Sunday, May 31, 2009

Listen all of y'all..

Beastie Boys - Sabotage

video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=-sbglyeed4g

I remember buying the CD single of this song when I was a 15 year old metalhead. At that point, I viewed the Beastie Boys with the same kind of disdain that I reserved for all hip-hop, the certainty of absolutes, or binary good/bad-no gray area, them and us. Then this song came out, metal magazines all over the world gave it glowing reviews, I went out and bought it, and my life changed. I've been a Beastie Boys fan since I first heard it, but moreso when I heard the B-side, Get It Together, because that opened my eyes to how good hip-hop can be. And when you start hearing bands like Cypress Hill and House of Pain, it's very easy to recognise a kinship between alternative music and hip-hop.

So this song, which is essentially as punky a song as the Beasties have done since the Cookie Puss/Same Old Bullshit era, opened my, and I'm sure many other, eyes. And it's a great song. A great honking, growling slab of feedback and fuzz guitar from Ad Rock with more, MORE!, fuzz stacked on top of it, courtesy of MCAs gigantic fuzz bass. This is thrown into the mixer with Mike Ds competent punk drumming and Hurricane's screechy turntable and the traditional Beastie vocals - shouty, Brooklyn-y, snotty, almost call and response and delivered with what can only be a smile on their faces.

This was also the first music video that I remember as being a work of art on its own, as opposed to as an extension of a(n often mediocre) song. Spike Jonze's 70s cop show images meshed perfectly with the song and created a benchmark for a great music video.

So, all in all, this is a work of genius from a band who have grown from young, loud and snotty to elder statesmen. Now if only they'd release a new album..

Verdict: Fuzzing Cool

Tomorrow: Who cares, it won't be as good as this.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

The other Mick Jones

Foreigner - I Want To Know What Love Is



It sounds like Lou Gramm is grimacing through each word of this song. And what an awful song it is - 80s synth-keyboards alternately playing minor chord arpeggios and big swells of pseudo-string-organ-thingys with huge fade-ins and -outs. Vomit. . And on top of all of this, the backing vocals that encompass both castrato, courtesy of Jennifer Holliday, who has sung backup for Michael Jackson, Luther Vandross, and Barbara Streisand (enough said), and choralising from the New Jersey Mass Choir. Mick Jones (not THE Mick "I was in The Clash" Jones, but the other Mick Jones) should be blamed for this abomination of the ballad form.

Even Lou Gramm, who did something in Foreigner that I didn't really bother to research, felt that this song was not rock enough and unrepresentative of the band's output. Clearly he also had a problem with the swimming pools full of money that the song made the band.

I'd be happy if I never had to hear it again. Research done. This is one of those songs that really doesn't deserve to be anywhere near this list. It's execrable, detestable and basically just dreck . And not in a good way.

Verdict: Sometimes not knowing is better

Tomorrow: Beastie Boys - Sabotage

Thursday, May 28, 2009

I'm Rick James, bitch!

Rick James - Super Freak

video

As Onealbumaday.wordpress.com pointed out, today's song is highly appropriate given the artist's celebrated status as a rock nutter. But there are other things to note about Rick James. The first is that Nick St Nicholas, who, despite sounding like a character from Spinal Tap, was later a member of Steppenwolf, Neil Young and Bruce Palmer (Buffalo Springfield) were members of his first band, a Canadian (more on that later) motown band The Mynah Birds. He also guest starred in the A-Team, along with Isaac Hayes. But back to the Rock Nutter Scale (tm).

As introduced yesterday, criteria that need to be met to be considered a recognised rock and roll nutter are:
(1) Must have done enough drugs to kill a regiment of dutch soldiers
(2) Must have been to prison more times than the neck tattoo fairy
(3) Must be reknowned for wild and destructive behavior
(4) Should have a proper pseudonym
(5) Should have a suitably weird history

If you've ever watched Dave Chappelle's "Rick James: Charlie Murphy's True Hollywood Stories" skit, you'll know that Mr James ably ticks the boxes for (1) and (3). When it comes to drugs, what better reference than Afroman (he of "Because I Got High" fame) stating something along the lines of 'doing more drugs than Rick James'. Some benchmark. He's also well-remembered as a poster child for misogyny and "smacking up his bitches". Go Rick.

