The Cavedogs: College Radio Denizens and Kings of the 99 Cent Bin

A little while back I went into a record store and was looking through the racks of used CDs before I unexpectedly crossed the threshold into the 99 cent bin. One second I was looking through discs of The Who, XTC, Yes, and Zappa, and the next I found myself sifting through a number of cutout albums by bands I had never heard of, CD singles by rightly forgotten 90’s artists, and budget compilation CDs (second rate imitations of packages like Now, That’s What I Call Music). I diligently combed through the discs, reasonably sure that I was not going to find anything of any real quality, until I came across an EP by The Cavedogs, entitled Six Tender Moments.

Their 1991 EP, complete with the cutout scar

The Cavedogs, a Boston-based power-pop (if you must label it) trio consisting of guitarist Todd Spahr, drummer Mark Rivers, and bassist Brian Stevens released the EP in 1991 on Capitol Records after the band had left their first label, Enigma. It was a much more rag-tag affair than their albums, comprised of alternate versions of songs from their first album, non-album cuts, and a couple of covers (including a cheeky version of “What’s New, Pussycat?”). Also, with two of the songs being in-studio performances (one from KCRW at Santa Monica College and another from WERS at Emerson College) this EP just has a made for college radio feeling to it.

It was a serendipitous find. I had recently rediscovered the Cavedogs when listening to my iPod on shuffle and the song “Right on the Nail” came on. I hardly remembered the song, from their first album Joyrides for Shut-Ins, and in that moment, I found myself hearing it again for the first time. The song was cryptic, full of attitude, and with a hypnotic melody colored by a sneering vocal delivery, all propelled by frenetic acoustic strumming and the most solid power-pop drumming since Pete Thomas of the Attractions. It compelled me to check out their albums again.

I had not given them a listen since they first came out when I was thirteen. I was not listening to much current music at that time (I don’t think I was listening to any music by any band that wasn’t named The Who). I only bought Joyrides because The Cavedogs were friends of my step-brother, and I had met Todd and Mark a couple of times when he was visiting home on weekends and would drag his friends along. He also had played me tapes of theirs, one with the handwritten title Seven Songs Destined to Change the World (I cannot find anything in their discography by that name, so was either an off the cuff title scribbled on the cassette or merely a product of my unreliable memory) and a tape replicating a radio broadcast with songs interspersed with comedic commercials (à la The Who Sell Out), one of which featured a peanut-chocolate candy bar called “Kick in the Nuts” and the unintended consequences that would occur when it was asked for. I dug their humor and they wrote good songs.

Joyrides for Shut-Ins didn’t find its way into constant rotation at that time, but it was cool knowing guys, even if really only in passing, who had a record out. Their blurb in the “New Faces” section of Rolling Stone in October of 1990 was the first time that anyone I knew personally appeared in those hallowed pages, and I just thought that was so cool. I also remember Spin Magazine giving favorable reviews to Joyrides and its follow-up, the somewhat harder edged Soul Martini. It seemed to everyone that this band’s intelligent and sardonic version of power-pop was going to be huge.

Sadly, it was not be. I can’t say why it never happened for them, and I don’t suppose it matters. I am not going to try to be Bob Lefsetz and lecture on the nearly impossible task of capturing lightning in a bottle (and then selling it), on whether it was a failure in marketing, or whether it was a matter of timing (it is tempting to blame the grunge movement which occurred at the same time for overshadowing many great bands on the east coast). It’s just sad. Not only for the band, but for other people who might have really liked what they were putting across, something that had the energy of the stuff that was coming from Seattle, but never overshadowed their melodic sense or penchant for harmony.

Listening back to their two albums and the EP, I couldn’t say that they didn’t show their age, but I was pleased to find that they had aged well. Their sound was definitely of the era, but it doesn’t sound as dated as many records from that time. I can think of many people my age who would listen to these albums, particularly tracks like “Right on the Nail,” “Tayter Country,” and “Proud Land” from Joyrides and “Here Comes Rosie,” “Boy in a Plastic Bubble,” and “Sonny Day” from Soul Martini, and feel like they were hearing their favorite songs from their teenage years for the first time. It makes me want to tell everyone to go out and buy these records.

A good place to start

Unfortunately, all of their CDs are out of print and, with the exception of one live track on a compilation of 90s Boston bands, none of their music is even available on iTunes. If you want to find their stuff you have to comb the 99 cent bins (I have found used copies of their albums on Amazon.com, all for 99 cents or less). It’s a depressing prospect. Since I started finding Cavedogs CDs in the bins (and all of their discs that I own were bought there, as even my copy of Joyrides is a replacement of my first copy which my brother stole), I now get curious whenever I find an album in there by a band that I don’t know. After all, many of these albums were recorded for major labels, some A&R guy believed in these acts, somebody put some money behind them. Many great bands never get signed and these bands did. How many masterpieces have been dumped in there? (I’m not trying to argue that being signed to a label indicates artistic merit, but it is something to think about.)

The only good thing about their relegation to the bin is that one can buy their whole catalog for a few bucks, and I think that people should. These guys are really worth (re)discovering. Their music was by turns propulsive and lyrical, intelligent and silly, basic and progressive. They had a brand of humor and cynicism that was distinct (and distinctly Bostonian, which may be one of the reasons I latched onto it), an acute pop sensibility, and a way with a hook. Maybe it would be helpful if they made it easier for potential fans by creating a compilation of the best cuts from their albums and EPs and releasing it as a digital download. They could call it The Kings of the 99 Cent Bin. They have a good sense of humor, they might find that cute. Probably not, though.

