from the LP Never Mind the Bollocks…, Warner Bros Records, 1977
I’ve purposely avoided posting these guys for nearly two years now, and frankly, I’m not even sure why I’ve decided to do so now… Much like the perennial “Beatles or Stones” inquisition, there has always been a similarly banal (and ultimately fruitless) deliberation given to us alternative folks, that being: the Clash or the Sex Pistols? Although I mostly loathe these social litmus tests (…Clash, obviously…), they do serve in clarifying for an individual part of what you look for in your musical experience, substance or symbolism. While I adored these ugly blokes as a teenager, their catalog hasn’t aged quite as well to my ears as has many of their peers’ stacks---granted, this lone LP was their only fully legitimate studio work apart from compilations, so one could argue that they are at a disadvantage there; and anyways, PiL was leagues more interesting & revolutionary than this stuff. That said, a couple of the more iconic numbers from this album, including this cut (my all-time favorite), will forever serve as ancestral anthems to the disillusioned, discombobulated, disenchanted & disgusted masses.
from the LP Thembi, Impulse! Records, 1971
I have no way of knowing for sure, but if pressed, I would bet the farm that Pharoah Sanders dropped acid with John Coltrane---let’s look at the facts: Trane started taking LSD in 1965, around the same time that he asked Sanders to join his crew fulltime (after the recording of Ascension), then along with Sun Ra, Lonnie Liston Smith and Trane’s widow Alice, Mr. Sanders went on to give birth to the cosmic jazz movement (see: out there shit), laying the foundation for what some call “acid jazz”, this song being a textbook example of that approach. The whole affair almost feels as if it was recorded underneath the sea, with currents of electric keys, basslines & random percussion swirling about, Pharoah’s tenor sax fluttering around all of it like sunlight dancing off of the waves; whether this was influenced by a lysergic dream or not, the windswept result is never short of trippy.
from the LP Three Imaginary Boys, Fiction Records, 1979
“F-I-R-E I-N C-A-I-R-O” The recent revolutionary fervor in Tunisia (which I was referencing a couple weeks ago) has now spread like wildfire into Egypt, with its largely college-educated population now equally at the end of their rope from decades of bureaucratic corruption and high unemployment, indicating the powder-keg potential of any successful revolt in the Middle East to snowball quickly across the region; most notably, to my sociological nature anyways, is the fact that in both countries, the catalysts for these masses of people taking to the streets were, in fact, single acts of self-immolation, echoing the protests of Buddhist monks in Vietnam over forty years ago (forever emblazoned on the cover of Rage Against the Machine’s debut album). This is a new tool of protest in the Arab world however, and something about its silent yet visceral impact has clearly struck a nerve with the people there---how could it not? Is there any more striking or profound display of dissent and absolute psychic exhaustion than lighting oneself on fire?! Many experts agree that Mubarak is far less likely to just leave the way Ben Ali did, and there are already reports this morning of widespread internet and cell-phone outages around large Egyptian cities, so we very-well could be in for a longer and perhaps bloodier situation than we’ve seen in Tunis---let’s just hope that whatever power structure results gives the Egyptian people more freedom, not less…
from the LP Progress, Phonogram Records, 1975
Existing somewhat in the shadow of one-time collaborator Fela Kuti’s ghost, drumming legend Tony Allen is arguably every-bit as responsible for the construction of what we call “afrobeat” as was Fela, generating chunky rhythms from the vibrations of jazz, funk & highlife in such an addictive manner that it hypnotizes the listener entirely and thus, we never seem to notice how long most afrobeat songs actually are. Allen was beginning to grow tired of Fela’s unceasing narcissism by the mid ‘70s, but had his support in this and two other solo endeavors from that time period, which allowed Allen to utilize much of their well-rounded backing band, the Africa ’70. Tony Allen has enjoyed a resurgence of stature in recent years, being asked to collaborate with some notable musicians of late, including Jarvis Cocker, Damon Albarn, and the French space-synth crew Air. I dedicate this post to the brave people of Tunisia & Egypt, may your valor set you free!
