from the 7” single, Creation Records, 1984
Isn’t it funny how, when we’re kids, it seems as if all the urges & yearnings inside our hormone soaked souls can only be fulfilled in the darkest of night, something so perfectly invigorating about those post-sunset hours it almost seems scripted, looking back now with older eyes. At some point in the game we lose our ability to sleep-in easily (not everyone, but many of us…sadly, I am among the sun risers now), and funny thing about that, because around the same time that happens, you suddenly start getting tired at the most preposterously early of times---so early that many of the establishments you once frequented aren’t even open before your head hits the pillow. Given these compounding circumstances, the late morning into afternoon has suddenly become the zenith for most of my free (i.e. not at work) days; subsequently, on days I work, there is no fucking zenith, like I have energy for zenith-ness when I have to be at work by 8:00 the next morning, please. As luck would have it, consuming cannabis & cocktails in the midday sun is bloody brilliant!!! Revolving Paint Dream was a side project for Andy Innes, of Primal Scream fame, and his girlfriend Christie Wanless, but this scrumptiously creepy single (with a sound that’s heavily indebted to the Teardrop Explodes me thinks) actually dropped before the Scream ever had a record out.
from the 12” single, Reinforced Records, 1992
It already seems like some of the more forward-thinking beats-heads are marinating in advance of the 20-year retro rule and beginning to bring back some of the more elemental vibes from early rave music, and I for one couldn’t be happier about that; if there’s one genre of music that I would like to see wholly revisited, it’s the early ‘90s breakbeat scene. The overriding sense of melody, the alarm sirens, the swifty breaks, and that sub, mmmmmmmm, the seismic roll of a sub-bass will never lose its appeal to me. The career of renowned beats duo Marc & Dego, better known to the world as 4 Hero, reads like an evolutionary map of the breaks, as they helped usher in the first waves of both breakbeat & jungle, then practically invented the concept of “broken beat” by themselves. This frenetic single finds them standing on the precipice of jungle’s birth, “…cookin’ up ya brain…bust another sample….let the bass go…ya’ll ready for this…?” Damn right!
from the LP Ege Bamyasi, UA Records, 1972
I can remember my first encounter with the bizarre music of Can: having been primed by some of my older peers for an experience that was going to absolutely blow my mind, I had prepared myself for some super crazy shit, and upon hearing the first few measures of this track, all I could think of was cavemen---it sounded like a group of Neanderthals who had just come upon some instruments in a cave and decided to fuck around with them. Hell, even Damo Suzuki’s “vocals” sound as if they might be coming from the throat of early man! Admittedly, being a snotty punkish brat at the time, it didn’t excite me much and I heaped them into my then-sizeable pile of “weird trendy rubbish” which I fancied set myself apart from the typical undergrounder (I don’t know how any of us had any time for anything other than our own identity management when we were teenagers?!). Over time, these wild German acid-heads have grown on me like humidified fungus, blissfully submitting to the near-modal cycles of their grooves, the danciest, not to mention hypnotic, goddamn deconstruction of pop music around. Heavy breaks-heads out there, if you don’t already know, you better get up…
from the 12” single, Red Greg Records, 1976
Coming on like a Quaalude that’s been chased with some clean base, the Universal Robot Band woozily redefined many heads’ conception of dance music, utilizing whatever they wished from both the disco and funk camps, and in the same way that “deep house” has sought to intensify and expand beneath the basic foundation of house music, these cats dug into the subterranean depths to find their grooves. One of the earliest official collaborations between legendary producers Patrick Adams & Greg Carmichael, this effort catapulted the duo from stoned basement freaks to bona fide underground champions, divulging a new blueprint for android based interplanetary funkmanship, set apart from P-Funk’s vision in its minimal yet sultry disco charm, replete with goosebump inducing synthlines and synthscapes, an omnipresent appeal to, “…dance, and shake your tambourine, your funky tambourine, tambourine, tambourine…” Mad extra points for the whistles, you know that this recording session was a good time had by all!