In terms of time in the big house, James spent time in the Brooklyn Brig, for deserting the US army (see point 5) and two years in Folsom Prison for the kidnapping and assault (With a crack pipe) of two women. This was during the period that he was spending $7000 a week on cocaine.

It's a pity that his pseudonym is a bit weak? Rick James? My grandmother could do better than that. On the rock and roll scale, it doesn't really sit at the top, along with Blag Dahlia, The Fresh Prince of Darkness (ok, or almost any of The Dwarves), Johnny Rotten or Flavor Flav. That said, now that "I'm Rick James, bitch" has become a catch phrase, it will become the basis of a good pseudonym or two.

On to the song. The first thing that hit me was "so that's where MC Hammer sampled U Can't Touch This from!". Basically, it's Rick panto-sex-funking about a slutty woman with dubious sexual tastes. It sounds like they stole the synths for The Ghostbusters theme. That's about all I can say. I'm not a fan. This is early 80s pop/funk at its most trivial, most coked up and worst. Prince probably didn't ever worry about his status as vanguard of that movement very much.

Verdict: Freak must be a synonym for bad.

Tomorrow: Foreigner - I Want To Know What Love Is.

Down the rabbit hole

Holy crap, it's a TRIPLE DOSE thursday

Jefferson Airplane - White Rabbit


Video

I have a suspicion that this song has some references to narcotics within its lyrics. I'm not sure why, but it's quite a strong suspicion. It may have something to do with the fact that, if she possibly could, Grace Slick would be holding you down and pouring liquid LSD down your throat while this song plays. And, let's face it, Slick is one of rock and roll's least celebrated nutters. The criteria that need to be met to be considered a recognised rock and roll nutter are, obviously, as follows:
(1) Must have done enough drugs to kill a regiment of dutch soldiers (see variously Keith Richards, Gibby Haynes, GG Allin etc. Not a short list)
(2) Must have been to prison more times than the neck tattoo fairy (GG Allin, check! Johnny Cash doesn't count.)
(3) Must be reknowned for wild and destructive behavior (i.e. Ramones, Sex Pistols, Rick James. GG Allin, check!)
(4) Should have a proper pseudonym (i.e. Flavour Flav. GG Allin, check!)
(5) Should have a suitably weird history (i.e. Gogol Bordello's Eugene Hutz. GG Allin, check!)

Suprisingly, Slick checks all these boxes. She's practically synonymous with irresponsible LSD use (beware: this can lead to the wearing of flares and paisley), has been arrested numerous times, tried to dose Richard Nixon with LSD, pointed a gun at a police office and, I'm sure, Slick may not be her real surname. Plus she's older than Jesus and pre-dates the Haight-Ashbury scene which means she probably grew up somewhere staid like Milwaukee. And that's a lot weirded than being a child of a child of the 60s.

my point is that the Rock Nutter Scale (tm) will be used as input into the general ranking of songs from now on (basically because I just make it up). Which means that White Rabbit is pretty good. And it is, allusory references to drugs and over references to Through the Looking Glass aside. It's based on a Bolero-like figure of repetition and rising tension that builds up to the point where you throw the radio into the tub and electrocute a Samoan attorney played by a rather fat Benicio Del Toro.

If that doesn't make the song cool, I don't know what does.

Verdict: Slicker than a greased-up penguin.

Tomorrow: Rick James - Super Freak.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

I've always preferred jam

It's a double dose thursday!!

LaBelle - Lady Marmalade




I can't. I'm sorry, I just can't. I really hate disco too much to be objective. Don't listen to this unless you are either (a) camper than a row of pink velvet tents or (b) a rabid Christina Aguileira fan intent on returning to the source. Note that a venn diagram of (a) and (b) would not exactly look like an 8. You could build a soccer stadium in the intersection thereof, in fact. Weimar Republic Germany would be invading it for lebensraum.