You Are Who?

(Ruminations on The Who’s album, Who Are You, Masquerading as a Bootleg Review)

The other day, I was looking through an old hard drive and stumbled across a bootleg album entitled You Are Who?, one of several packages compiling demos and outtakes from The Who’s 1978 album (and final release with Keith Moon), Who Are You. I had no memory of acquiring it. As near as I could figure out, it has been in my possession, unheard, for probably at least two years. I guess the reason for this is the fact that Who Are You is not my favorite Who album. In fact, I was always of the opinion that it was probably the weakest album that the original configuration of that band ever did. Still, I think I always saw something in that album, certain confessional qualities, a feeling of searching in the songs (at least the Pete Townshend compositions) that redeemed, or at least informed, even the weakest songs, even if it did not necessarily mitigate the album’s ponderousness and overproduction. I guess it was that last element that made me want to hear the songs in a more primitive form, stripped of the intrusive horns, the sappy strings, and the all around dense and muddy production.

In retrospect, it is easy to say that the Who had long since peaked by the time Who Are You was released, with their classic albums, Tommy, Who’s Next, and Quadrophenia, behind them. However. It was only after this time that Townshend stopped relying on the rock opera format to supply his emotional stand-ins to express his turbulent mental states while remaining safely behind the curtain. (It must be recalled that even the hard-driving Who’s Next consisted of songs from the aborted rock opera, Lifehouse.)

With The Who by Numbers in 1975, the songs became more directly autobiographical. On that album, Pete was beginning to candidly deal with the issues of the trappings of success, complete with allusions to personal issues with substance abuse. Between the time of The Who by Numbers and Who Are You, however, it seemed (perhaps only to Pete) that that success was being threatened. Townshend’s songwriting had matured, but as the band got older, he felt he was losing his connection with the rock audience, particularly the younger members. Whereas the fame of the Who was originally predicated on their articulation of the angst and rage of youth, by the late seventies, they were dinosaurs. The only angst that Townshend was articulated by that time was his own.

Townshend’s preoccupation with feelings of alienation, fears of obsolescence, and doubt of his abilities to write music that could connect with the new audience are what make Who Are You a more coherent album than The Who By Numbers. While some may argue that The Who By Numbers is a superior batch of songs, it does not have the focus that Who Are You has. It virtually functions as a concept album in spite of itself, providing a stark image of Townshend dwelling in his own insecurity, able to write about little else. It is notable that Who Are You is the album that relied most on John Entwistle’s contributions (one third of the album was written by John, which is to say three of the nine songs). I am sure that the most ardent fans of the Ox would be (rightly) offended by the assertion that his songs were included because Pete had nothing better to throw in, but on an album in which writer’s block seems to be a running theme, the heavier reliance on John’s songs seems poignant. (In fact, John’s idiosyncratic songs about a futuristic test tube baby, a cynical misanthrope at the end of his rope, and a john visiting a hooker to allay his fears of inadequacy, fit the tone of the album beautifully.)

This seemingly haphazard unity of theme actually results in a more harrowing expression of rock star alienation than a sprawling theatrical work like Pink Floyd’s The Wall. On that album, Roger Waters created a sprawling work that illustrated the growing distance between himself and his fans, which also served to justify his own piggish behavior in the wake of his band’s success (in interviews, Waters claimed that the work was largely a self-examination after an incident at a Floyd concert in which he spat in a rowdy fan’s face). Who Are You, on the other hand, is more direct and less self serving. Instead of a constructed narrative based on themes of alienation, decrepitude, and self doubt, the songs on the album are the direct fruits of those feelings. The fact that some of the songs are weaker offerings, and others are downright embarrassing, provides a feeling of sincerity, a sort of a “warts and all” effect. We are being spared nothing.

This was not entirely true, as the demos reveal. You Are Who? features several demos of songs with themes about romantic difficulties were left off the final album (some for very good reason). “Never Ask Me,” a song about frustration with an uncommunicative lover, manages to be both overwrought and superficial. On “Love Is Wine,” a rather forgettable track, Pete ponderously applies a metaphor of intoxication and addiction to romance, something he would do far more deftly several years later in the song “A Little Is Enough.” “No Road Romance,” a song about the absence of love from casual road sex, illustrates that being wanted by millions of beautiful women causes “only frustration and overload.” While this song would be more at home on the Who Are You album due to its theme of alienation (in this case from Townshend’s own penis), it is too difficult to empathize with the song’s chief complaint, and it feels quite justifiably left out. On the other hand, “I Like It the Way It Is,” a lovely song that weighs contentment against complacency, simply would not fit on the album due to its delicacy. It seemed more to be tailor made for Townshend’s solo albums. Sadly the song would not see the light of day until the demo would be released on Scoop 3, the third collection in the series of albums on which Townshend would later compile many of his demos himself.

Two of the songs on the disc, “Keep on Working” and “Empty Glass” would end up not on Who Are You, but would instead be featured on Townshend’s next offering, his solo album for which the latter would end up being the title track. The song “Empty Glass” seems to be particularly well suited to Roger Daltrey’s vocal range and style, and its inclusion on this set (as well as another version as a bonus track on the 1996 remastered CD) make one wonder what a full Who recording would have sounded like, and why it was left off.

Daltrey and Townshend in the late 70's.

