A woman seen and most assuredly well heard: Poly Styrene RIP

By the time I’d found out about her, Poly Styrene was already long established as one of the all time great punks. As a member of X-Ray Spex, she was an integral part of barrier breakdowns concerning music and  gender, and the quality of her efforts spanned far beyond the realm of the early punk scene to inspire legions of rock women. I’ll never forget the first time I heard Bikini Kill’s early self-released cassette; the emphatic jolt I received, particularly from “This Is Not a Test” and “Double Dare Ya”, was immediately recognizable as the same rush of adrenalin I experienced when discovering “Oh Bondage! Up Yours!”, and the overt influence was instantly apparent. It was one of the numerous cheap-o punk compilations that littered the racks back in the late ‘80s that provided me with my inaugural taste of X-Ray Spex’s raging debut, and what is still clear as crystal in my memory is how that track stood out amongst the other high quality contributions to communicate a direct, righteous vision. They instantaneously shot to the top of my personal Brit-punk class, joining such names as The Damned, Buzzcocks, Alternative TV and Wire. What’s historically significant is that within the solid base of personalities that contributed to “Bondage”’s success, the liberating wail of Poly and the harried reed honking of Lora Logic’s saxophone led the way. Upon Logic’s early departure to form the amazing post-punk cornerstone Essential Logic, the focus of X-Ray Spex’s delivery changed somewhat, shifting from the liberating explosiveness of that introductory blast to present a mixture of alienation and fascination with rampant consumerism that still sounded defiantly punk (and this atmosphere of self-criticism of life in the marketplace is a big part of what differentiated Styrene’s artistic personality from Kathleen Hanna, Tobi Vail and Co's tumultuous and very necessary feminist anger). The group’s debut LP, 1978’s “Germ Free Adolescents”, is mostly culled from numerous singles, but it coheres into a powerful musical statement, expressing an advanced, throttling sensibility that included knowledgeable detours into prickly, near poppish territory. I bought a used copy of the record in the ‘early ‘90s and for roughly a decade it was a frequent visitor to my turntable. Lacking Logic’s contribution to the debut 7”, it was rapidly obvious that Poly was now the dominant creative force in the band; while the rhythm section of Paul Dean (bass) and BP Hurding (drums) are spot on in terms of inspired simplicity and Jak Airport’s stellar guitar is as solid and yet fleet as a duckpin bowling ball, the motivating creativity of the unit clearly belongs to Sytrene. Logic’s replacement on sax Rudi Thomson really assisted the band in standing out in a sea of three chord wonders, but once the strength of his instrument’s unique properties became familiar it shifted  from its early leadership role.

The show unmistakably belonged to Poly, and if that sounds out of touch with the tenets of punk, I’ll add that the truly exceptional examples of the style rarely followed the form’s perceived rules. And if Poly Styrene had self-contained her abilities into agreement with some illegitimate concept of band equality, she wouldn’t be the icon she is today. And the magnificence of that status was terrifically broad. She was one of the most triumphantly galvanizing examples of the punk vocalist as vessel of forward momentum, and yet her understanding of pop dynamics heralded her as a real breath of fresh air, at times almost like Debbie Harry’s smarter, snottier, more original younger sister. This fact helped distinguish her iconic status; she was human and approachable as one of us, not a person whose persona promoted admiration from a distance. A couple years into the new millennium I augmented my by then well loved copy of “Germ Free” with Sanctuary Records’ expanded 2CD set “The Anthology”, desiring to hear its addition of stray singles tracks and demo material, and it was a wise acquisition. The package did radiate that mixture of exhaustive documentation and chilly consumer desires that cloaked legions of historical releases from the CD era, but in this case the mercantile aura actually felt somewhat in keeping with the conceptual strategy of the band. Yes, the three additional single sides are a pip to hear (particularly “I Am a Cliché”, “Bondage”’s flip side), though I would’ve sequenced the first disc differently, opening with the debut 45 and then presenting the album, leaving its original integrity intact, and from there sticking the three other previously released cuts before the demo material. The disc’s roughly chronological strictness is legitimate, but it’s frankly not how most listeners absorbed the group, and it completely ignores the fact that X-Ray Spex were one of the few punk bands in the original wave that had enough high quality material to manage an album, much less a classic one. Since copyright is a weird and confounding beast, there is the possibility that while the label owned the right to release the music it was legally unable to place the tracks in the order of “Germ Free” or even reference that album, so I shan’t protest too loudly. Fuck it, I won’t protest at all. How unpunk of me. The unreleased demo stuff is worth the effort, mostly for the rough mixes with vocals, if ultimately non-earth shattering; here’s a case where the demos really feel that way, particularly the instrumental tracks, which prove just how vital Styrene was to the band’s success. The non-vocal take of “I Can’t Do Anything” could certainly inspire the belting out of some truly bonkers karaoke replete with Poly’s deliciously oddball lyrics  (“but I hit him back, with myyyy pet rrrrat”) and a frothy sea of the rolling letter r. The real treat however comes on disc two in the form of the blistering aural residue from their second ever live gig, eight tracks (technically seven, “Bondage” is reprised) that include a false start, a peculiar mix (bass at times way out front), and a sloppiness distinct from the loose yet always on the money quality of the studio work.