from the 12” single, Merciful Release, 1982
I’ve spoken before of musical litmus tests, those particular bands which come to define an actual doorway into another level of subcultural membership, bands whose very mention can instantaneously separate a group of individuals into partisan camps; back in the day, the Sisters of Mercy were most assuredly one of those groups. You either knew about them and had all of these old singles of theirs on crappy booter cassettes, or you looked upon this band (hell, the name alone) with derision and, ultimately, fear of what sinister acts might be going on there. The funny thing is, looking at them now, the scariest thing about this Leeds-based crew was their name…well, that and Andrew Eldritch’s bass-heavy gurgle, enough to make Richard Butler (Psychedelic Furs) sound downright perky. This track is a hot jangly mess, matching dark & light tones with masterful ease, and introducing us to Mr. Eldritch’s cynical, near misanthropic worldview, “…Alice pressed against the wall so she can see the door, in case the laughing strangers crawl and crush the petals on the floor…she needs you like she needs her tranqs, to tell her that the world is clean, to promise her a definition…pass the crystal, spread the Tarot, in illusion comfort lies; the safest way, the straight and narrow, no confusion no surprise…” Wise choice in naming the protagonist Alice, a name which conjures all sorts of druggy imagery, from Wonderland to the bogus diary of an acid casualty that never was (remember reading Go Ask Alice?!?). The shadowy vibe, and fast beats, got them lumped in with the goth movement, but the Sisters always had a good deal more going on than merely a pout and some black eyeliner.
from the LP Live!, Columbia Records, 1972Good things happen when friends get together, and can you dig, the suggestion of a collaboration used to mean more than merely a proposed single & cameo in the ensuing video---no, the supergroup musical alliances of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s were tours, perhaps more a consequence of who one happened to passing the metaphorical (and very literal) bowl to, as opposed to today’s manicured partnerships that taste about as real as a polyurethane milkshake. This track is a gigantic, encore-like monster of a jam, capping what must have been one hell of a chemically induced extravaganza during new years day 1972; part of a tour that members of Santana and the Buddy Miles Express teamed up for (a mélange of no less than 2 drummers, 3 percussionists, 2 guitarists, a bassist, an organist, 4-piece brass section, & one badass flautist), this show was recorded inside a fucking crater of the Diamond Head volcano in Hawaii, which surely lent a certain level of potency to the whole atmosphere (Pele bubbled deep under foot, ya heard?!). This nearly 25 minute-long marmalade of the earthiest, beasty funk one can imagine rolls through four different suites, each one a bit funkier than its former, climaxing around 17:52, when some very heady and streetwise (re: death of the ‘60s dream) vocals from Mr. Miles emerge rather organically, delivered with the appropriate degree of stank, “…have you ever tried the whole night, and all the morning too…the whole world’s in trouble, running right and left; you’d better hold onto what you got brother, and look out for yourself…” Not too mention, one of the all-time greatest song-titles in the pantheon of transparent wastedness!
from the LP Metro Area, Environ Records, 2002
The very notion of “post-disco” is far too subtle a concept to ping upon most of our radars, either the ‘post’ portion of the title being immediately annoying to many people or the ‘disco’ portion of the label smacking like juicy Mallorcan lemons to others; fear not, for these vibes do justice to both pre- and suffix, and with no excuse if they’d missed the mark, as Metro Area (veteran producers & DJs Morgan Geist and Darshan Jesrani) bring us these optimal pulsations a full twenty years after this style of music hit its peak, granting them the priceless scrutiny of hindsight. Their beats are clean, but not sterile, making sure to keep enough dust in the grooves for things to be convincing (it’d be easy to mistake a number of their tracks as genuine relics of the early ‘80s), never coming across as slick---just smoooooove.
from the LP Pizzazz, Elektra Records, 1979
Every time I read about some jazz musician pissing off the purists by embracing new and engaging styles of music beyond the boundaries of “jazz” it warms my soul---I mean, for real, how lame do you have to be to think that a genuine artist gives a flying fuck?! Noted pianist Patrice Rushen received more than her fair share of rage from the bop sticklers, but I’d guess that if someone actually measured the levels of orthodox-based hatred as compared to record sales, one would find a positive correlation between success and subsequent scorn; that is, Ms. Rushen rocked the dancefloor yo. This uptempo burner will never fail to put a spring in your step, firing on all engines at once: come horns, come violins, bump that bass, stab that piano! Extra points for the dank extended interlude when she rips it up on the electric keys, and also for the stellar cover photo; you rock those cowrie shells in your braids girl!!
from the LP Boces, Beggars Banquet Records, 1993
“…tonight I’ll dig tunnels to your nightmare room…and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s up, up up up up up up up…” Let me tell ya, when you’re deep in the remote depths of a very purposely induced K-hole, sitting on the floor at the foot of a staircase can really feel like you are staring up at the carpeted existential ladder of time itself, the soiled footprints of Cleveland’s winter sludge marking a path of evolution that would surely take eons to complete---or at least it seems that way when you’re blown on ketamine. I haven’t done K in years, but those holes were some of the farthest out places I have ever visited, zones where all the gravity that quantum physicists speak of existing with such impending force in other dimensions must surely leak into, when the very thought of standing up itself is such a detached and distant premise that it takes near an hour to finish deciding that, no, indeed, you will not be standing up! Mercury Rev never did obtain the same kind of fanatical (or large) fanbase that their philosophical siblings the Flaming Lips did (and have), leaving them to languish in alt-rock obscurity until their re-birth as late ‘90s alt-roots cult heores.
