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).
Monday, May 25, 2009
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
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
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
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
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