from the LP Black Sabbath, Vertigo Records, 1970
I will never forget the first time I heard this, the self-titled opening salvo from what was to become the world’s foremost dispenser of doom-laden rock: right about the point where we are confronted with the “…big black shape with eyes of fire, telling people their desire; Satan’s sitting there, he’s smiling, watches those flames get higher and higher…”, my typically unfazed adolescent mind became flooded with epinephrine & endorphins, seemingly released in time with my suddenly racing heartbeat, nearly echoing Ozzy’s sentiments, “…NO, NO, please God help me…” Granted, I was listening to it on headphones alone in my room after having smoked a couple bowls of schwag, but for a blazing moment (no pun intended) the boys in Sabbath literally made me feel Satan’s breath on my fucking neck; shit, everything about these guys was scary as all hell, from their name to their gloomy ambiance, and even that green-tinted witch on the album cover still terrifies me a little. Of course now, being old & wise & boring (see: not believing in pointy-tailed monsters who live in the core of the Earth), the content doesn’t pack the same creepy wallop, but the visceral impact of their music absolutely does: whether it’s the molasses-slow tempo of the song’s body, or the monstrous riffage of that insane breakdown about 4:35 into the track, this song (and indeed, the whole LP) marked the true beginning of heavy metal, in my humble opinion anyways.
from the LP Uphill All the Way, Transatlantic Records, 1971
My friends would tell you that I talk a lot of shit on James Taylor (sure love you Ms. Kate), and it’s true--- every fucking song that guy writes is the same goddamn tune, and not in a cool way like Van Morrison, but in an annoyingly practiced way that makes it very hard for my mind to accept him as either “cool” or “enjoyable to listen to”, let alone even conceive of this guy shooting dope (I know, it’s not a made up story, but seriously, can you imagine James Taylor asking you where you keep your sharps…?!). In all honesty though, a few of the variations on his monotonous theme are fairly agreeable, but his voice aggravates me to no end, so I found a rollicking cover of this breezy number by the stellar & criminally unknown UK crew, Unicorn (yes, weak name, but don’t hold it against them). The vibe is positively Laurel Canyon, so it’s kind of a shocker to picture them laying these tracks down across the pond, with the help of one David Gilmour no less; any fans of easy-going ‘70s rock would be well rewarded to track down all 3 of there albums.
from the LP KISS, Casablanca Records, 1973
Had some exceedingly good crate-digging yesterday at a local record store, scored some dank jazz-funk LPs & a rare electro release, but the pièce de résistance was undoubtedly a surprisingly clean (NM) copy of this, KISS’ debut album, a totemic item which proved impossible to resist. Excepting for the useless inclusion of the cover “Kissin’ Time”, which early copies of the album wisely excluded from the mix, there isn’t a throwaway track on here, coming right out of the gate with everything already in place to take over the world, as this song ably demonstrates: powerfully creeping bassline, big rhythmic drums, gnarly lead guitar, and Paul Stanley’s inimitable NYC-ized vocal delivery. Well, everything was in place except Peter Criss’ makeup, which got fixed, thankfully; gotta love the breakdown by wasted-ness though, with Criss and Ace both lidded & bloodshot, Stanley maybe drunk, and Simmons sober as the day is long.
from the LP Catch A Fire, Island Records, 1973
Looks like another one of the world’s foremost neglectors of human rights, one Zine El Abidine Ben Ali, has been overthrown and sent running following months of unrest in the streets of Tunisia (nah-nah nah nah, hey hey hey, goodbye!), something journalists are already dubbing the Jasmine Revolution, after the country’s official flower; a relatively small nation for the northern African region where it lies, Tunisia (along with Egypt & Turkey) has been at the forefront of progressive Arab nations (see: firmly resisting theocratic rule) since it’s independence in the mid ‘50s, but Ben Ali had done much to dismantle that---not in the direction of religious rule mind you, but in the direction of other nationalistic figureheads (see: Chavez, Castro, Mugabe) who have horrendous human rights records, and habitually refuse to leave until they are forced out. As with all successful revolutions, it creates an instant vacuum of power which can be easily exploited and misused if the reigns fall into the wrong hands, but having an educated population in Tunis who won’t settle down until their desire for true freedom is satisfied, there truly is the potential for real & radical change. Raise a spliff (or a hash pipe, if you’re in Tunisia) to freedom!!
from the LP Cyborgs Revisited, Get Back Records, released: 2003, recorded: 1975
Americans tend to be astoundingly naïve about our neighbor to the north Canada, presuming that it’s just full of nice, aloof, white people living quiet, dimly humorous lives in a snow globe (largely thanks to the hilarious brilliance of Strange Brew, a film whose witty jibes at U.S. stereotyping many oblivious people here took literally… whoops); in fact, Canada (in the big cities anyways) comprises one of the most progressive & liberal nations in the world, not to mention diverse. Due to it’s proximity to Toronto, a major metropolis by any country’s standards, it shouldn’t be too surprising that Hamilton, Ontario would spawn a band as raw and ahead-of-their-time as was Simply Saucer, a group better known for being one of the now-famous Lanois brothers’ first production credits (essentially just hitting the “record” button at this primitive stage in their career). As a result of Saucer’s gritty and, at times, proto-punk leanings, critics constantly trace their lines of influence directly to acts like the Velvet Underground & the Stooges, and although they were clearly touched by those vibes as well, its entirely apparent to me that the Rolling Stones were really at the core of what they were trying to do here; this song in particular comes from that same sordid & squalid place that Mick & the boys called home before things got predictable, sounding like a further deconstruction of the Stones’ already well-damaged “Stray Cat Blues”.
