Robotism

from the LP Journey Into the Unknown, Ariola Records, 1980



The title of this smoking hot post-disco album (more ‘disco’ than ‘post-’ I suppose) could have served as the designation for my recent sojourn into the Alaskan wilderness, and I can honestly say that the land up there looked like nothing else my eyes have ever seen before: lush wet forest blanketing every square inch of ground that’s above the water, mountains surging out from beneath sea level and rising at dizzyingly steep angles, the channels we cruised through looking as electric blue as the Caribbean, and icebergs the size of cars floating by in silence all the while. My better half & I took a helicopter excursion while in Juneau and landed on top of a glacier, which was the single strangest landscape I’ve ever seen in my life, feeling as if we had taken off from Alaska but disembarked upon the face of Venus or something; it was also our first time up in a heli and I would do that again in a second---it feels incredible. As my brief earlier post pointed to, the highlight of the trip for me was assuredly experiencing so much wildlife: bald eagles, seals, sea lions, puffins, bears, moose, and my two favorites: humpback whales and sea otters. It is truly a humbling experience to see whales in the wild, close enough to touch, working together and communicating in such a way that makes it strikingly clear how very cognitive and, indeed, mammalian they really are. The otters…well, what can I say, they stole my heart!! I don’t think I’ve made so many ridiculous noises in all my life, seriously, not even a litter of month-old Malamute puppies can elicit the “oooohs” and “awwwws” (and other random squishy / squeaky sounds that were falling out of my mouth on that boat) which those furry otters had everyone cooing. As for the crew Methusalem (nice name), I only know that they were German and most of the players have only this LP to their credit, but you wouldn’t know it from the tight-ass bottom end and the imaginative synthscapes heard here.

Ocean of Confusion

from the LP Uncle Anesthesia, Epic Records, 1991



Criminally underrated and probably wounded by the ‘grunge’ label which they were eventually pegged under, the Screaming Trees were never an easy band to categorize, something I admit being rather partial to: way too brash and clamoring to be considered neo-psych, but far too hazy and stoned to fit the alt-metal mold of the other grunge idols. Hailing from the sleepy mountains of central Washington state, the Trees worked really hard at sculpting their own sound, and almost their entire discography carries an instantly recognizable vibe that is theirs alone; equal parts British Invasion, mid-career Cream era psych rock, Feelies-like post-punk, and some Sabbath thrown in for good effect, all capped off by Mark Lanegan’s distinctive crooning. Their move from indie grail SST to Epic records was a risky one for a cult act, but it really served their sound well, and this LP was produced by none other than Chris Cornell (ala Soundgraden); the rhythm section flies along at breakneck speed while layers of fuzzy guitars wash over you in waves, Lanegan’s woozy delivery surprising at every turn, “…on a day so long ago, now no one can remember, there's a change, this too will pass and vanish in the haze; this is moving too far, under the skin of your sight, ocean of confusion took me back to the end of the night… transparent dreams fade in my head, in my eyes; I'm looking back for one last time…” Sandblasting psychedelic mayhem at its finest--- peyote buttons sold separately!

Sofistifunk

from the LP No Mystery, Polydor Records, 1975



Pretty much every player from the Bitches Brew sessions, or those who jammed with Miles during that era, wound up playing in (and often fronting their own) unruly fusion units well into the ‘70s, and keys maestro Chick Corea was no exception; it must of seemed like the apocalypse to jazz purists, watching all their former hard-bop heroes expand the palette into territory that was previously taboo to any self-respecting jazznik---I would’ve liked to have seen the looks on their faces! Chick put together his band Return to Forever in early ’72 and initially focused on a mellower Latin vibe, one which bears no resemblance to the jazz-rock behemoth you are listening to right now; this was largely a product of guitarist Al DiMeola’s entrance into the band, but everyone here is a star in their own right (Lenny White on drums / percussion & the insanely talented Stanley Clarke on bass), not least of all Chick himself. He lays down some of the spaciest synthesizer runs this side of Saturn, demolishing time signatures and sounding something like the noises I would imagine coming from R2D2’s family reunion, but never straying so far that you fall out of the pocket. A true fusion super-group if there ever was one, superior to Weather Report & perhaps even the Eleventh House in my opinion (I know I’ll take shit for that), thus it’s no surprise that this LP took home the Grammy for best jazz performance that year.