X-Ray Spex in the Lora Logic-era

But it stands as a riveting and exceedingly rare example of what a (highly idiosyncratic) punk band sounded like in live performance in ’77. Styrene had yet to fully flower, but she was in no way tentative, and if Logic at this point was the band’s most developed musical property, well that was only temporary. The package culminates with three tracks from a reunion release, 1995’s CONSCIOUS CONSUMER, and the difference is striking. If in ’77 and ‘8 X-Ray Spex were a beacon of elevated competence, nearly two decades later they were quite pro in execution. This is to be expected. As people play they get more adept, and that Poly and Co weren’t trying to approximate their early sound was admirable. There was a lyrical adjustment as well. One of the largest themes of the early lyrics was what we buy and how it shapes our attitudes, and it was mostly a critique of an outside, often public thing (to me, it seemed an ongoing debate over the idea of individualism as something that could actually be tangible, visible). By ’95 her thoughts on the effects of consumer practice had developed into what we put inside our bodies: “Cigarettes”, “Junk Food Junkie”, “Peace Meal”. And with this came a shift in the lyrics to the more tried-and-true mode of punk rock belief sharing. I can’t deny that on one hand I find this ideological solidification less appealing than the ragged searching and questioning of the early stuff, but again it’s better to see change in action than simple carbon copying. If those three songs didn’t add up to a sum that inspired me to purchase the entire album, that’s ultimately no big deal, and it’s certainly less of an issue than the band faking it/going through the motions, which would’ve been a betrayal of their early work. But it shouldn’t have been a surprise that Styrene would favor growth over stale simulation. For back in 1980, after her dropout from and the breakup of X-Ray Spex, she released her first solo LP TRANSLUCENCE, a document that shed all surface evidence of her still smoldering punk past.

I first heard this record courtesy of an older fellow record hound shortly after buying “Germ Free Adolescents”, and the difference was bewildering. How could this punk paradigm have switched so quickly to relaxed, at times borderline mellow, exotic pop? I thanked my pal for the listen (she played it for me twice), but I’ll confess to not searching for my own copy. It was quite a few miles away from where my musical sweet-spot was located at the time, frankly. And I’ll add that I never once saw the thing in used bins. This might be due to its release on United Artists, and this might also be why, at least to my knowledge it’s only been legally reissued once circa 1990. A few months after hearing, another friend asked me if I thought the album was bad, and after some brief hemming and hawing I had to admit that I had no freaking idea. Asking me that question at that point in time was like asking me if Stan Kenton’s CITY OF GLASS or Miles Davis’s WE WANT MILES were bad. I mean “was” “it” “bad”? And “how” “why”, etfuckingcetera. Shit. I just wasn’t prepared to process something so far outside my interest in blues, trad rock, punk, and a smidgen of jazz. Now for the record, Kenton; no, Miles: yes, and TRANSLUCENCE: no. While Poly’s debut solo stab will likely never enter my steady listening diet, I feel secure in describing it as a largely successful (if occasionally problematic) and enjoyable statement of artistic development. I grabbed a download of it a few years ago and have spent some quality time coming to grips with its documentation of sincere difference. It’s curiously one of the few examples of a record where I prefer the presence of a lilting, airy flute (not my fave instrument) to saxophone motion, but that’s mainly due to some Late Night Talk Show/Saturday Night Live Band style soloing on “Sky Diver”, a brief misstep. The overall sound of TRANSLUCENCE has been called a predecessor to Everything But The Girl, and while I have hardly listened to EBTG, I’ll agree that’s extant. But the record seems perfectly well suited for playing at non-obtrusive volume while reclining on a sandy, sunny beach under an enormous umbrella, sipping something sweet and strong from a coconut cup while reading a battered copy of Peter Matthiessen’s FAR TORTUGA. At least to my ears, it’s far more in keeping with calm, casual absorption then assertive listening, and hell, under the spell of my hypothetical seaside scenario maybe that janky sax would go down nice and easy. Shiver me timbers. That my feelings regarding TRANSLUCENCE register as something less than my love of Poly’s punk-era self are no reason for concern. Frankly, the need for the evolution of artists to remain close to any one person or group’s set of expectations is a spurious one. If a performer betrays previous work in an attempt for money, fame or legitimacy, that’s obviously different (but not any particularly big crime, either). However, if the growth is natural, as is the case with Styrene, then it should be accepted and even encouraged. Not that her work, at least in my case, was ever that far afield. She always felt in touch with punk while often swimming in different, less disruptive waters.

As noted above, the reason for this text is a sad one. Poly Styrene is gone, stricken by breast cancer. First Ari Up and now Poly. No other way to describe it; a flat-out drag. These days it’s basically impossible to check into Pitchfork without getting the skinny on the latest achievements of a bevy of talented women unencumbered by the odious interference of male-centric attitudes: Cat Power, Vivian Girls, Joanna Newsom, Best Coast, MIA, Wild Flag, on and on. But it wasn’t always that way. Once upon a time smart rock women were notable exceptions in the stream of things, and I hope my thoughts here have accurately communicated that Poly Styrene was one of the greatest of those exceptions. There will certainly be an outpouring of repetition on blogs and elsewhere in enthusiastic tribute to her greatness, but this is a case where the echo chamber is welcome and deserved. Some things just can’t be overstated. In ending, while I just said that Poly Styrene is gone, this is of course true only physically. Maybe I state the obvious, but as long as people are pumping their fists to “Oh Bondage! Up Yours!”, having moments of self-realization through “Identity” or spending a tranquil hour on the couch with TRANSLUCENCE, our heroine is still here in spirit. So please do you, me, the disaffected masses and Poly a big solid. Plug in, turn up, and keep listening.