Mainly, however, the set is illumining for the differences between the demos and their completed versions on the albums. In fact, some of the demos are more palatable due to the fact that they are not weighed down by excessive horn parts or saccharine string sections. However, the main difference is hearing the character of a song as sung by Pete on its demo, and its subsequent interpretation by Roger on the album. By the late seventies, Townshend’s voice had become stronger and more expressive, but still had a more raw quality that was well suited to conveying the ambiguous and complicated thoughts and emotions that had come to be the cornerstone of Townshend’s songwriting. Daltrey’s voice had become stronger as well. As a matter of fact, I would propose that it was the strongest that it ever had been, or would be. Live footage from that time finds Roger having final discovered how to harness and control of his vocals without any loss of expression. His voice had all the richness, depth, and aggression that it always had, but had become a more reliable instrument, with fewer cracks and bum notes. However, even while Daltrey was arguably at his peak, his voice had always been better suited for putting across the melodramatic, operatic narratives, such as Tommy and Quadrophenia. With the new, more personal direction of the songwriting, Townshend was proving to often be his own best interpreter, often much more nuanced, if less powerful.

For example, on Who Are You’s opening track, “New Song,” a confident Daltrey sounds defiant and cynical about the fact that he’s “writing the same old song with a few new lines, and everybody wants to hear it.” Daltrey seems to be looking down his nose at his audience that is too dumb or blind to know the difference. On the demo version, Townshend sounds more anxious, wondering how long he can get away with this cheap trick, all the while feeling sad for himself and his audience. His fear of “plagiarizing something old,” which, in this case, seems to be less about stealing someone else’s melodies or lyrics than it is about stealing old themes and emotions from his younger self, resonates more fully.

Pete’s more vulnerable voice comes close to saving a couple of the albums weaker songs. “Love Is Coming Down on Me” is still intense and somewhat overwrought, but more palatable with Pete singing and using synthesizers in place of a string section. To be sure, the song’s final version is a masterpiece of emotional, theatrical bombast, if you like that sort of thing.

The demo version of “Guitar and Pen” only hints at the corny theatricality that pervades the final recording. However, this song, which sounds like an outtake from a Stephen Sondheim musical, is essentially unsalvageable due to its subject matter: writing about writing. It plays like a scene from a Broadway musical about the Who. It is easy to imagine the scene where a young Pete is sitting on his bed and being serenaded by the future version of himself urging him to express his teenage angst in song. It seems like self congratulatory roadkill that would be a truly insulting offering were it not for the fact that its placement on the Who Are You album gives the song a feeling of self delusion, Townshend outwardly celebrating his genius when he himself doubted it. His writer’s block had gotten so intense that he had nothing else to write about but memories of when he had things to write about.

The demo for “Music Must Change” is less illuminating. In this case, the rawness of Townshend’s vocals reveals little. Instead of expressing a different emotional take on the song, here it is simply one of the many unpolished elements of the recording. Unfortunately, while Roger gave a fine and nuanced reading of the song for the album, even that version has an unfinished feeling to it as well. This was largely due to the lack of a drum track. Whether it was due to an atrophying of Keith Moon’s drumming abilities, or simply a lack of facility in uncommon time signatures (in this case, anything other than 4/4), Keith was unable to play the song. Sadly, the jazz-tinged song only came into its own after Moon died, when it was played live with the unfairly maligned Kenney Jones behind the kit. At that time, it became a highlight of the Who’s live set, whereas it seems like a footnote on the album. In spite of this, the song’s lyrics are central to the album’s theme. The song addresses the need for a new direction in popular music, but Townshend, as a member of what had become the old guard, had to question if he had the ability or credibility to find that direction. Though he is as frustrated that music had become stuck in the mold that he helped to create, he realizes that the music scene was “chewing a bone,” still trying to get milk from the teats of dinosaurs who refuse to die and fossilize. He also acknowledges that “the high has to come from the low,” that the new music will more likely come from the younger generation, not yet spoiled by success.

Pete with Paul Cook and Steve Jones from the Sex Pistols
the night on which the events described in "Who Are You"
transpired.

Listening to the demo for the album’s title song, it is surprising how much of the final track is built around Pete’s demo. While it was nothing new for the Who to use a synthesizer track from Pete’s demos as the basis for a song, it was odd to hear how many other elements carried over as well. The signature backing vocals and the marvelous acoustic guitar solo were both originally found on Pete’s home recording. The rest of the band were then brought in to overdub and polish what seemed to be an already completed arrangement. Once again, the major difference was Daltrey. On this track, his power and defiance were in contrast with Townshend’s seemingly drunken combination of belligerence and self-loathing. However, whereas Townshend’s delivery seems more true to the lyrics, Daltrey’s compelling delivery prevents the song from degenerating into depressed nihilism.

The disc is filled out with some tracks taken from the soundtrack of the film The Kids Are Alright, including a powerful version of “Who Are You.” Unfortunately, as old video tapes of the film had pitch problems, the song sounds sped up here as well. A curious addition is a song called “Peppermint Lump,” credited to an eleven year old girl named “Angie,” which was arranged and produced by Pete, who also played rhythm guitar on the track. The song, which the record label described as “a blatent attempt to corner the preteen and postpunk singles buyers,” is completely out of place here, but as a footnote in Pete Townshend’s career, I guess I’m glad it’s available somewhere.

You Are Who? is surely not essential listening. I would not have not even bothered if I were not a rabid Who fan, and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who has less than an insane obsession with the group. However, listening to it was an enlightening experience if only for the fact that it resulted in me listening deeper to the Who Are You album with a more open and critical ear. Hearing the origins of the songs on that album side by side with songs that didn’t make the cut gave me a much more specific emotional context in which to place the finished work. Ultimately, this gave me a much deeper respect for an album which I had largely dismissed for many years. I will not try to argue that Who Are You equals or surpasses the albums of the band’s heyday, but I will say that it does have considerable depth, and that Pete’s forthright treatment of his own uncertainties make it extremely compelling and a rewarding listening experience for people willing to listen with a more sensitive ear. 

