The Chester Records picks of the week - some smart-alecky hip(ster)-hoppers and an unmerry band of pissed-off political killjoys (i.e. the best kind) (Das Racist and Thee Silver Mt. Zion)

Das Racist

here marks the spot

Thee Silver Mt. Zion



Some young upstarts and one of the greatest of all bands - The Chester records picks of the week (iceage and Minutemen)

Rebellious non-capitalizers iceage

look here and ye shall find

Boon, Hurley and Watt

Hardcore from the vault and a Kenyan/US groove summit - The Chester Records picks of the week (Artificial Peace & Extra Golden)

Artificial Peace. Photo by Malcolm Riviera

Texts on the above and below here

Extra Golden

Sam Beam stowing away on the Sloop John B - The Chester Records picks of the week

This week: Iron & Wine and The Beach Boys here



Ahhh, to be young and suave - The Chester Records picks of the week

claims in favor of Spoon and Bob Dylan here



A deliberate rocking heaviness permeates the air - Endless Boogie's FOCUS LEVEL



Endless Boogie excels at a non-ironic, unapologetic brand of heavy, jammy, riffy, mildly bluesy hard rock with psychedelic touches and eccentric vocals. Got all that? The non-purist sensibility that defined a certain corner of the early ‘70s rock scene is where these guys park their hi-octane sedans, and the 8-track players (oh, the fidelity) are boldly blasting Black Oak Arkansas, ZZ Top and Ten Years After. In the hands of lesser players this recipe could easily spell disaster: playing too tight risks landing in sub-Zeppelin territory and erring on the side of sloppy looseness could easily result in approximating the effort of a bunch of excited 17-year-olds rocking out in a rickety old barn. Nice try, but no cigars. But fear not, for this sharp and un-sexy crew holds a wise collective standard on just how this type of long-form goodness needs to be delivered. A big point in their favor is a general inclination toward blunt heaviness over the sort of chooglin’ busyness that really started to undermine this vague style as the middle part of the ‘70s arrived. Another big positive is Paul “Top Dollar” Major’s vocal presence, which falls into the fine tradition of inspired oddness defined by such laudable figures as Capt. Beefheart and Col. Bruce Hampton. There’s a fine moment on this record where he sounds a bit like Jon Spencer if he were raised in a chicken coop by Bob “The Bear” Hite. Golly. This unusual, non-streamlined approach really points to the sort of atmosphere that best suits the band. Specifically, the field party, not the arena stage. This isn’t to insinuate Endless Boogie wouldn’t have tore down the curtains opening for West, Bruce & Laing (for example) back in ’72, only that it’s very doubtful they would’ve been given the opportunity. But please don’t get the impression that FOCUS LEVEL is just an unpolished throwback. The most successful ingredient in their attack is a crafty mixture of density and expansiveness that ultimately distinguishes them from any of their influences and finds the band flirting with the tricky extended simplicity offered up by ‘70s German groups like Can. I’d love to hear these dudes do a rousing six hour version of “Yoo Doo Right” from the back of a flat bed truck on the late great Michael Karoli’s birthday. Where’s my lawn chair? The eyes closed, head down, back-to-the-audience ambiance that Endless Boogie conjure is worlds apart from the custom-van cowbell happy strains purveyed by certain stoner rock acts. This does cozy up quite nicely with the more serious practitioners of atypical heaviness such as Sun O))), Melvins and even late-period Black Flag though, and if you fancy the jammy jelly smeared across Malkmus & the Jicks’ well toasted PIG LIB, you really oughta give this a shot.

Ex-teachers and former-paratroopers- The Chester Records picks of the week.

advocacy for Robert Pollard and The Jimi Hendrix Experience here



Funky Downtown experimentation and Old Time Appalachian Style - The Chester Records Picks of the Week

Stuff on Floored by Four (Cline, Bowne, Watt, Honda) and The Carter Family (Maybelle, AP, Sara) here



My Human Gets Me Blues - The Chester Records Picks Of The Week

Reviews of Don Van Vliet and Roscoe Holcomb can be found here



Longhairs and hepcats (additional writings)





More thoughts from the keyboard of yrs truly here

"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.

