from the LP Sub Pop 200, Sub Pop Records, 1988
Like most people, I purchased this Sub Pop compilation in the early ‘90s due to the inclusion of tracks by Nirvana, Screaming Trees and Mudhoney that couldn’t be found anywhere else---funny thing was, the big-wigs were duly outshined on this collection by significantly lesser-known bands, and like so many other music purchases in my life, I wound up stumbling upon a handful of fantastic groups by accident, such as the Fastbacks, Tad, & this little-known crew called Chemistry Set. I tracked down their self-titled EP and a 7” single that came after this, but none of the songs on those come close to this number, and for me, this track was the clear winner in the whole bunch here, making perfect use of the fast-slow-fast formula; that washed out chorus is so brilliantly stoned and effortless, it feels like you are floating on a cloud, “…and when you’re high in your room, and you feel in tune, grab a guitar and start playing very loud; come and join us, ‘cause it’s lonely underground…”
from the LP It’ll Shine When It Shines, A&M Records, 1974
As far as guilty pleasures go, it doesn’t get much more gratifying than this little peach of a number, unfailing staple of both classic & soft rock radio since its inception, all breezy and sassy and warm summer nights. The Ozark Mountain Daredevils began their journey as a country rock band, but their sound became rather polished as they spent time in Los Angeles recording albums, falling in with the whole Laurel Canyon scene---thus, it’s not surprising to learn that this song was inspired by a California girl they kept running into at parties, presumably a groupie or scenester (hanger-on) of some sort, strung out on dope and living one minute to the next. To be sure, that kind of vibe must have resembled Mars compared to the Missouri woods these scruffy potheads called home, and the lyrics espouse the observations of someone very much on the outside looking in at a foreign world; in fact, there’s really an innocent luster atop this whole track, and one can only imagine what Ms. Blue must have thought of these country bumpkins being so shocked at habits that probably seemed de rigueur, at the most, to her. As is often the case with me, my favorite parts in this number are the breakdowns: mid-tempo shuffle beat, maracas, and the charming twang of that pedal steel hovering all around. Truth be told, I could listen to this shit all day…
from the LP Gag, Mute Records, 1984
A school topic which seems to brandish perpetual appeal amongst young kids is any discussion on criminal punishments of yore: the guillotine, being burned at the stake, the rack, even lesser penalties like being put in the stocks. One method of retribution that always gets a mention is the process of “tarring & feathering”, but the very notion of such a visibly riotous procedure always left me with one eyebrow raised as to the practicality of such an odd course of action---that is, until I saw the video for this track by British freakazoid (and I mean that in the best possible way) Frank Tovey, a.k.a. ‘Fad Gadget’. With a little help from like-minded weirdo’s Einstürzende Neubauten, he created one of the paramount roasts of gothic / industrial culture in the ‘80s, all tongue-in-cheek of course, “…stay awake all night, but never see the stars, and sleep all day, on a chain link bed of nails… steer clear of the sun, pancake sandpaper skin; they have no reflections, drink blood but pierce no veins… exagerrate the scar tissue, wounds that never heal; takes hours of preparations, to get that wasted look…” You simply must watch the video for full effect (dig the “band”, particularly that chick playing the hell out of those Perrier bottles): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGXBjwifubI
from the 7” single, BABS records, 1982
This song often gets tossed into the pile of choice Tony Cook cuts, due to the fact that he was the executive producer here, but seeing as how it was written, arranged & performed by one Vernon Cheely (who was only 17 years old), it was time to find out who we really have to thank for this slice of synthtastic boogie heaven. Well, that, and I found out a certain record label (think “rocks toss”) got their happy little hands on Cook’s whole discography earlier this year, so no more procrastination… After a laborious search online, I found our man: 43 year old singer & keyboardist Vernon Cheely still resides in Augusta, Georgia and is the current music director at St. Marks United Methodist & Episcopal Church---the online Augusta Chronicle did a short bio piece on him in 2008 that’s still up. His favorite show he ever played was with the Drifters in the ‘80s, but (be still my heart), when asked what his favorite concert of all time was, his fucking answer was KISS at the Carolina Coliseum in 1975, “…they had an illusion that made them appear to have disappeared… when they came back, they were in different outfits, and they kind of blew my mind, you know…” Vernon, if I could, I would hug you brother---that answer, along with this incredible jam you crafted for us, has made my day!