A tribute to three departed masters: Solomon Burke, Marion Brown & Ari Up

While it’s certain that Solomon Burke is permanently ensconced in the annals of deep soul, it’s also true that his legacy has suffered a bit over the decades due to his lack of any truly chartbusting pop hits. An association with Atlantic Records certainly worked in his favor, as did the partisanship of acts like The Rolling Stones, but Burke somehow never managed to invade the Pop Top 20, and that fact means many casual listeners are familiar with the man by name rather than through his music. Of course, the curious could’ve picked up Rhino’s excellent 2CD overview of his Atlantic period titled HOME IN YOUR HEART and been well versed in the power and range inherent in his selected work. And since Burke was first and foremost a singles artist, the wide inclusiveness of HOME is useful to more than just newbies. It really deserves space on the shelves of soul fans of any perceptible magnitude, but it’s also a fairly intensive study: you can cue up the set, make out with yr squeeze, get it on nice and slow, have a little tiff that develops into a full blown argument, break up, make up and make out again before the 41 tracks have completed their course. Yes, I’m exaggerating, but am in no way criticizing. I always prefer collections to be exhaustive in their documentary zeal, but it’s also very hard to fault the more digestible oomph found in a couple of his prime LPs from early in his Atlantic tenure. The first is 1963’s IF YOU NEED ME, and it finds Burke carving out territory that’s at times quite similar to Sam Cooke’s gospel drenched innovations.

There is a powerful current of southern grit and sweat in Burke’s delivery, and his extension of Cooke’s malleable template is sometimes comparable to Otis Redding. But just as often he’s onto something different. Much of this is due to how his gutbucket belting and captivating restraint interacted with the Atlantic production team’s slicker, more finesse oriented approach. Factor in the desire of his label to dabble in experimentation against the safety-net of formula (in the hopes of both breaking new ground and also landing chart success) and the stylistic diversity of this record shouldn’t be at all surprising. That Burke feels natural in such a wide variety of circumstances is testament to his talent, IF YOU NEED ME never feeling unfocused, and for material that wasn’t largely conceived for inclusion on a long playing record, that’s quite an achievement. It’s true that the man is most natural when he’s solidly in his wheelhouse below the Mason-Dixon Line, particularly on the Wilson Pickett penned title track and the infectiously boisterous faux-dance ditty “Stupidity”, but it’s maybe most impressive how he’s able to successfully interpret styles that seem outside his comfort range, namely ‘50s style Platters R&B, Brook Benton-esque pop-soul, and even some flashes of Presley-ite hip-swagger. If this LP makes a statement for the scope of Burke’s talent, then the following year’s ROCK AND SOUL soundly expands upon it and also amplifies many of the singer’s strengths.

While Burke could make honey with a horn section just fine, he’s even better at interacting with strong backing vocalists while the band cooks up a tough mid-tempo groove. His work never really displays the sonic density that paved the way for funk, instead opting for spaciousness that casts a wide net over so many differing styles. ROCK AND SOUL adds an unlikely wrinkle to the equation with two cuts which display his interpretive skill with country & western material, namely “Just Out of Reach Of My Two Empty Arms” (recorded by Patsy Cline) and “He’ll Have To Go” (a smash hit for Jim Reeves). This gesture toward C&W is very likely directly related to Ray Charles’ crossover recordings for ABC, and Burke’s proclivity for the genre is readily apparent. ROCK AND SOUL also deepens his gospel sensibility without sacrificing anything in terms of diversity, and coupling these two records on yr personal box while spending a smart night at home with a warm and willing partner makes a whole lot of sense, romantic and otherwise. Uncork the bottle, cue up the tunes and slow dance, Casanova. Solomon Burke’s importance far exceeds the assured majesty of these two LPs (both available for download, by the way), so further investigation will be required for all but the skimpiest or stingiest of listeners. His most influential tune “Everybody Needs Somebody To Love” is absent from both records, for instance. Again, HOME IN YOUR HEART is about as necessary as a two disc single artist soul comp gets. But HOME lacks a slew of cuts from both of these albums, and absorbing to them over the last month makes it clear they shouldn’t be neglected. The crossroads of soul, R&B and the fertile garden of ‘60s pop unfolds beautifully on IF YOU NEED ME and ROCK AND SOUL, presenting something close to what it was like to hear this stuff at the time, sitting in a bedroom or a basement or a den as a needle traveled groove and time hurdled forward yet somehow stood exasperatingly still. Something offhand and everyday yet in retrospect voluminous and undying. Something infused with the enduring power of art.


I guess my two favorite Marion Brown records are AFTERNOON OF A GEORGIA FAUN (ECM 1970) and GEECHEE RECOLLECTIONS (Impulse! 1973), but I don’t think either of those gems are really the best place to start if you’re just getting acquainted with the discography of this avant-jazz master. In 1965 he appeared on both Archie Shepp’s FIRE MUSIC and John Coltrane’s ASCENSION, two indispensible documents of the New Thing in all its fervent glory, so if you don’t know those classics it’s best to take care of that bit of business first. From there, any of Brown’s records as a leader from ’65-‘68 qualify as a suitable entry into his considerable body of work, particularly the Impulse! date THREE FOR SHEPP and his pair of titles in the ESP-Disk saga MARION BROWN QUARTET and WHY NOT? Easily overlooked however, primarily because they’re harder to find, are a couple of electrifying sessions titled JUBA LEE and PORTO NOVO, the former a studio septet featuring a key collection of players, the later a high flying live trio summit meeting with two Dutch avant giants.