from the 7” single, P&P Records, 1976
This early release finds spaced out disco-soul deity Patrick Adams standing with his feet firmly planted in two worlds: the 4-part soul harmonies in the vocal track & the insanely epic disco dwelling within those strings & percussion, chronologically moving away from the former and into the later, and though it’s lacking his signature Moog craziness, this effort is no less amazing or ambitious for it’s absence… okay, maybe one of Adams’ signature squiggly synthlines could take this to another level, but it still kicks ass. The violins really steal the show here (don’t they always…), taking what comes across as a relatively sing-songy keyboard riff and turning it into a real swell of emotive force; not surprisingly, those strings got sampled in more than one late ‘90s house track.
from the LP Second Helping, MCA Records, 1974
It’s incredible to me what a fucking swindle most classic rock-n-roll really was, a true & thorough pillaging of every last recorded blues note that had ever been plucked, and not a single one of them (Page, Clapton, Townshend, Richards, Beck, Lennon, Davies, et al.) ever had to pay those visionary brothers (or their families) a dime for getting butt-rich off of their lives’ harrowing truths & hardships. I suppose that alone wouldn’t be such a big deal in & of itself (past is prologue, and all that…), but those same bands were then so quick to turn around and sue the fuck out of (mainly) black men in the ‘80s & ‘90s (and they will still sue anyone to this day) who were merely sampling a few seconds of their already ripped off licks, hypocrisy of the highest order if you ask me. In actuality, those rock heroes owe much of their surreal privileged lives to brave and oppressed gentlemen like the one depicted in this essential cut by Skynyrd, cats who knew full well that their musical talent would never be enough to change their status in the culture which they then lived, resigned to the therapy of strum…and some wine…word.
from the LP Standing On the Verge of Getting It On, Westbound Records, 1974
“…music is designed to free your funky mind, we have come to help you cope; out, into another reality, you will be, through our music, we bring you hope…” What better mission statement than the above rhyme could one concoct when attempting to sum up the lasting importance of George Clinton’s P-Funk mothership, set to land around this area in about a month, and you better believe my ass will be there! These were Eddie Hazel’s last major song-writing credits with Funkadelic, so it’s a nice twist of fate that the riffs he laid down on this album (and particularly those found here on the title track) happen to smoke harder than a 16 year-old pothead fresh out of rehab; seriously, metal bands even got wet over this shit, it comes so hard. It’s almost unfathomable when you start walking through all the Parliament & Funkadelic albums and come to find yourself confronted with such an amazingly massive glut of top-notch tunes, I don’t hesitate to say that it easily eclipses James Brown’s discography in all-around funkiness, perhaps even equaling his legacy in cultural impact. Long live the Supreme Maggot Ministers of Funkadelia!! Free your mind and your ass will follow…!
from the 7” single, Buddah Records, 1970
What is there to say? It’s 2011, which my best friend & I decided sounds farther out and more sci-fi than 2010 for some reason, and although it would be nice to think we may all get a reprieve from the tumultuous chaos of this past year, things actually seem crazier than ever all around the world right now, so perhaps don’t hold your breath. That’s okay though, I always have hope, because as the prophet Cornell West says, “…hope wrestles with despair but it doesn't generate optimism, it just generates this energy to be courageous, to bear witness, to see what the end is going to be…no guarantee, unfinished, open ended…I am a prisoner of hope…I'm going to die full of hope, there's no doubt about that, because that is a choice I make…” Word.
from the LP Bongo Fury, Discreet Records, 1975
Lost in the maelstrom of grading that becomes every teacher’s world for the last couple weeks at the end of each semester, I somehow managed to miss the unfortunate news that Captain Beefheart had died last Friday, after a hard-fought battle with MS. Given that tomorrow would have been Zappa’s 70th birthday, I figured this song was an appropriate selection (Zappa’s mind-melting solo here is one of his best ever, and that’s Beefheart’s inimitable voice singing backup vocals at the end, “girl, you thought he was a man, but he was a muffin…”), taped live on the tour where their relationship, both personal & professional, basically fell apart; fortunately, the two men buried the hatchet previous to Zappa’s passing away. Plenty is being/will be written about the legacy of an artist as eccentric and anarchic as Beefheart was, so I will leave all the mushy eulogies about everything the world of modern music & art has inherited from him to the experts---suffice to say, the dude was far out man, and so was Zappa. Rest in peace fellas!