from the LP Black Sunday, Ruffhouse Records, 1993
Ahhh bongs… The evolution of bong-making has been fun to watch over the last couple decades, from the plastic Graffix monoliths of yore to the intricately sculpted crystal towers of today; indeed, like any other commercial product or advertisement, bongs have changed to meet the demands of the buying public. Take, for example, the ice catcher---here someone clearly responded to both the increasing popularity of using ice in bongs & the fallout from so many broken stems due to large chunks of ice falling straight down the tube and hitting them (we used to avoid that peril by stuffing snow in the barrel); these days, you’d be hard pressed to find a glass bong without that friendly dimple towards the base of the tube. Good looking out bong-makers! In the spirit of honesty however, I must share a firm observation that my friends and I have come to realize over the years (and countless thousands of sessions), and that is: when you smoke weed through water, be it a bong or bubbler, you don’t stay high for as long. Well, that is unless we are speaking of the old-school “gravity bong”---you know, the 2-liter job where one cuts the bottle in half and keeps the part with the cap, then one heats up the bowlpiece from an old metal pipe on an electric stove burner (which you melt through the plastic cap to make a tight seal), followed by filling the sink with water and proceeding to force ungodly amounts of smoke down into the inner recesses of one’s stomach & intestines. Remember those contraptions?! I will gladly make an exception in their case, but many of us are too old for that shit anymore, so pass me a pipe or a joint already…
from the 12” single, Persona Records, 1986
Previous to the release of this monster cut, the term “house music” was basically a catch-all phrase specifically referring to the records which were commonly played at Chicago nightclub, The Warehouse; due to the rabid fanbase of said club, the guys at Imports Records had to dedicate a section of the store to the hottest tracks spun by DJs there, and they shortened the name from ‘Warehouse’ to just ‘house’, but these were primarily disco-funk, garage, italo and Hi-NRG cuts, and by ’83 the Warehouse was winding down before what we know as “house music” (4/4 beat, synths, limited or no vocals, all instrumentation done by electronics) had fully appeared. Thus, the clubs which truly serve as the birthplace of modern house were the Music Box, which was opened by Robert Williams (the same cat who had owned the Warehouse), and the Powerplant, owned & operated by Frankie Knuckles (who had been the head DJ at the Warehouse). While Jesse Saunders is fairly credited as being the first artist to have a house track pressed on wax (1984’s “On And On”, which was a revamp of his “Fantasy” from earlier that year), it’s this deep cut from Jamie Principle that really set things off. Virtually all of house music’s originators (Marshall, Frankie, Silk, Farley, et al.) credit this song, which was in heavy rotation, via tape, at the clubs earlier than “On And On” but didn’t get pressed until ’86, as being the true catalyst which sent guys running home to their basements trying recreate what they were hearing in this track. Who could have possibly known that this simple repetitive loop of those 3 notes would wind up becoming the tap root for an everlasting international culture. Quite frankly, is there any style of modern music we don’t ultimately have black people to thank for either creating or inspiring??? Simply put: Nope.
from the LP Van Halen, Warner Bros. Records, 1978
Having all grown up in the greater Los Angeles area during those shaggy-haired, jamadelic late ‘60s & 1970s, the members of Van Halen must have been taken by utter surprise when suddenly the clubs they were used to frequenting had been taken over by sour-faced little kids with fluorescent green liberty spikes and safety pins shoved through their moping faces. Rather than bitching about “these damn talent-less kids” like so many other classic rockers did, Van Halen took it on the chin & decided to pen this speedy number on their debut album as a document (and perhaps skewering) of what was happening--- and anyways, metalheads didn’t produce the ire in punk rock circles that prog or psych rockers did. Say what you will (and plenty can be said) about the douchebags who comprised this band, they still fucking rocked, end of discussion.