JUBA LEE finds Brown’s soaring, searching alto joined by future Miles tenor man Bennie Maupin, the huge trombone voice of Grachan Moncur III and the fascinating trumpeter/flugelhornist Alan Shorter. Throw in Dave Burrell’s sturdy piano, Reggie Johnson’s tough, supple bass and drummer Beaver Harris’s flowing approach to implied swing and you’ve got a roster that’s capable of burning and boiling with the very best of ‘em. And while they certainly attain moments in full-on torch the barn mode, JUBA LEE is far more than just furious blowing and racket, offering depth that’s thick with the undertones of jazz tradition. “512e12” begins with a short bit of disjointed fanfare before shifting into territory that combines the grand swoosh of Fire Music’s energetic rawness with a loose approach to compositional improv which recalls the wilder end of Ornette’s early Harmolodic advancements. The extended bout of solos that ensues, all fifteen and a half minutes worth, portrays a well developed interweaving of complimentary voices. The saxophones of Brown and Maupin adroitly blend together to skronk with an undercurrent of thorny bluesiness, and the sliding moans and agitated gusts of notes from Moncur’s trombone is well matched with Shorter’s idiosyncratic approach, his abstract fluidity feeling at times like a mixture of Don Cherry and early Bill Dixon. Burrell’s versatile piano blends irritated choppiness and clamor with an expert melodiousness and mingles shrewdly with the rhythm team. To me Harris is a bit like the free jazz answer to Billy Higgins or Roy Haynes in how his abstractions seem tied to a forward motion that feels descended from post-bop, and he works exceptionally well in the backfield with the Garrison-esque Johnson, who’s one of the more neglected New Thing players (along with FIRE MUSIC and Brown’s ESP debut, he’s on Dixon’s INTENTS AND PURPOSES, The Jazz Composer’s Orchestra’s COMMUNICATIONS, Shorter’s ORGASM, Valdo Williams’ fascinating obscurity NEW ADVANCED JAZZ and a bunch of vibist Bobby Hutcherson’s swell late-‘60s albums. The man clearly deserves some more recognition). As “512e12” progresses, its initial anarchic qualities coalesce into an exceptional pattern of back-and-forth trade-offs that manage to navigate to a fine conclusion. From there, JUBA-LEE’s additional three tracks display an admirable sonic range, with the title cut’s forceful and quite pretty melody perhaps influenced by Albert Ayler’s approach to emphatic hummability. Its playfulness is welcome, and is in sharp contrast to the creeping darkness of the album’s closer “Iditus”, a Shorter composition that gives Burrell the responsibility of ruminating on a simple haunting line for twelve minutes while the horns build an increasingly tense atmosphere and the rhythm team adds to the thickening pulse. It’d make a great soundtrack to somebody’s B&W Super-8 horror project: A full moon, a broken down engine, a rickety old barn, something ominous off in the distance. No words, but a helluva lot of worry. JUBA-LEE compares well with recordings of the same era from groups like The New York Art Quartet and The New York Contemporary Five, due to leader Brown’s desire to examine collective equality as a vehicle for individualist expression, allowing the members to effectively communicate with their solo voices. Too bad it’s only been fleetingly in print on CD over the years. I’ve never seen a copy, only owning purloined downloads, and it would be nice if somehow this (and the whole Fontana free-jazz catalog, for that matter) could be restored to legit availability. It would be a big step in showing the creative depth of Brown in his earliest years, where he’s sometimes painted as just a Coltrane/Shepp acolyte. An easier way of getting to the core of Brown’s power is to cop PORTO NOVO, which IS in print, and delight in its stripped-down, spacious magnificence.

A trio that features stalwart Euro-jazz figures Han Bennink on drums and Maarten Altena on bass playing live in ’67 in the city of Soest, it finds them working, at least in spirit, in the inexhaustible tradition of Sonny Rollins’ WAY OUT WEST. A more appropriate sonic comparison might be Coleman’s mid ‘60s trio with David Izenzon and Charles Moffett that produced both volumes of AT THE GOLDEN CIRCLE, though this muscular triangle doesn’t favor any particular strand of influence other than the tradition of jumping on the bandstand and blowing yr top. Those familiar and simpatico with Bennink’s unique style will not be disappointed, and chronologically this appears to be Altena’s recording debut (edging out Nedley Elstak’s ESP-Disk THE MACHINE by a few months), so it holds much import. The original LP featured five tracks that spotlight some of Brown’s most aggressive yet lyrical playing as the Dutchmen hold their own and lend valuable commentary and interaction. The currently available Black Lion CD/download deal adds two tracks from a 1970 duo recording on Freedom by Brown and trumpeter Leo Smith titled CREATIVE IMPROVISATION ENSEMBLE that finds the saxophonist successfully working in a roughly AACM-like context. This is conceptually much different than the trio stuff, but it’s not at all unwelcome. It’s what some folks call “added value”, but I’d never use such gauche terminology (By the way, the full 1970 recording with Smith was also part of a 2LP set on Freedom titled DUETS that held a separate session with electronic musician Elliot Schwartz. It’s out of print but not hard to locate on the net). Marion Brown’s status as an integral part of the ‘60s avant-jazz landscape has suffered somewhat over the years, and it seemed the longer many of his key recordings remained out of print the less likely they were to be reissued. But I find that complaining about an artist’s notoriety is something I do far too often in this space, and that Brown, while surely underrated, hasn’t endured anything approximate to the neglect suffered by legions of jazz players, many of whom hardly had the opportunity to record at all. Marion Brown has a sizeable discography and it’s around if you want to find it.