from the LP Light Of Worlds, De-Lite Records, 1974
It’s snowing outside, so this seemed like an appropriate diversion. This spacey instrumental jam has been sampled by a grip of hip-hoppers over the years (most markedly as the base loop for Will Smith’s “Summertime”), but it can easily stand on its own feet as a breezy reflection of the summer just passed, all the good times and fun in the sun, already looking forward to next year’s adventures & detours. Although they were previously a bare-bones, gritty hard funk crew, Kool & the Gang seemed to mellow increasingly with each passing year into the ‘70s, finding more success (but perhaps losing cred) as they softened their sound. So, all you analogue synthesizer sluts out there, you’d better put on a second pair of drawers because founding member Khalis Bayyan is gonna make you wet right here, just know that.
from the 12” single, Greensleeves Records, 1978
Jeez, is it obvious enough that I don’t have to be teaching for a few weeks (re: sudden onslaught of posting drug-related tracks)?! It’s true, my marijuana consumption increases once the responsibility of standing in front of a classroom every morning wanes, and the ass-groove on our couch downstairs gets a little deeper. This heady anthem begins like many other weed-themed reggae cuts of that time, with the protagonist being chased down by the cops for his love of the sweet leaf, but once you arrive at the chorus things take a turn for the trippy, “…meanwhile I’m smoking my ganja, then I use, LSD…”; it’s no surprise, then, that the band responsible for this song, Capital Letters, hailed not from Jamaica, but instead Wolverhampton, in England. Even being one of John Peel’s most beloved British reggae acts wasn’t enough to garner them with wide-reaching popularity, and they only released a couple of albums before disappearing from sight; however, word is they have recently reformed and are planning to tour (knock on wood).
from the LP Vento Sul, Odeon Fonográfica, 1972
The cover art for this utterly captivating & enigmatic album is a good indication of what lies between the grooves: a swell of warm hazy vibrations from outer (inner?) space that slowly floods into the listener’s mind like a pool of cannabis-infused caramel, coating your brain with luscious layers of sunny melodies and sleepy beats; this particular track espouses the end of autumn like no other, that lightly strummed acoustic guitar shuffling through the piles of dead leaves as the patient rhythm section ambles along through the calm skies, wary of the storm ahead, heeding the wintry warning call of that creeping electric guitar. Marcos Valle is one of the most celebrated Brazilian musicians from the ‘60s & ‘70s, a perpetual hippie who found inspiration within a plethora of music scenes from outside his homeland, dipping his cup into some psychedelic prog-rock Kool-Aid on this stellar LP (backed by his fellow countrymen, O Terço). Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em…
from the LP Come Get It!, Motown Records, 1978
“…I’m in love with Mary Jane, she’s my main thing; she makes me feel alright, she makes my heart sing…” Can I get an “amen” for the high?!! I sometimes wonder how different things might look around us if it was 80% of the population smoking grass instead of drinking alcohol---I’m no fool, I know better than to presume that the restorative properties in cannabis alone would be enough to loosen up folks’ minds in the radical ways needed to transform macro-cultural structures like stratification and interpersonal violence (there are plenty of racist, sexist, homophobic idiots that smoke weed), but I still think that a society of tokers might ameliorate certain aspects of their surroundings & rituals, and there’s anecdotal evidence to suggest that there’d be a whole lot more creativity and innovation going on. Been switch-hitting with some Blue Dream and some Headband this morning, roughly my favorite strains of late, and I gotta tell ya: my heart is singing people!
from the LP Gangster Love, Gold Plate Records, 1976
X-mas shopping is almost always a major pain in the ass. No matter how you cut it, the whole process is labor-intensive and generally annoying once the actual purchasing commences, mainly due to the ruthless nature of our fellow holiday shopping peers (not to mention, the understandably blasé demeanor of service staff who have been saturated & inundated by trashy people screaming at them about deals they supposedly saw in coupons that they, magically, now don’t have…ugh, get the fucking net). Pompous assholes from the higher SES bracket always get a bit crazier this time of year too, determined to find items that are so expensive as to eliminate the possibility of common folk flossing the same steez. With that in mind, I think the woman on this LP cover would be the ideal individual to have with you on any seasonal shopping adventure, perhaps on the Michigan Avenue of this song’s name (one of the higher-end destinations found within the Windy City), because she’s not the kind of woman to tolerate any sass---better believe this bitch will rob you. Porn-ish stringed licks & fatty brass tricks make this instrumental number a real barn burner, particularly toward the end, around 3 minutes in: get, get down.
from the LP Never Mind the Bollocks…, Warner Bros Records, 1977