Oh, and apparently it's pronounced Lady Marmahlahd. See, I even listened to it. Well, actually only the first minute or so. It's also responsible for making countless generations of adolescent males think they're sophisticated because they can drunkenly slur "Voulez vous couchez avec moi?" to the nearest young lady.

Note to all artists: Sprinkling French into your songs/writing/speeches does not make you "arty" or "sophisticated". It makes you pretentious. Unless you're NOFX covering Champs Elysee, in which case it just makes you look like a parade of clowns. The jury's out on MC Solaar.

Verdict: J'accuse.

Tomorrow: Jefferson Airplane - White Rabbit

How does the mystic feel about this? (hur hur)

Van Morrison - Into The Mystic

No video, as they didn't exist in those days. The best i could find on youtube were some halfass cover versions which don't exactly do it justice.

From Bowie's upbeat boogie to an entirely different can of worms - Van Morrison's Celt-spriritual folk blues. I want to hate this. I tend to hate anything that has any kind of spiritual pretense and this should be crying out for ridicule - it's folky, it's made by a short, fat Irishman and it's intentionally spiritual music. But annoyingly it's rather good, entirely due to Morrison's baritone - at times plaintive but always drenched in soul. This mix of his voice, spirit and Belfast roots has been referred to as Morrison's 'yarrrrragh' - his uniquely Irish synthesis of Leadbelly, jazz, blues and poetry. And it's on show on Into The Mystic in a gigantic way. As much as you may want to dismiss Morrison for his more poppy output, songs like Into The Mystic make a lot of the songs that I've listened to during this process sound artificial and manufactured. (Ironically enough, it seems like evn Morrison wasn't sure about the lyrics - he tinkered with them a lot during the process of writing them, but could never decide on, for example, whether the first line would be "We were born into the wind" or "we were borne into the wind".)

Which is a scary realisation. It's Van Morrison, god damn it. The author of a song that taunted me throughout my youth - a song that I despised: Brown Eyed Girl. I feel conflicted.

Back to the song, which begins with two tracks of folky guitar and Morrison's voice at roughly half volume and emotion. At this point you can understand why, according to a BBC survey, this song’s soothing, soulful vibe makes it one of the most popular songs for surgeons to listen to whilst performing operations (better that than, say, Cannibal Corpse, I suppose). During the first verse it's pretty ballad-y and not really anything special, but then he starts humming a little, the volume rises and you can hear the emotion build. A hint of strings, a hint of brass, Morrison goes full bore and *whoah* you didn't see that one coming..

In conclusion, listen to it. It's suprisingly excellent. Unless, of course, you've been hip enough to listen to Morrison all the years, in which case you're probably thinking "told you so". And I deserve it. I will be going out to buy Moondance very soon. Also, at some point we'll get to Gloria by Them, Morrison's first band, which will, if you haven't heard it before, blow.. your.. mind.

Verdict: If I were a pirate, I'd be saying "Yarrrrrrr(agh)!"

Tomorrow: LaBelle - Lady Marmalade

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

American Psycho

David Bowie - Young Americans



So here we have a young Brit writing a song about young Americans. Actually, I'm not entirely sure what the song is about because the lyrics are really just a pastiche of Americanisations. The cynical amongst you will be saying "It's Bowie, don't expect sincerity". Which is probably accurate to a degree, because Bowie made his name as a chameleon with an imagination, and this song typifies the fascination that the rest of the world holds for the young Americans.

Background vocal oohs and aahs abound, with Bowie's breathy vocals slightly reverbed over over a pretty standard, if entirely unremarkable, R&B musical backing, all bouncing piano, horns and bass, led by a sax line. There are a couple of notable points. Luther Vandross (yes, THE Luther Vandross) is singing backing vocals. There's also a direct theft of a line from the Beatles' A Day In The Life ("I heard the news today / oh boy").