I first heard The Slits upon purchasing a cherry used copy of the amazing Rough Trade comp WANNA BUY A BRIDGE?, with their track “Man Next Door” providing a slinky, dubby, hissy mess of UK post-punk that stood out in the midst of some serious company. Shortly thereafter, I located the band’s 1979 album CUT and quickly understood that my thoughts concerning late-‘70s Brit post-punk were due for reappraisal. You see, up to that point, I was a solid Raincoats man. My admiration for the ‘coats is still high as a junky kite, but upon dishing CUT onto my platter it quickly became obvious I simply had to make room for The Slits. They were a personal revelation in numerous ways, first being how they so successfully integrated such a heavy Jamaican influence into their music. Up to that point, I was quite suspicious of non-island musicians playing island sounds, and while I’ve surely lightened up a bit with age, I’ll still say there was a high historical level of suspect skankin’ going on, particularly in Merry Old England. What helped The Slits succeed was a blunt attraction to the screwy weirdness of the best dub. Many of their punky peers were instead attempting to replicate the much trickier tradition of smooth and soulful Jamaican stuff, and while I’ll admit to developing an appreciation for certain examples of brittle Brit-ska, I’ll also add that precious little from this style is much more than passable. But The Slits were experimenters, and that’s how their music crossed an ocean and spanned a decade to help influence a slew of wound up mostly female musicians that sparked the explosion of Riot Grrl. Vocalist Ari Up, guitarist Viv Albertine, drummer Palmolive and bassist Tessa Pollitt were the lineup that led to the recording of CUT, though Palmolive bailed before the session to join those aforementioned Raincoats, where she made a huge contribution to their debut LP.

She was replaced by future Banshee Budgie, and it was at this point that Ari really became the prism through which The Slits’ creativity was refracted. As vocalist, this shouldn’t be a surprise, but it must be stressed that Ari Up’s flamboyant, confrontational, aggressively fun-loving personality, when combined with her immense talent, basically elevated her to the pantheonic level in punk’s twisted history, and her status as inspired gadfly continues to stick in the craw of assorted grumps and chumps to this very day. Initially, the naysayers derided The Slits as being a prankish lark instead of a “real” “band”, the nattering nabobs apparently missing how that argument was often leveled against punk as an entire genre. The more measured dismissals were likely due to a lack of any obvious musical precedent for the band. Plus, to this very moment many observers admire punk more in theory than in actual practice, so they naturally often unconsciously gravitate toward the conventional. The more hostile detractors of The Slits surely recognized them as the disrupters they were and felt threatened by their upset to the (essentially male) hegemony. The early, Palmolive-era Slits are prominently documented through their first two sessions for the John Peel program, and they can be found in numerous packages, though the best bang for the buck would be the remastered two-CD set CUT DELUXE EDITION from last year. Those tracks present a raw and ragged prototype for Riot Grrl’s righteous and vociferous defiance. In a blindfold test, folks only familiar with CUT’s deep production (via Dennis Bovell) and advanced aesthetic just might peg these 1977 air checks as originating from the early ‘90s Pacific Northwest via the Kill Rock Stars or K labels. The vast difference between the Peel and CUT recordings of “New Town” and “Instant Hit” really emphasizes post-punk’s rapid fire growth and innovation while lending proof to The Slits’ lasting worth. The DELUXE release includes, in addition to the original LP and the radio sessions, an embarrassment of bonus cuts that while largely different mixes and versions of album tracks still do a great job of avoiding the redundancy that expanded editions often engender. It bookends incredibly well with what I consider The Slits’ other essential document, Y3LP – THE OFFICIAL BOOTLEG, a deliberately low-budget/street-level slab that refuses to give up its status as fascinatingly confounding.

The low fidelity murk of “A Boring Life” and “Or What Is It?” could easily pass for the double A-sides of a limited and long gone late-‘90s 7” of prime non-retro garage-punk. From there everything feels fed through a Dadaist auto-splicer. The most prominent theme is a strung-out and twisted approach to rhythm. One extended passage wiggles around like a wonky tribal ritual enacted in an airport parking lot, and there’s some aggressive acoustic strum and holler that could’ve been taped in either Calvin Johnson’s modest backyard or Greil Marcus’s vast study. Cake-walks or Kurt Schwitters, you decide. It ends with a wonderful snippet of a very choice live performance where The Slits collided with The Subway Sect and The Prefects to throttle “Sister Ray” but good. Y3LP unravels like a fever dream remembrance of punk at its most uncompromising and non-commercial, and as such is a fine testament to the band, the era and the spirit and ingenuity of Ari Up. Like Solomon and Marion, it’s doubtful we’ll ever see her like again.