Melissa Juice

from the LP Twoism, Music 70 Records, 1995



With the possible exceptions of Eno and mid ‘70s Tangerine Dream, I don’t think any other musicians on this planet have been able to coax such sincere & glowing warmth from a synthesizer the way that Boards of Canada seemingly do in their sleep; honestly, anyone who listens to this stuff and can still walk away claiming that electronic music has no soul needs to get their fucking head checked. It’s the feel of a light snow falling at dawn, the journey of a single dandelion seed drifting about on the breeze, electrical currents moving along their neural pathways inside your brain. The ethereal moods and distanced memories their songs invoke can carry me away at a moments notice, and indeed, there is no “having to be in the right frame of mind” for enjoying this music, as it’s equally able to quell the gnarliest psychic storms or instantly deepen the calmest, most isolated moments in time. Half-assed metaphors aside (sorry, heavy wake-n-bake here this morning… word), for me it all comes down to the same basic measure I apply to anything else in life: this music makes me feel.

Bonnie & Clyde

from the LP Bonnie & Clyde, Fontana Records, 1968



What is it with our nation’s never-ending romantic obsession over violence?! Sure, we could have a nice scholarly discussion on the contextual links between sex & brutality, the symbolic impact of the media, or the cultural acceptance of machine guns---but I don’t have to be back at work for another week and a half, so fuck that. The last escapee from an Arizona prison break & his fiancé are still on the loose, and they have apparently referred to themselves as the new Bonnie & Clyde, which seems like something of a self-fulfilling prophecy if they know anything about how that couple ended up. Of course, that would imply that these individuals, who happen to be first cousins (yes, it’s legal in 19 states), have any rational sense about them, which is doubtful. At any rate, I encourage them to instead direct their homicidal tendencies toward themselves (see: Thelma & Lousie), rather than forcing the police to do that for them, fuckin pussies. Speaking of fucking pussy (awful transition, I know…), Russian by-way-of Paris crooner Serge Gainsbourg enjoyed a short fling with sex kitten Brigitte Bardot in the late ‘60s, even recording a few songs together; this relatively brief encounter radically changed the direction of Serge’s writing, leading him to embrace his inner dirty old man---and embrace that he did, although I don’t think he ever screwed with his cousins. Here’s to hoping these crazy rednecks get caught or off themselves before anyone else is hurt!

What

from the 7” single, Strider Records, 1966



One explanation people have for why the nascent rave scene found its footing in the Northlands (see: Manchester) earlier than the perhaps more-likely metropolis of London is the phenomenon of Northern Soul dance parties, all-night amphetamine driven dances which preceded raves (and, indeed, electronic music) by several years; having already been partially influenced, at least in dance styling, by the breakdancing movement, it’s conceivable that when house & techno music came along it was just a natural evolution into raves, by now having been well-used to the idea of getting chemically altered and dancing to music all night. Whatever the connection, the soul tunes they were boogieing down to certainly bore no resemblance to what came after---frankly, the sight of white working-class Brits grooving to mid ‘60s (mainly) black soul into the early ‘80s is strange enough on its own. These dances certainly did manage to stir up some of the most incredible, often rare, soul 45s ever put to wax though, typically fast numbers which would both feel good on speed & allow one to dance for hours, much like the number I have posted here; original copies of this 7” go for well over $200 at auction. Honestly, I could easily see some enterprising young head looping up the first few bars of this song, and then turning that into the basis for a phatty breakbeat track…

Ain't It Fun

from the LP The Day the Earth Met the…, Smog Veil Records, released: 2002, recorded: 1975



Cleveland rocks, period. Having lived there, trust me, you can take my word for it, but those who need more convincing need only do a brief search on proto-punk music and you’ll find that an uneven percentage of the groups deemed as such (and who actually sound like punk rock) came from the Cleveland area: Mirrors, The Styrenes, The Electric Eels, and this crew, Rocket From the Tombs (RFTT), who wound up splitting into the Dead Boys and Pere Ubu upon their collapse in 1975. Surely the town’s proximity to Detroit (in both locale & deserted ghetto vibe) had something to do with this odd musical factoid, Motown being the birthplace of pre-proto-punk’s like the Stooges & the MC5, but geography alone isn’t enough to explain just what the fuck turned the 216 into such a hotbed of prophetic dissonance. Granted, the entire “rust belt” (i.e. S. Michigan, Ohio, W. Pennsylvania, W. New York state, NE Indiana, etc…) had seen the systematic dissolution of the American dream long before the economic decline of the late ‘70s, something which most music scholars point to as an essential element of punk rock’s rise to prominence in both England & the US; that said, it still doesn’t answer the question: why Cleveland? Well, I can tell you that there is a certain feeling up Thieveland way, one that says ‘we’re all in this together’ and means it, as I have never again felt such a general unity of purpose (namely, to get very fucked up and to heartily root for the Indians & Browns) amongst the population from a city that size in all my travels & travails since; no, it is not a utopia by any means, I’m just saying that there was this understanding of how dead the area was, and a dedicated agreement to have fun regardless. Sadly, this tale of living fast & dying young proved to be a prescient one for it’s author, Peter Laughner; “…ain’t it fun when you’re always on the run, ain’t it fun when your friends despise what you’ve become; ain’t it fun when you get so high that you can’t cum, ain’t it fun when you know that you’re gonna die young…I broke the windows, crashed my fist right through the glass, but I couldn’t even feel it, it just happened too fast, it was fun, such fun, oh such fun…”