Love, Hate, and Don Henley

The other day, I bought a copy of Don Henley’s album Building the Perfect Beast. I found a copy of the CD in a junk shop. The booklet was mangled and the jewel case was cracked, but the disc was pretty clean and so I bought it anyway. Later that day, at another junk shop, I bought a copy of the LP. You see, then I would have a copy of the LP to keep on the shelf and the beat up CD to rip to my iPod and then give to a friend when I was done with it.  Normally this would seem like rather strange and obsessive fan behavior. But as I am someone who has been effusive about my hatred of the Eagles and Don Henley, I realize that it is just downright odd.

My hatred for the Eagles is not because I think that they are untalented. Quite the contrary. It is pretty much accepted that these guys were excellent musicians, good singers, and gifted songwriters. Skill, however, is different than art, and it is the fact that they used these skills in such a blatantly commercial way, apparently aiming to make a musical product that would please everyone, which taints their success in my eyes. The mellow, middle-brow pandering that pervades their music even diminishes their occasional success when they actually would create something that was nearly universally pleasing.

Thus, the Eagles created a body of work that spoke to everyone on a superficial level. They speak to a larger group, but not very deeply. I have never met anyone who said that the Eagles were their favorite band, but I have met countless people who rank them as their second or third favorite. They simply do not arouse passion. Indeed, it has been argued that the early 70s were an era in which much of the music, from the Carpenters to James Taylor, deliberately provided a gentler soundscape to counter the turbulence of the times. Still, mellow is one thing, tepid is another.

To be sure, I take no joy from hating the Eagles. Even the backlash against them is tepid. Sure, when you mention the Eagles to people my age (or a bit younger), often you’ll hear the quote from the Big Lebowski: “I’ve had a hard day and I hate the fuckin’ Eagles, man!” But they don’t say it with feeling. I’ve never met anyone for whom the Eagles were their most hated band, either.

My feelings about Don Henley are a bit more intense.  I find him to be the most reprehensible member of that outfit. I certainly do not harbor the same disgust for Joe Walsh (latecomer to the group that he was), and his records with the James Gang get frequent spins on my turntable. I don’t even have the same disdain for Glenn Frey, whose influence in the band was perhaps equal to Henley’s. It could be in part because Don Henley has been the most successful and the most visible of the Eagles since their breakup. I think the bigger reason, however, is that he has provided us with the most unflattering caricature of the aging baby boomer rock star in all of its ugliness. His vaguely cynical demeanor, the graying ponytail, and what many consider to be his pretentious but dilettantish dabbling with social and environmental causes, simply rub me the wrong way. (I understand that, in fact, his dedication to these issues is very intense and sincere with his Walden Woods Project representing a huge commitment of time and energy. The successes and unexpected negative consequences of his involvement in these movements have been expounded on more thoroughly by David S. Meyer and Joshua Gamson in their paper, The Challenge of Cultural Elites: Celebrities and Social Movements*. At any rate, this is supposed to be a rant, not intellectual discourse.)  

So why did I buy the album? I bought it for “Boys of Summer.” It’s a damn good song. It is a song that that is moody but driving, fresh but classic, cynical but sentimental. It is a true classic and I love it with every fiber of my being. Consequently, I have conflicted feelings considering how much the song speaks to me and who it is that’s speaking.

Given Henley and the Eagles’ tendency to aim for the middle, the fact that “Boys of Summer” speaks to me should be no big achievement. It speaks to a lot of people. However, as I have already established that this kind of deliberate universality is actually a detriment in my eyes, it is a bit strange, But what is stranger is that the song spoke to me as a boy of seven, when the sentiments of the song were clearly aimed at baby boomers finding their first gray hairs.

Maybe the song just caught me at the right moment. I first knew the song from the bleakly beautiful video on MTV. By the time that video came out, MTV had already been priming me to be neurotic and melancholy (MTV came on when I four, and when other kids my age were making the move from Sesame Street to The Electric Company, instead I went right from Big Bird and Grover to Martha Quinn and Mark Goodman). My favorite videos from the year before were “Overkill” by Men at Work, “Synchronicity II” by the Police, and “Mama” by Genesis, all songs about alienation, desolation and despair. In retrospect, this was odd fodder for a six year old. I’m not sure if I was affected by this or if I was predisposed to be drawn to these things. That’s something to work out with my therapist, I suppose.

Perhaps the song is unique in Henley’s catalog as illustrating an actual unguarded moment, a truly introspective flash of yearning and nostalgia for halcyon days, ruing the loss of love and ideals, all brought to mind by the momentary espying of “a dead-head sticker on a Cadillac.” It is hard for me to ever think of Henley as being unguarded, though. Perhaps  the song resonates for me because,  growing up with MTV, on which the imagery was either plastic and nihilistic, or bleak and disturbed, it was nice to see that there was once a golden moment to back at longingly, even if I couldn’t remember one for myself.

Or maybe it’s just a good song. In spite of my other reservations about Henley, the fact is that he is a talented musician and songsmith who picks his collaborators well (Mike Campbell, Tom Petty’s secret weapon, co-wrote the song and played its haunting guitar parts). In this case he was able to create something with an atmosphere and a mood which could speak to universal emotions without having to rely on shared experiences. I guess I should try to stop analyzing it and just admit the power of the melody and performances were enough to teach a young boy, too young for nostalgia, how to be wistful.