 

Viv Albertine, Palmolive, Tessa Pollitt, and Ari Up

The planet just got a little less interesting

RIP Harvey Pekar

Listening to the sounds of the recently departed: Chesnutt, Mitchell, Reatard, Howard, Pendergrass

One of Vic Chesnutt’s strongest attributes was his desire and ability at collaboration. And he seemed to have an unerring sense of just the right people to partner with in adapting his songs and shaping them into complete works that make his discography such a thick and hairy joy to absorb. AT THE CUT is the second of Vic’s team ups with Thee Silver Mt. Zion/Constellation records crew/Guy Picciotto, and it’s just as darkly folkish and moodily transcendent as NORTH STAR DESERTER. Sadly, there will be no more collabs, but the man’s music will provide endless rewards.

In addition to being a fine musician in his own right, Willie Mitchell sat in the producer’s chair at Hi Records and helped to craft some of the finest soul expression to ever hit vinyl: Syl Johnson, Ann Peebles, O.V. Wright and of course the great Al Green, whose GETS NEXT TO YOU is not only a near perfect example of the Reverend’s soul testifying, but is also a major spotlight on how Mitchell worked at harnessing and directing the energies and artistry of such a galvanizing and uplifting vocal force as Green’s.

From one Memphis great to another, the soon to be deservedly legendary Jay Reatard, doing what he did best (IMHO), on SINGLES 06-07. The guy’s short and direct bashing was surely and unapologetically in the garage-punk tradition, but his sound also encompassed such wide ranging elements as bent pop ditties and synth-punk wig-outs. He had heaviness in abundance and more hooks than a goddamned bait shop. That a compilation of his singles could solidify and flaunt the feel of a fully realized album seems like a strong and fitting tribute to a guy who left us far too soon.

I tend to think that The Birthday Party get something a bit like short shrift in the histories of the whole global post-punk scramble, and when they are discussed it’s often to just spotlight the early career of Nick Cave. Yeah, Cave was of course a huge part of what made The BP such a zonked and brutal concern, but the truth is that Nick has always been beholden to the players that surrounded him, the late Rowland S. Howard in particular. PRAYERS ON FIRE may not be the best example of Howard’s dense and damaged guitar style, but it’s surely not far from the top. Raw and thrilling sounds.

Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes were fronted on their classic early ‘70s recordings by Teddy Pendergrass, a singer so emotive and simultaneously sure footed in his range that he spent a significant amount of time as certain discerning soul aficionado’s make-out maestro of choice. This is the group’s first LP from ’72, featuring the smash classic “If You Don’t Know Me by Now”, and the grooves in total are a fine testament to the sound of soulful Philly, and to the power of Pendergrass.

"It's almost dawn and the cops are gone, let's all get Dixie Fried" - Thoughts on the life and art of Jim Dickinson (and Sylvester Weaver)

Jim Dickinson in 1966: Backwoods hipster (photo by William Eggleston. I think)

As I type this I’m listening to the brilliant blues guitarist Sylvester Weaver and considering the mind-blowing life and art of Jim Dickinson. Weaver was the first person to be captured on record performing acoustic “country” blues in 1923, and also the first person documented playing slide guitar: simply put, he’s a versatile, legendary figure whose music still sounds vital today. Dickinson was a musician, record producer and byproduct of the cultural and artistic melting pot that was mid-20th Century Memphis Tennessee. He died just recently, less than a month ago at the point of this writing, but it seems safe to conjecture that Dickinson is still predominantly an underground figure, though one that millions of people have heard play piano on “Wild Horses” by The Rolling Stones. He was a member of The Dixie Flyers, an Atlantic Records’ house band that helped make, amongst others, Aretha Franklin’s severely underrated 1970 LP Spirit in the Dark such a long-standing mover, and he was able to mold the madness at the core of Big Star’s incendiary and claustrophobic 1978 bombshell Third/Sister Lovers into the masterpiece that many of us continue to clutch to our chests on chilly, lonely late nights. Dickinson also released his own lovingly off-kilter recordings (under the name James Luther Dickinson and in the group Mud Boy and the Neutrons), classics of a life-affirming sensibility possessed of depth and sincere no-bullshit erudition, albums drenched in a personality so rare and valuable that hepcats like Bob Dylan went to visit him. Weaver and Dickinson are both very significant artists, but their legacies aren’t overtly linked. However, thinking of them in tandem has solid benefits when trying to gather a handle on the heaving heft that’s been the last 100 years of this country’s (that would be the US of A) musical progression.

Nice lid.

Weaver was born in 1897. He began recording in the 1920s, a young man in the middle of some massive cultural upheaval, just one guy who had the good fortune to not only be a strong solo performer but also a sympathetic collaborator. By the end of 1927 his recording career was over and 1960 marked the final year of his life, an existence that ended without fanfare or the accolades of rediscovery that were then being bestowed upon other bluesmen both living or dead. The year Weaver died institutional segregation was still in full effect, William S. Burroughs’ The Naked Lunch was published, John F Kennedy was elected President of the United States, and the appearance in record stores of the Robert Johnson compilation The King of the Delta Blues Singers was still a year away. Jim Dickinson was 19 years old.