from the LP Surfer Rosa, 4AD records, 1988
My good pal Shannie & I shelled out the $60 per ticket to see the Pixies on their most recent tour (where they played Doolittle front to cover) without even thinking about it; we had both missed them when they re-united for that tour in ‘04/’05, and given their propensity for spontaneous combustion (not to mention Frank Black’s inclination to get ate up with the dumbass from time to time), it was a no-brainer. They didn’t disappoint. I fucking love this band so much!!! Their brand of mildly deformed ruckus will never loose its appeal, imprinted onto more memories of my wild & misspent youth than virtually any other indie rock band: nights spent driving around aimlessly in cars tightly packed with angsty teens, smoking bowl after bowl and blaring the Pixies, or days at the beach rocking them on the boombox, eating blotters and making funny faces at the old people collecting shells. This was one dirty little album, and on this track Black managed to cover premature ejaculation (“…stuck here out of gas, out here on the Gaza strip, from driving too fast…”), the disagreeable tang of, well… (“…one sip from the salty wine, dead sea make you choke…”), and his love of Asian women (“…ride the tiger, ride the tiger…”) all in under 3 minutes time. I’m not going to hold my breath for another tour, but if it happens, I will pay any price for the opportunity to see them just one more time.
from the CD That High Lonesome Sound, Acoustic Discs, released: 1996, recorded: 1973
Jerry Garcia was always burning the joint at both ends, so to speak, filling every available moment that wasn’t spent playing in the Dead (or nodding out…) with a swollen heap of side projects and guest appearances; although Old & in the Way only played together for a couple of months, their subtle update on the traditional bluegrass template later became a clarion call to the new-school bluegrass movement, not to mention facilitating one of Garcia’s longest standing friendships outside of the Dead in mandolin prodigy David Grisman. Although some of the songs they covered were modern hits (for example, their take on the New Riders’ “Lonsome L.A. Cowboy” is priceless), this was no crossover act, and all the support players here came from traditional bluegrass backgrounds; that facts lent them the credibility needed to cover a Monroe classic like this without more than a mere hint of irony. This music was Garcia’s first love and obsession, long before the days of acid tests & psychedelic ballrooms, set adrift in the memories of jug bands and ragtime.
from the LP Lovegod, Big Life Records, 1990
I’ve made sufficient mention in this blog of the profound effects that MDMA had upon the music, and indeed social, scene across Great Britain during their summer(s) of love in the late ‘80s, and the Soup Dragons are another great example of that fallout; having begun their existence somewhere between the C86 sound & more jagged stuff like early Jesus & Mary Chain, this release finds them completely transformed into baggy-clothed, tie-dyed, smiley-faced participants in the love revolution (perhaps only being outdone by fellow Brits the Shamen in how much their sound had changed). Thing is, apart from some of the simplistic beats, this album has aged pretty decently---not that its songs have ever been too far from the public ear mind you, as the Dragons have been happy to lease their singles out for seemingly any commercial, TV show or film that’s asked. This song is a great Sunday morning (or just “morning after”) relaxant: thick beats, smoky vocals, steady tambourine, and those tape loops of recorded laughter & random bits of conversation make things just trippy enough to keep part of your head in the clouds.
from the LP Hold Your Fire, Vertigo Records, 1971
Unfairly tagged as progressive rockers (in my opinion anyways), most probably due to the reputation of the record label they recorded for, British crew Patto have always come across more like a blues-rock band that got lost while traveling around one day, probably got too high and just wandered off to jam under a big tree somewhere, and thus decided to live life apart from commercial expectations, instead tweaking the blues template to their liking & focusing firmly on the groove. This song, and much of their material, benefited greatly from lead singer Mike Patto’s gravelly & deep-throated delivery, but it’s indisputably the guitar work of whiz-kid Ollie Halsall that makes all 3 Patto records a must have for any fan of heavy rock---the dude smokes; his solo at the end of this song fucking kills it man! Patto included drug references in a large segment of their material (hell, their third album was called Roll ‘Em, Smoke ‘Em, Put Another Line Out), and this track is no exception to that pattern, telling the tale of an exhausted & disillusioned wastoid who’s tried every kinda way to get with the times, “…I’ve smoked a ton of marijuana, I sat crossed legged till my legs went numb; I made peace signs at the farmers when they called me a no good bum…I spent three weeks making necklaces from oriental beads, they were stolen by my guru while I was high on (morning) glory seeds…see I’d taken to wearing sandals and I’d given up watching TV; I was rolling up grass in the American flag and I was sick from snorting "C"…I blew my mind out on a trip one night and I ran all the way back to town, but the minute I saw the lights in their faces I freaked and turned right around… I’ve been beaten down and busted, and I’ve wound up on my own, and there’s nothing left that buzzes me so I’m returning home…” These cats were avowed druggies, so managing to take the piss out of themselves in this manner comes across as both sincere & humble, two traits music of this era wasn’t known for. Plus, you gotta love the whacked out cartoon creatures that adorned the front & back (pictured above) covers of the LP!