from the LP Desolation Boulevard, RCA Records, 1974
I caught the back half of Dazed & Confused on TV the other day, and although I have watched this movie countless times in the past, I realized a couple things again: (1) the 1970s were truly the coolest fucking decade since the 1920s, (2) someone ought to do a film that attempts to capture the same general vibe, but for the early ‘90s instead of the mid ‘70s, if that’s even possible, and (3) after deciding that I wanted to watch the film from start to finish I found that I have, once again, misplaced our DVD copy of the movie, so I will thus be buying yet another for the third time---there is some beautiful irony in that. It’s not often that musicians who initially make their reputation appealing to the tween set are able to parlay that career into something that would attract the interest of adults, let alone adults who like to party, but Sweet pulled off just this feat in the mid ‘70s: having been cast as bubblegum dildos initially, this LP was the band’s real shift towards a heavier sound. You know me, so you know that I love the synths, the proto-punk edge, the driving drumbeat… but I also love the way they crafted this song about a groupie that changes shape with the times, and in so doing actually take the piss out of themselves in highlighting critics of their own image alteration, “…I don't wanna know your name, ‘cause you don't look the same, the way you did before; OK, you think you got a pretty face, but the rest of you is out of place, you looked all right before…”
from the LP Blackheart Man, Island Records, 1976
Pressure, whether physical or psychic in nature, can be a deeply detrimental thing to both the mind & body, and every person has their limit; for one reason or another, right as the Wailers were hitting the absolute apex of their popularity, Bunny Wailer decided that he’d had enough and dipped out mid-tour, furthering the already begun process of self-immolation that was the trio’s demise. It’s not like Bunny (born Neville O’Riley Livingston) checked out of the music business altogether, but he preferred staying close to home (i.e. on the island), thus, the life of a globetrotting superstar held little, if any, allure to him. Where it may have been rather simple for Peter Tosh to butt heads directly with Marley, the story was a bit more complex for Bunny, as the two had been raised as siblings going all the way back to St. Ann’s Bay; forgive the analysis, but I suspect the depth of their relationship, even in the face of all their disagreements, is part of what kept Bunny from really competing. That being said, nobody can wag their finger at this album, his first full length release as a solo artist and, in my opinion, his best. The religious intellectualisms found within this track, perhaps of personal relevance for him, are apt in these tough times, “…no more worrying, worrying and pains; no more crying, shedding tears like rain…so bide up, with reasoning, humble thyself and I'll be near thee; bide up, with reasoning, humble thyself and I'll protect thee…” There is sage advice in those words, and the pursuit of humility may have served Bunny quite well, having now outlived his legendary peers by almost three decades.
from the LP Selection, Full Time Records, 1982
It feels good to be back in the swing of things, even if I am teaching more classes than I ever have before in one semester (4) and it’s making my head spin a bit, just going to my office hours yesterday reminded me that, actually, I fucking love where I work. My drugs class is a rowdy bunch, more blatantly user-friendly than in the past, which sort of puts me on my toes---keep em guessing is the name of the game; speaking of which, I’m jealous of the stories I hear older prof’s telling about times when getting stoned with a student was so common they puffed in their friggin’ offices!?! No worries though, I actually enjoy playing devil’s advocate with the pro-drugs kids almost more than I take pleasure from opening the anti- group’s minds. The small handful of Italian producers in the ‘80s who weren’t churning out pounding italo singles mainly focused on improving & perfecting American boogie, often called ‘disco-funk’, and Selection is a great example of this: big brass, strings, funky bassline, and that squiggly synthesizer seals the deal!
from the LP Shinola Vol. 1, Schnitzel Records, released: 2005, recorded: 199?