*Sociological Inquiry, Vol. 65, No. 2, May 1995:181-206

Stanley Clarke & George Duke, B.B. King's 6/26/12

The Stanley Clarke / George Duke show on June 26^th at B.B. King’s, part of the Blue Note Jazz Festival, was a long awaited reunion of two jazz-funk legends, a sterling example of how an old catalog can be reinvigorated with pure, in the moment playing, and a complete shit show.

I have been a fan of George Duke since first hearing his playing on The Mothers’ Overnite Sensation album and I got turned onto Stanley Clarke in college when I first started listening to Return to Forever. I latched onto their solo works and other collaborations later, and loved the ability that both shared to marry jazz, Latin, R&B and even disco into a funky, kinetic hybrid. Obviously I would have preferred my first time seeing them to be the best example of their current live sets, the best of what they have to offer today, instead of making the best out of a bad situation, trying to play the best possible set while dealing with pervasive sound issues. Well, shit, I guess that’s live music for you.

Clearly, the intended show was a greatest hits show, playing through jazz-funk classics from their solo albums of the 1970s (aside from the R&B hit “Pretty Baby,” they largely eschewed material from the duo’s collaborative albums from the 80s) laying down energetic, stretched out versions of classics like Stanley’s “Silly Putty” and “School Days” and George’s “Brazilian Love Affair” even throwing in a bit of Zappa.  

Often at shows like these, it is inevitable that the mind will jump to unfavorable comparisons with the artists’ former selves, playing with less agility and fire than during their glory years. As George began singing “Brazilian Love Affair,” I could not help but notice that his vocals, an octave down from the falsetto line he sang on the original album, did not cut through the arrangement very well. However, when he began his piano solo, the intense, funky lyricism laid to rest any suspicions of lost chops.

George first whipped out the old Keytar during “Silly Putty,” and though I generally disapprove of emulating guitar lines in that fashion, George’s facility with the instrument made him one of the only people today who can play it without looking like a schmuck (apologies to Donald Fagen).

The sound issues had became evident almost immediately with a clipping sound becoming pervasive by the middle of the first song. When drummer Henry McAdams took an extended solo, it was obvious that the purpose was to fill time and try to isolate the issue in the channels of the other instruments even before the house lights started going up and down and the engineers started roaming the stage.

At this point, their acoustic performance of the jazz standard “Autumn Leaves” served several major purposes in the scheme of the show. It gave both musicians a platform to show off their chops and pure musicality without the frills of the technology with which both had done such pioneering work. Also, for those members of the audience who wore out the grooves on their copies of School Days and Reach For It in the late seventies, but were unaware of their earlier work with Cannonball Adderley, Stan Getz and Chick Corea, it firmly established their presence in the pantheon of jazz musicians and their roots in its tradition. For the sound guys, it provided a chance to change out second keyboardist Bobby Sparks’ main keyboard in hopes of isolating the source of the clipping sound. The chaos happening at the back of the stage, however, did not distract from the intricate but fluid interplay between these two masters.

After this the sound issues seemed to be a bit more under control, if not fixed. The rest of the show featured the duo displaying the best and worst of their talents and excesses. Stanley showed how he could still play funky lines better than most young lions while occasionally being so percussive that the notes would disappear. George displayed both his masterful playing and his mastery of the technology and the ability to give human qualities to electronic instruments. It still sounded strange when he applied pitch bend to the acoustic piano patch on his keyboard. In the end, though, it’s easy to forgive such eccentricities when the moments that lead to a roll of the eyes or quizzically raised eyebrow are so outweighed by the moments that inspire pure awe.

Basically, these guys are just really funkin’ good at what they do (pardon the pun, but I felt it was necessary).

It was uncertain whether they would end the show with one of George’s songs or one of Stanley’s (but the fact that they had already played “School Days”, arguably Stanley’s biggest cut, tipped the scales in George’s favor), and the intro simply confused the issue. Recalling “Space Lady” (the old Cobham/Duke Band piece featuring George accompanying a psychedelic/sci-fi story with odd textures on his keyboards), George began reciting in a low voice: “Many moons ago…”

Unfortunately, the old sound issues gave way to new ones, and the desired effects apparently were not backing him up. He kept repeating the phrase “many moons ago,” each time hoping that things would fall into place before eventually declaring with a laugh: “It was working at sound check.”

They promptly aborted the introduction and jumped right into George’s classic (although with its mix of P-Funk grooves with James Brown clichés, quite derivative) rave-up, “Reach for It.” With this they got the largely post-baby boomer crowd screaming along, if not on its feet.

Hopefully, the late show fared better, with the sound problems proving to be less of a hindrance. However, the band appeared, at least, to take the issues in stride and just play with that mix of tight discipline, loose spontaneity, and plain stinky funk that they are known for. This may not have been their most exemplary show, but I’d rather see this than the best show by a lesser group.

Empire Jazz: What Could Possibly Go Right?

I was quickly flipping through the recent arrivals of used vinyl at Generation Records when I came across a odd little gem that I had never heard of before: Empire Jazz, music from The Empire Strikes Back arranged by the legendary bassist Ron Carter and featuring Bob James on piano, Billy Cobham on drums, and Hubert Laws on flute (among others). I was intrigued. It was a horrible concept with an even worse cover (is Darth Vader drinking cosmos?). How could something made by this group possibly be as bad as it looked like it was going to be?