Dickinson in the studio

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To be 19 years old in 1960 means being the perfect age to really soak up some of the era’s prime social upheaval. Living in Memphis must have just made it that much more intense. To read or hear Dickinson speak about his youth is to gain clear and rich insight into the circumstances the gave birth to rock ‘n’ roll. In his account, the pressure cooker of artistic magnetism of the ‘other’ that ran roughshod over certain young people during the 1950s isn’t laid at the feet of Elvis Presley but instead is awarded to a pill-headed disc jockey named Dewey Phillips, the kind of ‘crazy whitey’ who engaged in subversive behavior like playing Hank Williams tunes between the gutbucket gospel of Sister Rosetta Tharpe and the feral madness of The Howlin’ Wolf: A type of accidental cultural disruptor, simply getting his kicks and changing history in the bargain. Dickinson makes the bold and rock-solid claim that without Dewey Phillips there would’ve been no Elvis, or specifically those first ten songs recorded in Sun Studios that caused so much sweet shit to hit the fan before Elvis sold out to Hollywood a year or so later. The play-list integration of Dewey Phillips made Presley possible.

Sylvester Weaver’s blues has nothing significant in common stylistically with rock ‘n’ roll, and his seductively loping, at times slightly Hawaiian-ish style has almost no ties to the blues-rock boom of the ‘60s. Weaver was from Kentucky, not the Delta, and his warm style lacks the doomy, desolate qualities of Charley Patton, Son House or Robert Johnson. Instead, he shares the accessible feel of musicians like John Hurt or even Willie McTell, a folky sensibility that’s casual and inviting. His style of blues features qualities of refinement (a certain studied smoothness), but it’s still undeniably rooted in the country. Weaver’s music is quite at home rubbing shoulders with the hokum and jug bands that proliferated in this era.

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LP art by R. Crumb

This isn’t any major revelation, but I find it worthy of mention since one of Jim Dickinson’s early musical epiphanies was hearing The Memphis Jug Band, a group with roots in the 1920s, the decade that holds the entirety of Sylvester Weaver’s recording career, 1923- 27, just five years that fits on two archival compact discs. Like Will Shade’s Memphis Jug Band and their contemporaries The Beale Street Sheiks, Weaver was a pro musician. He had a personal solo style but also excelled at duo playing, backing both prolific gospel blues singer Sara Martin and his young discovery Helen Humes. In the same period Martin recorded with Fats Waller and Humes later became a member of Count Basie’s Band. Weaver’s milieu prized adaptability and the desire if not the consistent ability (though his music was popular in its day) to reach a wide audience while retaining a distinct personality, the stamp of individuality.

Sylvester Weaver and Sara Martin

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For many, this sort of ‘pro’ mentality is less appealing than the raw quality of specific records, most from the Delta, that seem almost accidental in their existence, their reality owing mostly to a very young recording industry having no solid idea what was sellable or commercial. The strung out, eerie sound of Skip James, the tough, ragged style of Charley Patton, the otherworldly croak and moan of Blind Willie Johnson; this was ‘hard’ music that remains impenetrable for many listeners to this day. It’s worth noting that in the rediscovery 1960s Skip James and John Hurt often played the same festival circuit. James felt his style of blues to be superior to the deceptively mellow playing of Hurt. The sound of Hurt’s voice mingling with his sweet finger picking seems perfect for relaxation and might even effectively lull babies to sleep, in spite of the fact that Hurt’s lyrical content often concerned death and strife. But James’ oeuvre is murder music of a blatant sort, the sound of malice and slaughter and suicide pure and simple, and he looked down his nose at Hurt’s accessible style. Folklorist and American Primitive guitar giant John Fahey considered Skip James to be a monumental asshole, but in this case that’s sort of beside the point. If we must get to the point the point will be that not all old-timey music is stylistically congruent. The jug bands are often the middle ground between polished professionalism and the uncompromisingly raw. Sylvester Weaver seems, at least from this distance to be a fellow traveler of the jug band aesthetic, and it was the sound of what many consider the greatest jug band ever recorded that helped to impact the consciousness of Jim Dickinson.

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Where'd these guys come from?

Again, adaptability. The constant risk in being a pro musician is losing the root of it all, the danger of watering down or distorting the vitality of the sound/style in the desire to reach the ears and pocket books of some sort of hypothetical audience. The opposite extreme is often embodied by the suffocating demands made by purists, people that get so caught up on a concept of authenticity that they often miss the forest for the trees. The forest (or the trees, take yr pick) can be how distinct musicians with unique sounds and directions are often lumped together simply because the music has the surface similarity of sounding ‘old’. Jim Dickinson’s era is that of early rock ‘n’ roll, and if there is a period that is inherently opposed to the concept of purity, this is the one. Once white kids and black kids started getting turned on by each other’s sounds and styles and cultural signifiers (and simply turned on by each other) it was a ball that couldn’t quit rolling, and it was only a matter of a few years before the rest of the world, either willingly or grudgingly, followed suit. This is what the Rockabilly purists and R&B snobs often refuse to understand: that Bill Haley and Gene Vincent were the respective Beastie Boys and Justin Timberlake of their day. And on the other side of the fence, a phenomenon like Bad Brains can be traced back to Chuck Berry. Which is to say, can’t you hear the Hank Williams in Berry’s “Rock and Roll Music”? I sure can. And yes, the risk is Pat (or Debbie) Boone or Vanilla Ice or Milli Vanilli. But ya’ know, I think that’s a chance worth taking. And I don’t think Jim Dickinson ever felt he had a choice.