In honor of this, my 420th post here in the Honeypot, I dug through my digital crates in search of a fittingly stoner-friendly track, but so many to choose from… My love for Ween is boundless, so this LP of odds & ends from over their career was a welcome surprise when it dropped a few years back, containing a solid assortment of Ween’s many different musical faces; guessing from the drunken, sea shanty-like melody and cadence found here, I’d guess the original construction of this track came somewhere around the Mollusk sessions. They ask the listener a truly timeless query, “…how high can you fly...?” Albeit, I wouldn’t recommend going too far in attempting to satisfy that quandary, you could wind up flying a little higher than you expected, burning the fuck out of your face while kissing the surface of the sun, you know how that goes… Extra points for the Tago Mago inspired cover art, and ultra cheap vocal effects---you gotta love the second chorus when Gener gets all serious and is like, “…can you get high…?” Yes I can. Mo hay now.
from the CD Death Control, Kill Shaman Records, 2009
Sometimes I “get” organized religion, not very often, but sometimes… the fellowship part anyways. Sometimes I hear a song or a chord progression that contracts my heart and makes the weepy weep flow a little, and I can imagine myself standing in a crowd of thousands, being at the foot of Mt. Fuji or some such mystical place, trembling arms raised to the azure sky in a communal embrace of the unknown, unseen and unbelievable, surely the most conceivable riposte for such a basal emotive response…sounds provoking physiological change…how???...? It’s all Lou Reed & Ariel Pink meets Scary Monsters-era Bowie, with an acoustic Füxa twist---that is, until the points 1:45ish & 3:50ish respectively, when something of a quasi-chorus erupts in tragically descending comportment, seemingly from some leather flat that a mid ‘70s Lennon cocaine nightmare was pealing silhouettes away from shadows in, awash amidst the dreams of Dionysus but tethered to the dusty stale ground; no lie, if those verses don’t leave you a little weak in the knees and/or tear ducts, you have my permission to go in search of the Tin Man’s new & improved heart.
from the 7” single, Trojan Records, 1966
One of the oldest surviving veterans of Jamaica’s thriving music scene, having now been performing and recording for nearly half a century, Wilburn ‘Stranger’ Cole was around before there was even such a word as “reggae”, cutting singles nonstop from 1962 forward as the musical landscape went from ska to rock steady to reggae. I discovered this delicious song, which was actually a b-side, on one of those Trojan 3-disc compilations of rare 45s from their colossal vaults, and it’s always stuck with me---something about that jug band-esque bassline and his minor key melodies just send my body a swaying; props for the percussive breaks, organ & piano too! Shit, I can listen to classic rock steady cuts and old reggae like this for days man…
Watching the events transpire down in Haiti is breaking my heart; being a country that has suffered so much already, I can’t imagine the level of sheer despair that this earthquake has produced on an already taxed collective psyche, let alone the lives lost and being lost as I type this post. When I lived and worked in the Dominican Republic, I crossed the border into Haiti on a couple of occasions, and I’ve gotta tell you, the word “impoverished” just doesn’t do the reality justice; there is also a large Haitian community where I grew up in Florida, so this crisis has really grabbed my attention. I’m encouraged to see the international response so far, with aid already pouring in from us, France, Brazil, even China! That being said, the needs will undoubtedly dwarf the resources available, so I really encourage anyone who reads this blog to donate $10 to the Red Cross if you are able (which, if you are reading this internet blog, you can probably swing it)---it’s simple: Just text the word: HAITI to the number 90999, then you will receive a confirmation to which you must reply with: YES. It might not seem like a lot, but believe me, they are going to need all the help they can get and more. Other bloggers have my permission, and encouragement, to cut & paste this specific post into your own blogs for greater dispersal. My thoughts are with all of my friends who have family still down there, I am here for you in any way I can be!!
from the LP Teddy Pendergrass, Philadelphia International Records, 1977
I just heard that soul crooner Teddy Pendergrass has succumbed to complications stemming from surgery for colon cancer, and the world has truly lost a legend with his passing, having had one of the deepest (in every way) deliveries around, raspy and guttural in a manner which was consistent with the decades this man spent singing his heart out---Mr. Pendergrass was ordained as a minister at the tender age of 10, and always sang in Philly-area gospel choirs previous to his breaking into the recording world. Renowned production duo Gamble & Huff worked real magic with this track, giving it a feeling of movement with those violins and that rubbery bassline, like walking down a bustling metropolitan street; DJ Sneak reworked this number into a stomping house track in the mid ‘90s, appropriately titled “You Can’t Hide from Your Bud”. The zen-like simplicity of his chorus actually packs a wallop upon further contemplation, “…you can’t hide from yourself; everywhere you go, there you are…” The human capacity to lie to oneself is seemingly endless, knowing full well that what Teddy says is true even though we often try so hard to believe otherwise, drunk on the success of fooling others and acting day to day from Kindergarten forwards; problem is, you can’t lie to yourself forever, so you might as well just embrace what’s there, because life is too damn short!
from the 7” single, Creation Records, 1984