from the 12” single, Chrysalis Records, 1983
Spent yesterday morning & afternoon in downtown Denver amidst 100,000+ revelers for the annual PrideFest, one of the largest celebrations of its kind in the nation, and it felt damn good to be around so many open-minded people at once. Quite frankly, about 95% of mine & my partner’s friends are straight, which really doesn’t matter one way or the other, but one day a year it’s nice to go out and feel a bit more like part of the gay community; this is not to suggest that everyone there yesterday was queer, as more than ½ of the folks we were there with are straight & went along to support the vibe. To be honest, I don’t feel like my sexuality is even that big of a apart of my identity---let’s get real, how much time a year is actually spent engaged in the sexual activities which define us as straight, bi, gay, trans, et al?! Hell, I spend way more time showering, or watching television, but I still understand the need for fellowship with other gays; I also recognize that my experience growing up was surely not as harrowing or dire as the guys who were “obviously gay” to people, and that had I suffered through the types of abuse and horror stories which are still all too common for many gay & lesbian adolescents, it’s conceivable that being queer would be a larger part of my personality. At any rate, it was a great time spent drinking and smoking weed in the park, and this party anthem by disco-diva Gloria Gaynor pretty much sums it all up nicely, “…I am what I am, I don’t want praise, I don’t want pity; I bang my own drum, some think it’s noise, I think it’s pretty…life’s not worth a damn ‘til you can say: ‘I am what I am’…”
from the LP Mothership Connection, Casablanca Records, 1976
Outer space just got a little funkier. Today I woke up to the news of Gary Shider’s passing, the longtime guitarist for P-Funk and George Clinton’s right-hand man---the thing giving me chills right now is that he actually passed away on Wednesday even though it was just announced a few hours ago, which was the same day I posted a Parliament track on this blog… Now, I don’t have any firmly held beliefs on the afterlife (or even if there is one), and I can honestly say that I wasn’t feeling anything ghostly or paranormal guiding my hand that morning, but in retrospect the coincidence makes me smile. All of us who have spent our lives going to P-Funk shows know Shider well, the cat in the diaper who essentially acted as band leader until Clinton managed to get his ass out on stage (we’ve been to shows where it’s taken him an hour & a half, although he’s been much better lately), but Shider’s place in P-Funk history is so much more, having co-written many of the crew’s most memorable songs & also just the fact that he was there for the whole funky ride. Gary spent his entire life pursuing the groove, giving “…people what they want, when they want, & they want shit all the time…”, and now he has perhaps returned to the far-out galaxy from which he came. R.I.P. Starchild.
from the LP St. Radigunds, B&C Records, 1971
Along with everyone else, my heart was warmed last week to learn that they’d found that teenager alive, the girl who was attempting to sail around the world---but, now that the buzz of her survival has worn off, one has to wonder just what the fuck was going on there. The rescue effort wound up costing Australia & France close to $1 million, which is actually less then what has been spent on rescuing similar adventurers in the past, and if you were a taxpayer in one of those countries, would you be okay with your money being spent in that way? I mean, ethics say you must try to help a fellow human in distress, no matter how fuck-tarded they (or their parents) might be, but perhaps there’s a way to regulate such ambitious journeys, like forcing people who embark on these “voyages” to have a vessel tail them at a distance in case of an emergency. If, as it’s been reported, the family of this chick winds up scoring a reality series behind this, they better donate the paycheck to those nation’s who saved her sorry ass. Ahem. Progenitors of the so-called “acid folk” sound, Spirogyra named themselves after a type of green algae, which is very ‘60s I guess; more importantly, their pensive acoustic tales really move me, conjuring up visions from the days of old, the way all good folk music should.