Bulky Backside

from the LP …Is Back, Afrodisia Records, 1979



Rejoice all yee who have ears, and worry not about who exactly ‘BLO’ is, just trust in your humble narrator here that their return (from where you ask: perhaps the planet of Bootyism) is indeed a homecoming worthy of celebration! This slice of Lagos funk practically screams roller skates & hot pants, all synthesizers and snappy breaks while they implore all the ladies with a bumpin’ ass to, “…push it up, and roll it, slap it, one and two; I said push it up ya’ll, and rub it together…bulky side, bulky side, bulky backside…” Just when you think things can’t get better, their guitarist peels off some acid-drenched riffs when the bridge rolls around, a trippy antidote for all of the big bouncing booty in our faces; honestly, this track is funktastic perfection, ‘nuff said.

Indifference

from the LP Moby Grape, Columbia Records, 1967



Years ago I sat down, pre-Google or Wikipedia, and attempted to find all the acid-related casualties from the ‘60s that had been popular musicians, a harrowing pursuit that ended when I go to around ten or so lost souls: Syd Barrett, Brian Wilson, Roky Erickson, Peter Green, Brian Jones, Arthur Lee, Tawl Ross, etc… One of the lesser-known figures, outside of heady music circles anyways, was the sad tale of Skip Spence, one-time drummer for the Jefferson Airplane (only on their first album) and guitarist & founder of the biggest “should have been huge” psych rock crew from the ‘60s: Moby Grape. He spent a good majority of his adult life either being involuntarily committed to mental hospitals or existing in a drug-induced stupor (often both I’d assume), yet he was considered by many notable peers to have been one of the most talented prodigies around, previous to his breakdown anyways. One has to wonder, given what we now know about the “care” individuals received in such institutions back then, if Skip was merely on a heavy bummer before being locked up, but after enough Thorazine and electric shock treatments the guy was blown for good---and how many others perished to similar fates, kids who may very well have just needed some time & care to help them come back down to Earth. Who can say though, I suppose the guy could’ve truly gotten stuck in some sort of psychic feedback loop, “…what a difference a day has made, what a difference a day has made; what a difference, and more of the same…is it forever ever, that’s the part that blows my mind…try some today now baby, try some now…” Skip’s approach to the guitar, and pop music in general, remains just as fresh and original today, shining beams of light cast before the long dark night.

The Captain of Her Heart

from the LP Blue, Metronome Records, 1985



Mmmmmmm, that’s good guilty pleasure! Right up there with “West End Girls” and “Steppin’ Out” in its ability to steal my mind away, back to a sun-dappled misspent youth full of daydreams & delusions of grandeur, this track is cheesy schlock at its finest; of course, at that time I worshipped my older sisters’ collection classic rock & metal LPs, so I didn’t admit liking this song back then---- secretly, however, I adored it. Having one of the least creative names ever (seriously, you guys couldn’t come up with something more interesting than this?!), Swiss crew Double are the responsible party for this tale of a lady in waiting, and they used to play the video for this on VH1 all the time: a wonderfully 80s montage of pale models walking around with extra pout-y faces, wondering where their man has gone. I am fully cognizant of the fact that this song holds absolutely no enduring meaning or importance, and that it probably finds its way onto worst-song lists often, but I still dig it, so go fuck yourself. :)

Alaskan Thunderfuck

Hey everybody, just back on solid ground in Anchorage after a week and a half at sea, cruising the Alaskan coast. Lots of great tunes to post for you all when I am home in the Rockies again (tomorrow). Also of note: sea otters are officially the cutest animals in the entire world...and, whales are big. Very cool!