It was a steal at $5.99. I told everyone I encountered on my way home that I had found the “best-worst jazz album” of all time, and showed them the cover as evidence. What was this thing going to sound like? The presence of Bob James made me think smooth. I was surprised to see that he would not be playing any electric piano.  Billy Cobham made me think that maybe the album might have a bit more energy behind it, though.  The album was released on RSO records, not Ron Carter’s usual label, but, in fact, the label that issued the all the Star Wars soundtracks. Was this album his idea or a commission job or sorts? Would this end up being one of my crazy guilt pleasures or utter shit? Arriving home after midnight, I was irked that I would have to wait until morning to find out, lest I inspire the wrath of my neighbors. They don’t know good music when they hear it.

The next morning, while sipping my coffee, trying to wake up just enough to fully appreciate the album, I checked out Amazon.com. I found that this album was never released on CD, nor is it available as a download. Not a great sign, but hey, a lot of great music is out of print. Besides, some guy thought enough of it to call it a collector’s item and is asking fifty bucks for it. Just think, I got it almost 90% off.

After the second cup of coffee I felt ready.

The album begins with a straight forward outline of classic "Imperial March" arranged for the small horn wind ensemble before breaking down into a series of competent solos and all too brief moments of real swinging. Mock film-noir music meets cocktail jazz.  Hubert Laws does a fine flute solo which almost threatens to take the piece into the stratosphere but is shot down prematurely. Billy Cobham’s subsequent drum solo became evidence of the lifelessness of the recording, with the normally dynamic and fiery player sounding like his kit was set up in a shoe box.  Overall, not a good start.

However, the bossa-nova, lounge take on the "Asteroid Field" has just enough schmaltz dripping off it to bring a smile to my face from the opening notes. As the track goes on, the solos reveal the impeccable musicianship that make this track a bit more than merely an exercise in swankiness. Though the theme, based around the powerful cascading melodies that accompanied the Millennium Falcon’s pursuit by Empirical T.I.E. fighters through (you guessed it) an asteroid field, is one of my favorites in the movie, it is sadly not recognizable or iconic enough to give the track the appropriate kitsch factor. Still, it is the most enjoyable piece on the album.

At this point, looking at the track list, I indeed noticed that the pieces are (aside from the "Imperial March") arrangements of less instantly recognizable bits of scoring. Evidently, Carter was not trying to do a winking, ironic twist on a pop-culture phenomenon. There was not even a take on the epic title theme (perhaps he was only allowed to do music from The Empire Strike Back and not the first movie). Maybe he was simply arranging and repurposing movie music as a vehicle for jazz. Nothing new, I guess. How is it any different from Dave Brubeck’s Dave Digs Disney?

Side 2 begins well enough. "Han and Leia’s Theme" opens with some beautiful and elegant acoustic piano playing by Bob James (a man well known for beautiful and elegant, if not terribly ballsy, playing) before Ron Carter’s bass enters into the conversation. The horns, arranged with just the appropriate amount of dissonance added to arrangement, are used sparingly enough to add color without wearing out their welcome.

"Lando’s Theme", while lovely when played by an orchestra, seems too boring when set up by this jazz ensemble, and fortunately the melody is abandoned immediately in favor of the soloists. Still, it sounds hopeless dated (even more than the rest of the album), sounding like soundtrack music to a 1970’s romantic comedy about neurotic urbanites. Much the same could be said of "Yoda’s Theme", the album’s closer. While the melody is one of the most lyrical and sensitive in the movie, it does nothing here. More cocktail jazz. I suppose that I should have taken the cover as a warning, but I really expected more from an ensemble of this caliber.

Yeah, I suppose this album is justifiably out of print. The problem is clearly not a lack of good musicianship, and the lifeless recording isn’t it either. It’s not even the fact that the album feels like a grab for a quick buck or a joke that the creators weren’t in on. Sure, part of it could be blamed on the fact that 1980 was terrible time for jazz when a neutered version of traditional jazz was emerging in response to the excesses of fusion. However, if all of these things came together perfectly, it could have created an album so spectacularly horrible that it would be an underground classic. Sadly, the actual results are just below mediocre, at least for this crew. Much like my copy of The Best of Marcel Marceau, this is an album I will keep on my shelf to show to friends, but will probably never play it for them. The fact is, the cover aside, the album largely eschews kitsch without making up for it with quality. Though there are a couple enjoyable cuts, they are not likely to end up getting a lot of play. If it was just a little worse, it would have earned a few novelty spins, but hey, I suppose you can’t lose them all.



For the curious, here is a link to "The Asteroid Field" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVnqF_YFDdg

The Greatest "Rolling Stone Greatest Albums of All Time" Issues

Rolling Stone magazine has put out a new collector’s issue (or what is apparently called a “bookazine”) of the top 500 albums of all time. Being a true collector, I bought this new one for 11.99 even though I had the virtually identical one that they put out in 2003. After all, isn’t the old mantra “collect them all?”

In fact, my years as a rabid collector (some would say pack-rat) began when I found a copy of Rolling Stone’s "The Top 100: The Best Albums of the Last Twenty Years"(issued in 1987 to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of the magazine’s founding). When I bought this issue (off a junk sale table, probably in 1989, a couple of years after the initial pressing) it inaugurated my years of collecting not only records, but also collecting Rolling Stone greatest albums lists collector’s issues.