So get this old news: rock ‘n’ roll is the beautiful multi-racial child that resulted from the mixing/blurring of class, ideology and simple skin color. This is of course no startling revelation. A few huge forests have certainly been chopped to the ground to provide the pulp to make this point for both true believers in the cathartic gush of the R&R whatsis (that’s me) and for those whose interest in the music/movement is historical (that’s me, too). But it’s a truth that’s often forgotten partly because the give and take wasn’t a smooth 50/50 split, white music being influenced by/borrowing/stealing from black music with much greater frequency than the opposite, and also because the USA seems to love deliberately not thinking about race and class (read the current headlines to see how people act/react when confronted with an issue that's intrinsically linked to race and class). But I think to play truly vital rock ‘n’ roll (and this is the only form of music where the following statement really matters, in my opinion), an acknowledgement or at least sub-conscious acceptance of the cultural/racial/class based back and forth is essential. When the Rolling Stones lost interest in this underlying conversation in their music, they started to suck. Before they started to suck, back when they were a thriving band, they would get Jim Dickinson to play on their records.

The wonderfully warped reality of James Luther Dickinson wasn’t possible anywhere other than Memphis. This was the birthplace of not only Sun Studios (where Jim released a single with The Jesters) and its wildest success Mr. Presley, but also the studio and record label known as Stax/Volt, a building/company/state of mind that put into everyday practice the righteous intentions of integration and racial equality. Dickinson loved music and was in it for the long haul. Memphis made his journey possible. His ability to genuinely contribute to such a wide variety of southern music (both geographically and in spirit) is a mind-bending thing. Not just Aretha and Alex Chilton, but also Primal Scream and Panther Burns, The Replacements and Ry Cooder, The Cramps and Furry Lewis, Dee Dee Warwick and Mudhoney, Doug Sahm and Sam and Dave. One of Dickinson’s earliest musical exploits was a group called The New Beale Street Sheiks, a shrewd idea that seems to simultaneously reference the name of (also recently deceased) Mike Seeger’s then contemporary folk group The New Lost City Ramblers while giving props to Frank Stokes’ and Dan Sane’s late ‘20s answer to those other Sheiks of Mississippi, the Chatmon Brothers.

So here we are back in the era of Sylvester Weaver’s fleeting bout of recording. And getting up close to the sound of Mr. Weaver is just a fine place to be, his playing at moments refined yet appealingly weird, while at other times being direct and spare. At his best when playing sly instrumentals, he’s responsible for a handful of succinct masterpieces of early blues, three from his last year of recording, where he seemed to be really getting a grasp on the slippery tension in his work.

Sylvester Weaver was born in the 19th Century and was sadly long forgotten by the birth year (1941) of Jim Dickinson, a man who almost managed to get a full decade of his too short life into the annals of this fresh and fucked millennium. Dickinson played piano on Dylan’s Time Out of Mind album, a record that seemed to jumpstart Bob’s creative fire and landed him a Grammy Award for Best Album. From the stage Dylan gave props to Jim, calling him a brother, but this was in reality a reciprocal gesture, since Dickinson had covered Bob’s early song "John Brown" on his 1972 underground classic Dixie Fried (featuring Dr. John and an uncredited Eric Clapton). Indeed, I can easily see these two kicking back in Jim’s Memphis trailer home, discussing how to get Dylan backstage at an upcoming Mud Boy and the Neutrons’ gig, while taking sips from a jar of high quality hooch and listening to some sounds of equally fine vintage, perhaps even Sylvester Weaver’s “St. Louis Blues” or “Soft Steel Piston”. Oooohhhh mama, can this really be the end…………..

Mr. Dickinson, you’re already missed.

Studs Turkel 1912-2008

"There are certain key moments in my life, rewards I get that are not monetary but are far far more important. A guy stopped me once—I did Working, and had all kinds of portraits, and one is the portrait of a waitress, Dolores Dante, she used to work at the Erie Cafe, when it was an expense-account joint. She was great. She talked about the day of a waitress. So one day this guy stops me on the street, and he corners me, on Michigan Boulevard Bridge—you know, people stop me now and then, not celebrity, just me, you know, they know me. He says listen, I want to tell ya—since I read about that woman Dolores in your book Working, I’ll never again talk to a waitress the way I have in the past. I’ll never again. Well that’s pretty good, that means I’ve touched him." Studs Turkel in conversation with Michael Lenehan



I always got a real charge out of hearing Studs Turkel speak, and especially SEEING him engage in conversation about the subjects that interested him. He possessed a passion and curiosity that was inspiring, and he also had this magnetic grittiness about him, a kind of old-school ground-level no-nonsense attitude that was always natural and sincere, never affected. He didn't begin writing until after he was blacklisted from broadcast television during the McCarthy era. He never learned to drive, relying instead on cabs and busses (reminding me of something Richard Meltzer said about Jack Kerouac, that "he never drove so he never drove alone"). He was a friend of Mahalia Jackson, he interviewed a young Bob Dylan on his radio show, and he was a passionate supporter of Barack Obama's campaign for President. In short, Studs Turkel was like a sure-fire antidote for cynicism. All you had to do was hear him talk. Or read his writing. Or watch him listening.