Kilngklang

from the LP Kraftwerk 2, Philips Records, 1972



It’s always an illuminating experience to seek out the earlier recordings of a band who went on to become massively influential or popular, even if the music itself bears little resemblance to what came later, imbued with an adventurousness that typically gets sanded down after more time in the music business. Freed from the limitations of using real drummers, Kraftwerk (which is German for “power station”) really begin to come into their own on this, their second LP; to be honest, I doubt they would have changed their sound so quickly if not for the departure of drummer Klaus Dinger (to form his own band, the legendary NEU!), but it put machines at the helm of their rhythms, leaving Ralf & Florian free to experiment with all manner of other instruments & electronics. The influence of producer Conny Plank can not be over-stated, as he worked with virtually every electronic musician of that period, cross-pollinating the vibes of several krautrock crews; my guess is that the early work of Popol Vuh or Kluster served as their biggest inspiration here, perhaps too much so, as Kraftwerk have been known to refer to these early albums as “archaeology”. As young & abstract as this piece comes across, you can’t deny the inherent warmth found within that droning repetition, an approach the boys would later perfect after a little more time in the studio.

The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)

from the 12” single, Elektra Records, 1997



Other than the Neptunes, no production team or single individual had more influence over the evolving sound of hip-hop beats in the ‘90s than did Virginia native Timothy ‘Timbaland’ Mosley; coincidentally, him & Pharrell actually went to the same high school. Likewise, you’d be hard-pressed to find a female rapper that did as much to push the game forward, during the same time period, as did Melissa ‘Missy’ Elliot, delivering rhymes in a cut-up, collage style that almost reminds me of Doom at times: never stuck on one flow for very long, but taking great care to spit funky phrases full of words that aren’t expected. One of the first collisions of Tim & Missy’s talents occurred on Aaliyah’s debut album, which they mostly wrote & produced, but it wasn’t until this single and subsequent LP that the duo would be working all for themselves. Although not known for traditional sampling, Tim grabbed a smoking hot loop from Ann Peebles’ “I Can’t Stand the Rain” to serve as the foundation for this track, overtop of which he laced what would later become his signature skitter beats, along with some thunder and a continuous cricket chirp; meanwhile, Missy unleashes some of the smoothest & most endearingly quirky raps you ever heard, “…when the rain hits my window, I take a {inhaling a hit & coughing} me some indo, me and Timbaland, ooh, we sang a jangle, we so tight that you get our styles tangled; sway your dosie-do like you loco, can we get kinky tonight, like CoCo, so-so, you don't wanna play with my yo-yo, I smoke my hydro on the d-low…”

Caesar

from the LP Melted, Goner Records, 2010



This kind of fuzzed out garage rock revivalism, which was largely incited by the coming of the White Stripes at the end of our last century, shows no sign of letting up anytime soon, and few do it as well as Ty Segall, a young man who really does this genre justice by his lo-fi, high-on-drugs (exclaiming in one song 'I'm on drugs, Lemmy from Motorhead gave em to me') approach to the music. Although a grip of crews playing this type of lumbering mess often come off as insincere, or at the very least like they are merely going through the motions, Mr. Segall comes across as if he is playing to save his stoned soul…I fucking FEEL you man!!! Coming to life on a shoestring acoustic hook and tinker-toy drumming, it could almost be precious--- well, that is until Ty opens his mouth: full of pouting Jagger-esque (perhaps more accurately, Johansen-esque, although he was merely aping Mick in the first place I suppose, but I digress…) strut one second, then collapsing into shambling Mascis-ian brokenness the next. Segall’s sharp ear for a catchy melody is affirmed in spades here, and he fucking knows it, turning the bridge of a chorus (starting around 1:10) into an extended coda because it’s so goddamn addictive; frankly, he could’ve rode that last bit into the ocean for another 10 minutes or so and we’d still be begging for more! Bring it motherfucker!!