I am aware of how silly this behavior is, but it fits with my rather compulsive character. Also, at the tender age of twelve, that first magazine helped to broaden my musical tastes, give me a solid grounding in classic music, and expose me to artists who were slightly outside of the classic rock radio canon. It also helped to keep me completely stuck in the past. That first magazine came to be a check list of records that I needed to own (I am missing four, and one of those is because I have been slow about replacing my scratched old copy of The Doors’ first album. I mean, it’s a great album but Jim Morrison just puts me off), and by and large, it served me well, turning me onto artists like the Modern Lovers, Graham Parker, and Captain Beefheart, years before I might have heard about them otherwise.

The newer lists have been notably less useful to me (I never did actually pick of a copy of the top 100 album of the 80s which came out a couple of years after the 67-87 issue , and checking the list now, I found to my chagrin that had only 49 of them). Mostly they’re just a reason to argue about music. When each new list comes out, it enables me to carry on about old stuff, but somehow still be current. For example, the soundtrack album to the film The Harder They Come may be an old album, but its placement at number 122 for the top albums of all time is new, right (it ranked at #119 in the 2003 issue)?

Well, as new as anything in Rolling Stone can be I suppose. Perhaps I am making unfair statements about Rolling Stone, as I have not subscribed in years (Although a little while back, I did get a few months for free for some reason. This was around the time that it changed from its classic large magazine format to its current incarnation, looking like Entertainment Weekly’s aging auntie who just got a face lift and is trying to pick up college boys.), but my basic impression is that we are a lot alike. We both idealize a time long since past, but attempt to remain “hip” (is that term even used anymore?) through somewhat half-hearted attempts to find out what the young people are listening to.

The new list has on it 15 albums that had not been released when the last Top 500 issue was put out eight and a half years (some of the other new entries had already been released, but were too new in 2003 to attain such stature). I did find myself breathing a sigh of relief that I had at least three of the new ones. I also noticed that three other of the new entries were by Kanye West. Now, I know I am not as up on my hip-hop as I’d like to be. I realize that it is a hole in my musical knowledge, and maybe even a flaw in my character. That said, I refuse to believe that 20% of the best albums of the last eight and a half years came from Kanye. (An interesting side note: Kanye did appear in the 2003 issue. Not on the list, but in the "New Faces" section on page 52.)

But, as I said, these lists are made to be debated. Pontificating in a bar to a baby-boomer who had the misfortune of pulling out this issue in my presence, I proceeded to argue that a good amount of the entries should be invalidated. Most of the dubious entries were for one of three reasons:

1. They were compilations.

2. They were live albums with a questionable place in the artist’s discography.

3. They were made by Kiss.

The list seemed rife with greatest hits albums (some assembled long after the artist or group became inactive) that secured a presence on the list to bands and artists whose output was primarily singles, or whose best songs were strewn about on a series of mediocre albums. There could be mitigating circumstances, however. If a compilation was made with the involvement of the artist during that artist’s period of activity, and contained material unavailable on other LPs, it might be okay. For example, I objected to the Temptations Anthology, which was just one of a series of 2 CD sets put out by Motown in the mid-nineties to repackage their old acts. However, Sly and the Family Stone’s Greatest Hits, assembled by Sly Stone himself at the peak of his popularity in order to make his best non-LP singles available with his best album cuts, was okay with me… kind of.

The live albums thing is pretty straightforward. James Brown Live at the Apollo and The Who Live at Leeds are quintessential live albums capturing, and released by, the acts at their respective peaks. Sam Cooke Live at the Harlem Square Club 1963 may be an unearthed gem, but released 20 years after his death it falls into the category of an archive item.

Finally, how the hell did Kiss get two albums on there?

I was a bit perturbed when Elvis’ Sun Sessions LP was replaced by the 2 CD set, Sunrise, which covered the same ground more extensively, but was compiled and issued long after the deaths of both Elvis and producer Sam Phillips. I was tickled when I saw both albums that No Doubt had landed on the 2003 list were absent from the 2012 edition. I was confused when Creedence Clearwater Revival’s albums Cosmo’s Factory and Green River were ditched and replaced by the corporate-made compilation Chronicle Vol. 1, while Willy and the Poor Boys, which chartered lower than the previous albums, remained. Also, I wondered how they could open the list to Jazz records when they could only let in a few (or do they really believe that Def Leppard’s Hysteria is a better album than Sonny Rollins’ Saxophone Colossus or Dave Brubeck’s Time Out?).

All said, though, I think I was less perturbed by what had changed and more by what had stayed the same. Sure, deep down I was glad that Rolling Stone did not have the temerity to introduce any new albums into the top 20 since the 2003 issue. In 2003, I did raise an eyebrow when Nirvana’s Nevermind was placed at number 17, but even though I was not even making an attempt to listen to current music when that album came out, I couldn't deny its influence on music and culture at the time (however, with cultural impact being clearly a important criterion, it does make me wonder why hip-hop didn’t appear on the list until Public Enemy’s It Takes a Nation to Hold Us Back squeaked into the top 50, landing at 48). More or less, the list that was decided upon was orthodox, respectful of tradition, and argued tacitly that our culture has become so much broader and more fragmented that it would much harder, if not impossible to find albums that had as wide ranging cultural impact as the albums of the 1960s before music audiences became largely divided along racial, ethnic and economic lines in the early 70s (a phenomenon from which it would take decades to recover). Essentially, the top ten was dominated by Beatles and Dylan with entries by the Clash and Nirvana so as not to appear stuck in the 60s, and entries by Miles Davis and Marvin Gaye so as not to appear racist.

