor is like a thinking man’s version of the original Fisherman’s Friend lozenge; a tad sweeter, a tad cleaner and doesn’t leave you wondering if your lungs are turning brown. But Ricola has really branched out in the last decade or so, dropping a ton of new varieties, all of which are recommended without reservation: Orange-Mint, Honey Lemon with Echinacea, Honey Herb and especially Lemon Verbena with White Tea. Healthier than Altoids, less intimidating than Fisherman’s Friends, and better than virtually anything people with oral fixations tend to stuff in their mouths, Ricola is where it’s at.

See you in ten years.

To point out the superhuman scale Steven Wilson operates on is like pondering whether Donald Trump’s hair is for real. Wilson, whose name you may not know, nevertheless recorded a new album in the time it took me to type this sentence. Actually, that’s impossible; not because he couldn’t do it (I certainly wouldn’t put it past him) but because he is probably in the studio producing another of the myriad bands he is associated with. Steven Wilson, in short, has been one of the better kept secrets in the industry for some time, and with any luck (for him, for us) that is about to change.

He has recently issued his first solo album, and reviews have generally been positive. Many fans are probably pinching themselves at the prospect of another great product so soon after Porcupine Tree, the band Wilson fronts, dropped the acclaimed  album Fear of a Blank Planet (2007). The new album is quite appropriately entitled Insurgentes. Wilson very refreshingly marches to his own beat, and his audiophile obsessions are likely to antagonize some of the folks who might otherwise become ardent fans. Their loss. Part of his promotional efforts for the new album included his systematic destruction of several iPods, an attempt to illustrate his contempt for the woeful sound quality of MP3s, and how the current generation has already grown accustomed to dodgy fidelity. He is not a fanatic, however. As with virtually every topic he addresses, he acquits himself as a reasonable, erudite, sensitive individual:

Technology isn’t the enemy of the album. If anything, the opposite is true. Widespread broadband, cheaper hard drives and better compression formats allow listeners to access files that sound as good as CDs. The top two online stores—iTunes and Amazon—have found success selling high-quality files, proving that sound quality matters.

That is quoted from a recent editorial Wilson penned, here.

For an outstanding introduction to Wilson’s voracious appetite for construction, check out Stephen Humphries’ superlative feature from today’s PopMatters, here.

Some highlights include Wilson’s thoughts on the topics currently occupying his mind.

On iPods:

I’m not trying to say that the iPod is inherently bad. There are some great things about iPods and download culture. The fact that people are arguably listening to more music than ever now, and probably more wide ranging in terms of what they’re listening to than before. And the convenience aspect is wonderful.

On his much-discussed work ethic:

It really doesn’t seem like work to me. I think, in a sense, it’s such an honor and a privilege to be able to do this and make a kind of a living from it. To be able to say, “this is my job”, seems like a dream. So, because it doesn’t seem like work to me, the idea of “time off”, doesn’t really come into it. I love so many different kinds of music that it’s always been important to me to be able to explore those different kinds of music if I wanted to. Some days I wake up and want to make drone music. Some days I wake up and want to make pop music. Some days I wake up and want to make progressive music or heavy metal. Maybe that’s the reason I’ve had to be so prolific. Because, unlike many musicians who are quite content to mine one particular seam in style terms, I’ve never been happy to do that. I’ve had to be prolific to express the different sides of my character.

On how he engages with the world and vice versa:

Noise is not something relates to. Pure noise is something that some people don’t even think of as music. I’ve always loved pure sound. I never made a distinction, really, between music and sound. Let me explain what I mean by that. I grew up near to a train station and the sound of the trains became a very important part of my world. It was a very musical sound to me. And when I hear that kind of a sound, the sound of a train, it sets off all kinds of feelings in me. Nostalgic feelings. Is that not what music does?

On the possibility that the next Porcupine Tree album might be one long continuous tune:

It’s kind of a brave or a stupid thing to do. But, you know what? I think the climate is better now than ever to make those kind of gestures because singles, radio, video are more and more irrelevant as every month goes by. If bands are going to make ridiculous/ambitious/pretentious pomp—whatever you want to call it—we’re in an era when you can do that now again. It’s not just about radio and creating these pop songs anymore. That, in a way, is a return to the ’70s and I’m very happy about that.

Insurgent, indeed. The music scene desperately needs Steven Wilson right now, and fortunately for everyone, he seems more than equal to the task. Aside from a few more iPods that may need dealing with, it’s difficult to imagine many outside distractions interfering with his mission. There’s nothing more to be said, except: Rock on.

Porcupine Tree – Anesthetize

While Last Last Chance is recommended for the simple reason that it’s a fantastic book, it is also worth celebrating as an introductory statement from a young writer we should expect a great deal from going forward. Last Last Chance is part romance, part road story; it’s hilarious and it’s sad. Mostly, it’s a whip-smart treatise from the trenches, chronicling the increasingly desperate attempts of a young woman to connect with an increasingly insane world. While a considerable amount of her grief is self-induced, that is part of her charm. Besides, who can blame her for wanting to escape, by any means necessary, from a country that might be on the brink of apocalypse? One particularly tired cliché about a moving work of art is that it can cause you to laugh as well as cry; when you actually encounter the rare effort that accomplishes this, it’s something to shout about.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/feature/67364-popmatters-best-of-books-2008-fiction