So, on balance? Cool song. Pretty upbeat R&B fare. Not as camp as his later output. It doesn't really grab me by the naughty bits and make me want to dance, but it's not offensively bad in any way. I've never really gotten into Bowie (probably for that reason), but songs like this help you understand the influence that he wields and the respect that he is shown by modern alternative bands. Everyone from Radiohead to Nine Inch Nails have sworn fealty at the altar of Bowie and it's not hard to see why - opaque, if pseudo-deep, lyrical content; catchy choruses, highly competent musicianship, a dark pop feel but minimal evidence of the ugliness and warts of punk - all hallmarks, to one or another degree, of his acolytes. That said, he did contribute to the breakup of the Stooges, which would be considered unforgivable were it not for the fact that it's entirely understandable that not even his closest friends wanted anything to do with Iggy at that point in time.

Oh, and The Cure covered it at some point. Small world.

Verdict: Ziggy Nixon

Tomorrow: Van Morrison - Into The Mystic

Monday, May 25, 2009

Apologies

OK, it's going to appear that I am a rude bastard who doesn't reply to comments on this blog. And it's true, in that I am both a rude bastard and someone who has not replied to comments on this blog. Alas, the fault does not lie with me, rather with the blogger/google empire who have not been notifying me of comments. Accordingly, I prostrate myself in apology and would like to shamelessly plug two of the main commenters:
(1) The man who had the good sense to marry into the best family in Melbourne and from who I shameless cribbed the idea for this blog (he also happens to be my cousin by marriage, so that makes it OK).
(2) By the looks of it, one of the members of the third best band in Melbourne, behind TISM and The Fauves, of course, but far, far ahead of 1200 Techniques: Squid Ink. Listen to some songs here and here. He (She? It? Do Australians even have genders?) also has phenomenal taste in not liking I Love Rock and Roll.

And Andre: Georgie Fame, really? I'll take your word for it, somewhat sceptically. But I will strenuously argue that Shop Around is magic.

And with that, what more can I say, all apologies (that's day #45 by the way).

Can I See Some ID, Sir?

Alice Cooper - I'm Eighteen



In a demonstration of Wayne's Worlds continuing ubiquity, today's song is one of the live staples of Mr "We're Not Worthy" himself. Which was, of course, written when Alice was 23. He's about as old as Methuselah these days but on the coolness scale who really wants to see a wrinkly dude in greasepaint makeup singing about how eighteen he is? Basically, he's somewhere between Keef and the Everly Brothers. He's still cool though, but only because he was in Waynes World and certainly not for any of his musical output, with the exception of the slightly novelty "Lost In America" and its Scarface references.

So, credibility established, we can move on to the song. Written about the topsy-turvy world of the confused manboy teenager, it has been latterly covered by Anthrax (coolish), Creed (not even Kid Rock is as uncool as Creed) and anecdotally by John Lydon as his audition for the Sex Pistols (the jury is still out), it starts with some punchy guitar and .. a harmonica? This is the godfather of metal? That said, he does manage to do a passable Blag Dahlia impression, so some props for that. To be honest, it actually sounds like something The Dwarves would do if they were feeling particularly perverse. Or, more accurately, more particularly perverse than usual. Basically, that means it's not particularly well produced, not an example of particularly exceptional musicianship and sounds like it was sung by someone who could hold a note before he started on a 2-pack-a-day habit. All that's missing is the reference to underage girls.

And the similarities don't end there - the more I think about it, I'm beginning to think that Blag is the perverted love child of Alice Cooper, which is starting to make Alice cooler. They're both Peter-Pan manboy adolescents operating under the cloak of anonymity, obsessed with sex and, specifically, sadomasochism, living to shock and fronting bands with a revolving-door policy of musicians.

So, Alice, for bringing us the Dwarves, we're not worthy. The song's not bad either, but it's no Fuck You Up and Get High.

By the way, as far as I can remember, his real name is Vincent something or other.

Verdict: Thanks for the Dwarves.

Tomorrow: David Bowie - Young Americans

Just like Emo

The Cure - Just Like Heaven



And, in the blue corner, weighing in at a grand total of 50 kilograms of hair resembling an old toothbrush, vintage lace, goth makeup and pre-emo emo-ness, ladies and gentlemen, hailing from Britain's conservative south: Robert Smith and The Cure!