from the LP Osmium, Invictus Records, 1970
The narrative of a single mother doing what she has to do in order to support her brood of children is one that crops up a few times in the pantheon of P-Funk-ness, but this is arguably the first such instance of said circumstances; in this version, mom’s a widow with fourteen kids (“…their father died in the war…”) who sells moonshine to make ends meet---which I suppose isn’t as bad as what she winds up doing later in “Cosmic Slop”. People who are used to the space-funk zaniness inherent to Parliament’s later records will be surprised by the gritty, stripped-down feel on this, their debut LP; that said, they have never been a band to turn out generic funk, and this tale of perseverance is told to us with heavily processed vocals, including a chorus of backup singing that’s Leslie-d to all hell and winds up sounding like a legion of aquatic robots. This album dropped before Funkadelic’s self-titled debut, thus serving as an official opening credo from the original shamans of interstellar funkmanship, only at this early stage they still have one foot planted firmly on the ground, and deep in the mud.
from the LP In Ghost Colours, Modular Recordings, 2008
Where Neon Indian merely channeled the ghosts of Fleetwood Mac in his “Should Have Taken Acid With You”, Aussie chill-out gurus Cut Copy manage to completely re-interpret “Gypsy” on this standout cut from their second longplayer, taking the best accouterments that new wave & yacht rock have to offer and baking them into a cloud-like soufflé, like washing a couple Somas down with a spliff and a mimosa, then going for a walk on a breezy, sunny Colorado day…or so I’ve heard (eternal love to my “stoned mimosa Saturdays” crew). The gap between their first LP and this one was a grueling four years, but if waiting means they will keep the quality level as high as it’s been in the past, I’m willing to wait; although, just two years out, I’ve played this album to death and could sure use a 7” or something to tide me over… Toss us a bone mates!
from the LP Take It From the Man, BOMP! Records, 1996
Assembling eight musicians on stage is one thing, but managing to sound harmonious and relatively clean while all eight people are rocking out is just downright impressive, especially given the fact that four of them were playing guitars---dude, they have figured out the formula. Thankfully, Joel Gion and Matt Hollywood are part of the band again, front & center through the whole show, so the setlist was rather heavy on their old stuff like this song, a personal favorite of mine; any longtime fan of the BJM knows that Joel is, in fact, the soul of the band, and he was in top form last night, devastatingly wasted (I’m guessing coke because he looked like he was struggling with a nasty drip for the first five minutes or so on stage, and he was smoking cigarettes as if they were joints, functionally ashing them with the his tambourine playing) & and full of those faraway blasé looks. The music was as good as it’s ever been, majestically druggy and bombastic, chicken soup for stoned post-modern wandering souls… Brian Jones would be proud! You never know when Anton is gonna flip his shit and fire the whole band again, so I’d recommend seeing them on this tour if you get the chance, you won’t be disappointed.
from the 7” single, Plymouth Records, 1963
It’s been raining steadily for the last 3 days, and seeing as how I’ve been obsessively watching the music video for Ariel Pink’s cover of this song on GvsB lately, it seemed like the perfect sour-grapes antidote for another grey misty day; yes, this area needs the moisture badly, so no genuine complaints here, just eager for some sunshine already. The sometimes ‘Rockin’ Ramrods (they dropped the prefix for this single, which they occasionally did) were a foursome from Boston whose claim to fame was an opening slot for the Rolling Stones on their 1965 tour of North America, but in my humble retrospective opinion, their original material rises far above the din from the countless other Beatles & Kingsmen imitators dotting the US at that time. This song is sure a pop charmer, all handclaps & sparkly surf-rock chords; the melancholic wit of those words comes across rather heady for ’63, “…what’s in this thing, I call my mind; I look for the things, I can’t find…bright lit, blue sky, you’re all full of lies…” It’s definitely worth checking out the video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIjwZecUeaw) as it’s both a solid adaptation of the original song & the film is hilarious.
from the LP Sub Pop 200, Sub Pop Records, 1988