You can leave now if ya don't like what's happenin' - Van Morrison's first four (with a few asides)

Outside of the expected radio fragments, the music of Van Morrison never really entered my consciousness until I was well into adulthood, and even then it was initially in less than optimal circumstances – crowded parties or noisy bars or an acquaintance endeavoring to familiarize me with the man’s greatness and then proceeding to talk over the entire first side of whatever record they’d felt was so necessary to impact upon my consciousness at that very instant. I don’t think this hit and miss fragmentation is particularly unusual; Morrison is just one example of a popular musician who is often elusive in the mainstream, known and casually categorized more than they are actually listened to, suffering a friction between a surface notoriety and the lack of deep recognition that also shrouds names like Joni Mitchell and Tom Waits. But Morrison is a curious case, being extremely busy in his first five/six years as a recording musician in a variety of contexts.

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Them

He started out as the front man for Them, a very worthy example of gritty Brit Invasion R&B that scored a few hits, among them one classic that often gets confused as a Rolling Stones tune (“Here Comes the Night”), and one canonical non-hit (“Gloria”) that will eternally serve as a cornerstone for the garage-rock explosion that followed shortly after the band’s demise, an explosion that seems to regenerate momentum every decade or so.

A catastrophe of cover design

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He then broke out solo, managing to get almost immediately screwed over by his label Bang while simultaneously scoring a smash hit, the biggest of his career, with “Brown Eyed Girl”, a song I feel safe in conjecturing every human being over 25 years of age that resides in the US/UK has heard at least a dozen times. Easy. But the other initial examples of Van by his lonesome are considerably more complex than the jukebox euphoria of “Girl”, and it’s a head-scratcher why some of the songs collected on his 1st LP Blowin’ Your Mind (no false modesty from this Irishman, or to be truthful, from the label that apparently released the record without Van’s knowledge) weren’t more ensconced into the “classic” rock mainstream during my formative years. Tunes like “TB Sheets” and “He Ain’t Give You None” are grand examples of exquisite stretching out, the later drifting into some impromptu vocal loopiness that these days is as rare as a tooth on a chicken. And “Goodbye Baby (Baby Goodbye)” (the B-side to “Brown Eyed Girl”) is maybe the tune that should’ve been his follow up hit, with its blue-eyed guitar based funkiness, it’s sweetly idiosyncratic backup singers, and an expert slow build to a manic soul testifying that carries not an ounce of fat on its frame. Jeepers. I guess a big part of the problem is that the album seemed to be scarce for a long time; at least I never saw it anywhere during the long hours of music shopping I chalked up from age 13 to 30. Its available now with bonus tracks, however, and for folks that are generally inclined to look at the cut of Van’s jib with a warm smile and an approving nod, I’d say give it a shot if you haven’t already. It has a clued in sensibility that I imagine pleased the punch out of that era’s burgeoning rock elite (those growing out of garage and in need of something a bit heavier but not necessarily louder) while also ruffling up the feathers of the more Modish Disco-Tek inclined movers and shakers. Or perhaps I’m woofing up the wrong eucalyptus. After all, I wasn’t there.

The debut was followed up with a recording for a new label (Warner Brothers) that is generally considered to be his enduring masterpiece. Astral Weeks continues to be a challenging work that yielded no hit singles and wasn’t initially a strong seller. Plus, reports conflict as to how immediate and fervent was the record’s critical reaction. I’ll state right now that I’m just getting reacquainted with the album after a long period of non-ownership. To elaborate, I first bought Weeks on cassette from a gas station tape rack when I was roughly 23, taking it on a test drive with a friend into the guts of Virginia and being suitably smacked upside the head with its lushness, its slightly stressed emotionalism, and its moments of caustic beauty, an overall thrust that falls somewhere between toughness and melancholy. That cassette lasted a few years before shredding and necessitating a replacement, also a tape (second hand, because I’m a cheap-skate) which lasted until it inexplicably vanished as tapes often do. So here’s the rundown: The very first time I heard the damn thing I simply KNEW it was a classic, particularly by the moment the slow burning aching prettiness of “Cypress Avenue” started bleeding out of the speakers, closing out the recording’s first side in exemplary fashion (the kind of song that potentially makes a listener wait for an unspecified period before flipping or continuing with the rest of the music, an effect that’s mostly lost in this post-compact disc era, though Weeks has recently been reissued on high quality vinyl for those with the sexy chutzpah to own a working turntable), or the scrambling up-tempo shrewdness of Side Two’s opener “The Way Young Lovers Do”, with its onion-like sound layers, horns vibes and acoustic bass too expertly delivered to simply appear as a nod to jazz influenced validation (a.k.a. “my, aren’t we hip?”), instead existing as an injection of adrenalin that gallops along avoiding clichés and gathering strength until abruptly it’s over, and the gears are slyly shifted onto what is for me the record’s centerpiece, the slowly pummeling “Madame George”, an exhibit of gradually building string motion and wounded atmospherics that rise and level off and then lunge out one last time like a maddeningly deliberate baroque fever dream before slowly fading away, making me feel like Nico’s goddamned ghost just took over my body for nine minutes: A draining but ultimately rewarding encounter with a psyche that perhaps loved and lived a little too much. Yeah, it’s like that.