In contrast to The Smiths, dour northerners that they are, The Cure are a flubber of camp gothiness, writing songs about holding your breath until you pass out (just a bit longer please, Robert, see if you can hit the magic 4 minutes which will give you irreversable brain damage), tigers and .. well, I've never cared enough to get past this song and Love Cats. This is strange, because the friends of mine who adore The Cure, dour northerners mostly but in this case from Johannesburg rather than Lancashire, are also the friends who introduced me to music like Nick Cave, who, despite or maybe because of his camp gothy pretentions, I've been a fan of ever since. Maybe it's because he's Australian.

Back to the song. It's in A major, not normally a particularly popular key, to be honest, but it does lend a happy, slightly jaunty air to the song. For the unitiated, major keys tend to sound more upbeat, while minor keys, where the 3rd, 6th and 7th notes of the scale being used are flattened, tend to sound sadder and sometimes even mournful. Needless to say, one expects The Cure to be more familiar with the minor chord view of life. One is sometimes suprised. The song was originally used, in instrumental form, as the title music to a French TV show, probably while Robert SMith was too sad to write lyrics to it. When he did, it was released to significant critical acclaim on the album Kiss Me, Kiss Me. The beginning is Pixies-like, with drum fills leading into spare, driving drumming, a single track of bass on top, followed by clean, slightly reverb-y guitar. Then the mournful vocal wails so typical of our Robert. He almost sounds happy.

The songs not bad actually - it may not be enough to make me buy the entire Cure ouevre for the purposes of revisitation, but I would contemplate borrowing it to have a quick listen. But I suppose that's verdict enough on the song - for me to admit to quite liking something that I had previous dismissed as music made by men who sit down to pee, is practically miraculous and symbolic, in a wider sense, of this quixotic quest to educate myself on what others consider great music. Maybe there is gold in them thar hills.

Verdict: Annoyingly decent. Not good maybe, but certainly not bad.

Tomorrow: Alice Cooper - I'm Eighteen

Saturday, May 23, 2009

I Love (Real) Rock and Roll



I love the movie Wayne's World. I watched it at the age of 13 and still re-watch it ever year or so. While this song wasn't actually on the soundtrack, it typifies the spirit of the movie - rock and roll for people wearing leather pants and Alice Cooper t-shirts, but who'd like to think that there's a slightly punky cut to their jib and all the while wondering where that pervasive smell of cheese is coming from.

The song's history is also a bit iffy - originally written by British band The Arrows, Jett initially covered it with Paul Cook and Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols (yes, really) after the breakup of her first band, The Runaways. She later re-recorded it with her new backing band, the Blackhearts. It's been covered by the cool (Dresden Dolls, Reverend Run), the strange (Hayseed Dixie and Alvin and the Chipminks) and the completely banal (who can forget Britney, but you can add Weird Al, god-punkers Ghoti Hook and Miley Cyrus to this list). It was also a gigantic hit all over the world. That said, Britney's version only made it to #55 in Romania.

But, despite Joan being a bit of a fox, I can't really buy into the song. Faux hand claps over a guitar so processed it may as well be plastic dot the musical landscape, while Jett sings in an accent that I, as a non-American, think is meant to be an iffy approximation of Noo Joiseycan. There's also a disturbing American-ness to it that makes you think that it's probably a popular choice amongst the Young Republican brigade. This is arena rock trying to be edgy, and failing miserably.

Verdict: I don't even like it, let alone love it.

Tomorrow: The Cure - Just Like Heaven

artful, yet Artless


(check out how badass Bakiti Khumalo was - dude looks like Miles Davis wishes he looked)

Inspired by a visit to Graceland following the breakup of his marriage to Art Garfunkel, Paul Simon decided to ensure that the next album was going to be an immensely popular behemoth of world music exploitation by doing two things, namely stealing all of Los Lobos' ideas and surrounding himself by people far, far cooler than he was (number two was obviously not very hard). So he enlisted Mpumalanga's only famous export, Stimela guitarist and mbaqanga badass Ray Phiri, Zulu bass legend Bakiti Khumalo and.. erm.. the Everly Brothers, country musicians known for gigging in tuxedos and old enough to have hung out with Buddy Holly. So he got the coolness factor right with the South African contingent and spectacularly wrong otherwise.