September Gurls

from the LP Radio City, Ardent Records, 1974



What a pisser man---just 4 months after the passing of lead singer & guitarist Alex Chilton, the founding bassist in Big Star, Andy Hummel, died on Monday from complications related to a long, hard-fought battle with cancer. While I have to admit that “power pop” has never been my favorite genre of music, these guys brought just enough hasty distress & nihilistic irony to their proceedings that all the sugar felt successfully balanced by some smoked salt; and man was this stuff sugary, harmonies so sweet they could send Belle & Sebastian or Paul McCartney running to the dentist with rotting teeth! This song is probably the band’s best known cut, perhaps the most defining slice of power pop ever put to wax, cotton candy chord progressions tempered by Chilton’s lascivious lyrics, “… September gurls do so much, I was your butch and you were touched; I loved you, well never mind, I've been crying all the time…when I get to bed, late at night, that's the time she makes things right… December boys got it bad, December boys got it bad…” Even misspelling the word ‘girls’ in the title was a wry, cutesy move that makes it hard to tell if anything beyond the music was meant to be taken seriously (as well as revealing their glam rock / bubblegum pop influences). Their music has inspired generations of artists, from having ambient influence over the Paisley Underground & mod revival scenes, to being the absolute reason for a band like Teenage Fanclub’s existence, securing Big Star the recognition they didn’t receive back in the day.

Nutshell

from the EP Jar of Flies, Columbia Records, 1994



It didn’t take an intuitive genius to know that Alice in Chains lead singer Layne Staley was a tortured man, being that he wore his heart on his sleeve no matter how damaged & injured it might have been, baring his soul to us fans in a way that few performers dare even approach; as time wore on, his consistently worsening physical appearance was enough for anyone with half a brain to understand. That said, it didn’t make things any less shocking or depressing when hearing the news of his death in 2002, after an extended period of alienation from friends & family. This track was recorded at a time when Layne’s addictions were just beginning to get the best of him, and having become something of rock star he watched his personal struggles become fodder for the eager press, something which none of us “regular folk” who struggled with drug problems can even conceive of. Maybe that’s why he just faded away, more content to die alone rather than blowing up in front of the cameras, “…we chase misprinted lies, we face the path of time, and yet I fight, and yet I fight this battle all alone; no one to cry to, no place to call home…my gift of self is raped, my privacy is raked, and yet I find, yet I find, repeating in my head: If I can't be my own, I'd feel better dead…” We all know what it feels like to hate yourself, or parts of yourself, from time to time, or that feeling of sickening embarrassment when others learn your dark secrets, the unrelenting shame felt when you let down people who you respect; in hindsight, it’s tempting to presume he may have meant the words he sings here, but an interview he gave closer to his death reveals a more complex picture, (given just months before his death) “…drugs worked for me for years, and now they’re turning against me; now I’m walking through hell… I know I made a big mistake when I started using this shit; it's a very difficult thing to explain…I know I’m near death…I know I have no chance, it's too late…I never wanted to end my life this way…” May he rest in the peace he couldn’t find here on Earth.

Way in My Brain (Remix)

from the 12” single, XL Recordings, 1992



This one was friggin’ HUGE people! Along with their smash “On A Ragga Tip”, this track by the Essex-reared duo of Slipmatt & Lime (a.k.a. SL2) proved to be an instrumental transition point at the genesis of breakbeat’s evolution into jungle. Producers were just beginning to experiment with different time signatures around this time, and after snagging a perfect loop from Wayne Smith’s “Under Me Sleng Teng”, SL2 constructed a groove which sounded ever-so slightly different from the standard breakbeat tracks going around at that time, a rhythm & vibe which would prove to be wholly prescient in the year or so after this release; it’s mind-blowing when one realizes the staggering amount of worldwide influence that music made on the tiny island of Jamaica has had over the years! Big ups to the old school jungle & breakbeat massive!!!

Rudy, A Message to You

from the LP Specials, Two Tone Records, 1979



Getting arrested is no fun when you’re an adult---I suppose most people would argue that it’s never “fun” to get popped, but when you’re a dumb adolescent kid it can be a real rush, particularly given the badge of honor that such events bestow upon one in the eyes of other young delinquents, but you also know it will be erased from your record as soon as you turn eighteen (shit, so many people celebrated their 18^th’s even harder due to the sudden clean slate, and fittingly, most of us had fucked that up within the year…d’oh). I found myself sitting in a downtown Cleveland jail well before my 19^th birthday, on a minor possession charge that would’ve normally been a ticket, but I still had an out of state ID so they threw my ass in jail, on a Friday night no less (double d’oh). It would have been smarter to heed the advice that the Specials were giving rude boys & rude girls in this famous cover track, “…stop your messin’ around, better think of your future; time you straightened right out, creating problems in town…” Although the lesson was duly noted, it took a couple more big fuckups & seven years of ducking the warrants that were trailing me before the lesson was truly learnt. Frankly, tucked away in my nest of a suburban life these days, it all seems so far away. This one goes out to a particular niece & nephew of mine, although I think you’ve both mostly sharpened your games accordingly; sure love you guys!