And yet I must confess that Astral Weeks is an album that I held at arms length for a long time. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was a generational thing, the fact that it wasn’t produced by someone that had a birth date in rough proximity to my own. But I doubt it, since I was then championing music from this record’s era both well-known (Blonde on Blonde, Electric Ladyland, Live/Dead) and obscure, at least at that point (Oar, Pink Moon, Chelsea Girl) to anyone who’d suffer my verbiage (like you’re doing right now). As I peck out these words I’m leaning toward the possibility that I just wasn’t….ready….for the record. Lacking in maturity is maybe a self-deprecating spin on it. But whatever, because I’ve listened to it about a dozen times in the last month and it really truly (finally?) feels, through my ear canals and into my bloodstream, like the heavyweight masterpiece that it’s been described as for the last few decades. It’s not a flawless record; part of its greatness stems from the fact that it’s imperfect and rough in spots—“Slim Slow Slider”, the album’s relatively brief closing song apparently stretched out for a couple years and needed an edit that makes the tune feel a bit anti-climactic, though maybe a dozen more listens will change my mind. Another aspect of the LP is how the intensity of the songs, a quality that at times borders on abstraction is totally matched and elevated by the musicians playing it, which in turn seems to send Morrison almost to the brink of his talent. There are spots where it sounds like his outward-pushing to embrace and match the music forming and building around his songs flirts with oblivion, or to put a finer point on it: this was a higher class of musician than Van was accustomed to interacting with, veterans from the take no prisoners American jazz scene that Morrison has since admitted he knew almost nothing about at the time. But to be clear, these aren’t faults. The details in the last three sentences all clearly work in the album’s favor, heightening its greatness and making it one of the most singular musical experiences ever committed to tape. I really don’t think I’m being hyperbolic.

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So. Those knowledgeable in the specifics of Morrison’s output know what’s next. It’s Moondance, which pales in comparison to the majesty of its predecessor, but still has much to offer, even if I feel it’s a flawed record. It’s flawed foremost because its title-track can’t withstand the repeated play it’s received over the decades (it was finally released as a single seven years after the album). Frankly, it’s just not a very good tune, being a pastiche of phonus jazz-isms that reek of a guy who discovered Dave Brubeck ten years too late. Dude, you’ve been hangin’ with the wrong crowd. The rest of the album is far tighter, and much more polished than anything from Weeks, though this isn’t really a negative. Unlike the previous record, Moondance is primarily a pop album (singer-songwriter division), though it mines R&B/soul territory so successfully that many people might be given pause if asked to place it in a genre. This is partly because Morrison, like John Fogerty, is quite unique and expressive, though always tasteful in his soul music borrowings. “And It Stoned Me” sounds a bit like The Band augmented with a sweet horn section (nothing too tight or clumsy), and “Crazy Love” comes off like some lost early Aaron Neville single that’s gathering value in the back of a New Orleans junk shop. “Into the Mystic” glides along on pretty acoustics, the rhythms subtly building in intensity to a crescendo that culminates with a majestically delivered (so well controlled) horn section vamp that can stick in the memory for freaking days. Maybe the best track on the album, it deserves to be as well known as this record’s “Everyone”, which plays over the credit sequence of Wes Anderson’s film The Royal Tenenbaums and has a cadre of fans who don’t know Van Morrison from Van Gogh or Van Halen. The song following “…Mystic” feels like a misstep to these ears, however. “Come Running” isn’t terrible, but its upbeat motions to a gospel-tinged joyousness never really succeed in their intentions. That’s okay though, for the rest of the record registers as varying degrees of rich bullion. Overall, the tidy professionalism and studio polish of Moondance lacks the power of Astral Weeks’ nude rawness, its feeling of artistic exhaustion, the rich gamble that’s still paying confounding dividends. They are both certainly different animals, one a stunning soul-purge the other a (mostly) savvy piece of construction. I can clearly recall the first time I drunkenly swayed along to the sounds of Moondance at a field party with a plastic cup full of foamy lukewarm keg beer. I’d heard the record maybe twice in it’s entirety previous to that point, and I didn’t consider myself a fan. In those days I was much stronger in my vocal advocacy of the enduringly tough formalism of Them, a band I still love like a brilliant and vivacious sibling. On that night my intoxication helped to loosen the bolts of resistance. And so I danced under the moon, oblivious to the irony at the time. What I remember thinking in the moment concerned how I never felt so “adult”. ‘Twas a bittersweet and paradoxical experience.