That said, the result was Graceland (the album) and Graceland (the song), both of which won Grammys. Which is better than Art Garfunkel ever did on his own, so how about that Art? The song obviously has a serious mbaqanga influence with booming slide bass and fingerplucked, trebley guitar courtesy of messrs Phiri and Khumalo, artfully melded with a country-style slide guitar and vocal harmonising courtesy of the fat rednecks in tuxedos. On top of this, Simon sings his neurotic, wistful lyrics wistfully and neurotically, but without any overt emotion. You do tend to think he'd be more into a song that he thought was the best song he ever wrote (this may not be a massive achievement). Maybe the Art was just missing from his life at that point (sorry). He does talk about a slut though, euphemistically referring to her as a "human trampoline". Nice. Bet he didn't think anyone would read that into his lyrics.

And what do I think of the song? It galls me to admit this, but I quite like it. It brings back memories of it being played in my parents house and on car trips when I was much younger. I remember really liking it and "You Can Call Me Al". Plus, it's always nice to see some of South Africa's unsung musical heroes receiving some of the wider acclaim that they deserve. It's got a little funk and it comes across, strangely, as less exploitative than Ry Cooder's Buena Vista Social Workhouse of Ethnic Music Exploitation, probably because it sounds like Phiri and Khumalo were given free reign musically rather than a jolly good whipping and some time in a Cuban jail, as per the Master Cooder school of album making.

Verdict: Less exploitative and more South African than Buena Vista.

Tomorrow: Joan Jett - I Love Rock and Roll (oh jesus...)

The Resumption in Transmission

Apologies for the time off, dear reader(s) - it's been a while, I know, but normal service is resuming, thanks to some kind words and a regrowth of motivation to write, review and eat the fillet, rare to medium rare please, marinaded in black pepper and olive oil only, of some sacred cows. Please join me, as we journey, once again, to centre of the musical world and stretch the limits of reviewing credibility.

Somewhat Delayed

How Soon Is Now? - The Smiths

video (which, apparently, the band despised. Then again, they were Thatcherite brits and dour northerners,/Lancastrians so they probably hated everything)

Released in 1985 on the album Meat is Murder, this song has a pretty patchy history - Love Spit Love's cover version of it was used as the title theme for the TV series Charmed (and voted one of the top ten television theme songs of all time), it's been covered by Russian pseudo-lesbian-jailbait duo t.A.T.u, it was critically lauded despite being considered unrepresentative of the Smiths' oeuvre and it was nowhere near as successful as Johnny Marr and Morrissey expected it to be.

It's also quite good, suprising as that is, because I always considered Morrisey a turly execrably whiny exponent of truly British "birch twigs and cold showers at public schools" self-flaggelation. Of course Morrissey would probably consider that a compliment. The other upside of this song is that I can't hear it without thinking of Alyssa Milano. And that is something that makes me very happy indeed.

Back to the song, which starts with shimmery, tremolo chords in F#, while faded in and out slide guitar adds tension as Morrissey sings lyrics about alienation, including a line stolen from Elliot's Middlemarch, with a bit of slap bass and fiddly guitar adding that unique 80s flavour of excess and cod-funk. You can almost see Morrissey prancing about, prat-like, as he talks about being human and needing to be loved. The structure is very much verse, chorus, (same) verse, bridge.

I like it. I'm almost warming to music from the era of the Iron Maiden (the Iron Maiden, not Iron Maiden, who are also quite good). Anyone who knows me will be suprised to hear that because my view until recently was always that I liked it as much as genital warts.

It's still no Love Will Tear Us Apart though.

Verdict: Even a combination of Lancastrianism, Margaret Thatcher and self-flagellation can produce a winner (see Joy Division).

Tomorrow: Paul Simon - Graceland