Yes, I certainly would be among the millions of people (mostly older than I) who would argue that Sgt. Pepper is the most important album ever made in spite of the fact that it is not my favorite album or even my favorite Beatles album. However, I acknowledge that its inventiveness, its artistic breakthroughs in recording, songwriting, and presentation resonate and continue to inform music making today. In fact, the relative stability of the list would not bother me tremendously if it were not for the fact that the whole issue has a cut and paste feel to it. While I was secretly happy that the top 20 had not changed, I was less amused that the accompanying blurbs had not changed either. For twelve bucks, I would have hoped for some new writing, some new appraisal of the album and where it fits into our culture and musical landscape today. Even if things have not changed that much in eight and a half years (which, incidentally, was a year longer than the time between the first and last Beatles albums), at least make an effort if you want me to keep collecting your Greatest Albums issues.

To conclude, I am going to make my top 5 list of the best Rolling Stone’s Best albums issues:

5. The 2012 “500 Greatest Albums of All Time” bookazine- Rehashed blurbs and plethora of dubious entries make this one a loser.

4. The 2003 “500 Greatest Albums of All Time” issue. The issue that first contained the blurbs contained the in book and bookazine to follow and the blueprint for the lists, put together by a huge panel of judges ranging from critics to artists. A little better, but still, who decided to give Britney Spears a vote?

3. The 1989 “100 Best Albums of the Eighties” issue. Since it only covered 100 albums, the blurbs were able to be more than two sentences. Even though it had the misfortune of being about the 80s, it brilliantly contextualized the music from that decade in the greater scheme of popular music.

2. The 2005 “500 Greatest Albums of All Time” hardcover book. Removed a few compilations from the 2003 list and made room for Boz Scaggs’ self titled album.

1. The 1987 “The Top 100: The Best Albums of the Last Twenty Years” issue. Okay, the scope is oddly limited (banning anything before 1967), and there are glaring omissions (“If Kinks boosters, for instance, happen to split their votes among such eligible LPs and ‘Something Else,’ ‘Arthur’ and ‘Lola,’ the result is likely to be a list with no Kinks albums on it.” This is indeed what happened.), but it was a great period for music and with intelligent voters and good writers, it looked like Rolling Stone

could be the people to do these kind of lists properly. And being the first one I bought, it’s a sentimental favorite too. Also, even though it covered the 70s, there is not a Kiss record to be found.

Enough with the Hipstamatic Thing

(I almost didn’t post this for fear that it would make me seem like a surly, bitter luddite… but why fight it?)

The hipstamatic thing is getting old. I may get some shit for saying this, as I have many friends who use this app constantly, but it seems as though no one takes normal pictures anymore. I see these images popping up on Facebook constantly. Everyone else seems to love it. I guess I am the only one who views the Hipstamatic app as merely a way of dressing up pictures that are only marginally interesting by whipping on a dash of readymade nostalgia. Somehow making a boring digital photo look like a boring Polaroid makes it worthy of being shared with the entire world.

Now I no longer have to read about what people had for breakfast, but I also have to see a picture of it, but made less appetizing with a sickly orange tint (or greenish-bluish, depending on the filter).

To be sure, I dig the effect. I grew up with Polaroid. The first picture I ever took was a Polaroid, which the Hipstamatic is ostensibly attempting to replicate. (The picture ended up being the right half of my mother’s face. I can’t remember if this was deliberate, but in any case, it did not come out the way I wanted it to) Also, though I would never use it, I praise the ingenuity of the creator of the app. However, when I take digital photographs (and though I am the proud owner of a 35mm SLR camera, I am ashamed to say that I never use it anymore), I tend to go for the most high quality image that I can get and save the digital trickery for Photoshop, in which one has a powerful tool for refining images and also, through exploration and play, for creating a whole range of unexpected effects. While I did not create Photoshop, I also do not feel restricted by the aesthetic sensibilities of the people who did. I do not think that Hipstamatic users can say the same.

I know that I am probably breathing too much into this. After all, these are just snapshots, right? Isn’t the Hipstamatic itself basically emulating a format which sacrificed image control to capture moments instantly, albeit imperfectly? Yes, and I have no problem looking at simple snapshots (or not looking at them but acknowledging that they exist). However, I believe that there is some artistic pretense with the Hipstamatic which has the power to turn the nice, innocuous snapshot into bad art. Worse, I see more and more “artistic” photos being posted which would not be worth a second glance if it were not for the readymade effect. Art is not using some labor-saving device for lazy people who want to create something that appears artistic.

Perhaps I am being a bit cantankerous. Again, I do not have a huge problem with the app itself. While I take issue with the fact that it has made one type of visual cliché so prominent over so many other possibilities, there may be very good reasons why this particular style has struck such a chord. It could be a warm feeling obtained when looking over childhood photos. It could be the recognition that the next generation’s experience with that will be so vastly different that we long for some connection (if artificial) to the old fashioned ways. It could be a connection to a grittier era, like people who idealize the dirty, dangerous New York of the 1970’s. Or it just could be that “it looks kinda cool.” Whatever the reason, however, the huge proliferation of its indiscriminate use has made the effect so common that I believe that it largely loses its power. Furthermore, I see the app as becoming more important than the subject matter. It is a way of taking a cool looking picture rather than a cool looking picture of something. It all too often seems to be a way of polishing a turd, replacing creativity and discernment with an app.

So I offer this challenge to all Hipstamatic users: The next time you take a picture, ask yourself if the basic image is interesting enough in the first place. Ask if digital meddling will enhance the image or distract. Finally, ask yourself how the Hipstamatic effect is the best choice for the image at hand. It may not be. Find what is.