There is no electric sitar on this record

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But, hey! How about one more? Van’s next record, released the same damn year (1970) as Moondance, titled His Band and the Street Choir, still sounds quite worthwhile to these increasingly weathered ears and noticeably scales back the smoothness of the previous release while retaining Van’s concise examination of largely R&B-based songwriting. There’s an urgency here that’s lacking on Moondance, and the hit single “Domino” which opens the album still retains its power through its years of steady rotation on classic rock and oldies stations. Easily Morrison’s most direct homage to the music that helped shape his artistic sensibility, “Domino” is one of that rare breed, a hit single that sits on the album that spawned it and doesn’t feel like a let down. Of course it is the opener, but I’m predicting that if I played the songs in reverse order I’d feel the same way. How about that for bold hypothesis? But the strongest aspect of His Band is the small moments of oddity and warmth that add up to a big whole. The strange soprano sax bleating on “Crazy Face” might’ve made the late great Steve Lacy wince, but to a non-player like me it simply feels like a gutsy beauty move. That it slides into and doesn’t disrupt such an intensely pretty tune shows just how deft these folks were at shaping this stuff on the fly (two albums in a year, remember). Tunes like “Give Me a Kiss” hover on a tightrope between the gulfs of throwbackery and contemporaneousness, chugging along like an extremely highly-regarded local bar band having the greatest, grandest night in their existence, the kind of night that inspires table dancing and marriage proposals. Even that cop in the corner is having a good time. And what’s he doing here, anyway? “Call Me Up in Dreamland” actually succeeds where Moondance’s “Come Running” flounders, managing to pull off a looseness that grows and emits an almost tent-revival feel. When the sax solo starts, any doubts that it would fracture the tune’s fragile grip on a non-polished celebratory gush is laid to rest, for the horn playing is the loving definition of elated amateurism, thick and drenched in pure love. How sweet it is. But I’ll confess that my favorite tune from this record is the fairly well known “Blue Money”, an eccentric little noodle into some gal-guy-greenback nonsense as zonked-out profundity that’s so attractively bent I can listen to it five times consecutively without any lessening of it’s qualities. There are half a dozen more strong tracks (unlike Moondance, no duds), but my personal pick of the bunch is……well. It could be “Gypsy Queen”, the best slow-groove old-school rhythm and buh-lues make-out tune I’ve heard in quite some time. This is to say it really makes me want to make out. Oh-well. Instead I’m sitting in front of this keyboard, which holds its own distinct pleasures and rewards.

In just a smidge over five years, Van Morrison grew from a stern and sharply-suited vessel of the new Caucasian R&B, squeezing off a few spectacular sparks that any true fan of garage punk should recognize and appreciate, and into a young solo artist of raw ambition that was somewhat similar to another Brit Invasion-era figure that had soaked up the sweaty and bottomless influence of the American blues idiom, namely Eric Burdon. From there he kicked out a recording that many consider to be the greatest of the last century, and while I don’t go that far, I do think that it’s not unapt to describe Astral Weeks as being comparable to Gertrude Stein’s novel Three Lives, a book that I’d been thinking about in this context (honest) before oddly stumbling onto a copy in my local used book shop just recently. There exists a concurrent aspiration and approachability in that defining work of modernist literature, a successful commingling of rich language and deep detail that still retains a sincere accessible quality that is very reminiscent of Morrison’s sprawling, demanding yet ultimately inviting masterpiece. In addition Van, like Ms. Stein (at least at the point of her debut) is attracted to conjuring portraits of fictive characters and locales that mark him as similar to Dylan certainly, but also can’t help but bring to my mind the vast expanse of literature’s past. And so, sweet Gertrude, if you will permit me the liberty. But it’s also telling that she and he went in subsequent directions that differed due to their own temperaments and the unique parameters of their chosen art forms. Morrison reigned in the sprawling severity of his vision and developed as a commercial artist in a performance based medium, and Stein did just the opposite, perhaps primarily because literature is a solitary act of creation, where even the appreciation of the finished work is largely on a one-to-one basis (Mr. or Ms. Writer meet Ms. or Mr. Reader), a factor that allows authors to be at least in theory less concerned with the follies and whims of those receiving their work. Again, at least hypothetically. What’s not a theory is their stature as artists. Stein is simply unimpeachable, and if Morrison had stopped after his fourth solo record, he’d still be called a master. But he didn’t, and there is more (much more), but the examination of his later work is for another time, and perhaps for someone other than myself to undertake. But who knows? The more I hear about this Tupelo Honey, the more I’m intrigued, an interest that’s starting to border on the smitten. What can I say; I’m a sucker for a classy lassie…

The Week in Listening 2/2 - 2/8

2/2/09- Souled American- Flubber CD 1989
Stump- A Fierce Pancake CD 1988

2/3/09- Borah Bergman Trio- Luminescence CD 2009
Bengali Bauls- At Big Pink LP 1969

2/4/09- Otis Redding- The Otis Redding Story 3CD

2/5/09- The Cramps- All Tore Up (Ohio Demos 1979) Boot
The Cramps- Songs the Lord Taught Us LP 1980
The Cramps- Drug Train 12” LP 1984
The Cramps- The Crusher 12” LP 1984
Various Artists- Songs the Cramps Taught Us CD

2/6/09- New Klezmer Trio- Melt Zonk Rewire CD 1995
Crystal Stilts- Alight of Night CD 2008
Beau Brummels- Bradley’s Barn LP 1968
Bunky & Jake- L.A.M.F. LP 1969
Nels Cline Wally Shoup Chris Corsano- Immolation Immersion CD 2005

2/7/09- Individuals- Fields/Aquamarine CD
Richard Grossman- Where the Sky Ended CD 2000

2/8/09- Individuals- Fields/Aquamarine CD

Photo by William Eggleston, idea stolen from the Silver Jews.

MONDAY 2/2- There is such an immediate warmth running through Souled American’s Flubber, and along with the power gained through assurance and the album’s graceful but small gestures it all builds up to a grand statement. Occasionally flourishes of instrumental brilliance will rise up from the stream of solid soul-mining, but largely this is a low-key affair that will gain its appreciative fans through familiarity and the durability of the music. It’s one of those records that gets “stuck” in the tape deck (I use that piece of playback machinery due to it’s contemporaneousness to Flubber’s release date, when car CD players were still largely a luxury) with the songs’ impact slowly increasing as the melodies and sharp playing ripen, and (of course) whenever friends hear it they either shrug their shoulders or ask for something else. But YOU know. Because that drive across town that normally feels like nothing took on an odd appeal as the car’s cheap speakers resonated in the vehicle’s interior and the bright sun of the cool autumn afternoon felt brighter and invigorating, making the ever mounting pile-up of personal problems somehow feel less taxing and insurmountable. Flubber is loaded with great moments, many of them anchored by the huge and expressive acoustic bass of Joe Adducci. There are noticeable strides between this record and the debut Fe, with several songs being deceptively unusual in their construction. The tandem vocals of Adducci and guitarist Chris Grigoroff attain a sweet stride on this one and it all stacks up to a beautiful sum. File under Alt-Country (No Affectation).





Stump was briefly a big deal in the late ‘80s before flaming out as bands are wont to do. Deeply entrenched in their sound was a quirk/eccentricity factor that made people stand up and take notice, and they eschewed any traces of guitar heaviness in favor of a malleable, at times even elastic bass-heavy song structure that worked well with Mick Lynch’s unusual but attractive vocal style. They had a few MTV “hits” and became a fleeting sensation with the stations po-mo contingent, but sadly the initial hoopla didn’t translate into longevity. They were quite an interesting group for the profile they achieved, not sounding like much else that was happening at the time, and the lack of reference points led some to describe the band as Beefheartian. They don’t really sound like the Captain, lacking any of the blues base that various Magic Band’s subverted and sometimes pounded into submission. Stump instead seemed intent on undoing pop structures and aligning themselves with an art-spazz sensibility that was unique from Beefheart’s zonked hippie aesthetic. A Fierce Pancake actually feels closer to something Ralph Records might have released for pop chart consideration, as unlikely as that might seem. The album has a proud production veneer (I resist using the term polish) that really sits at odds with most of what was happening on an indie level in the States during its period, so I guess it’s no surprise that this didn’t catch on with that crowd. It has over time built up a deserved cult status that resulted in a 3-CD collection of the band’s discography. This is something, at least. In a better world “Charlton Heston” would have been a big hit and Pancake would’ve kick-started some heavy fireworks instead of serving as the underappreciated final document from a wonderful group of seriously unserious oddballs.

TUESDAY 2/3- The Bengali Bauls LP hasn’t been reissued to my knowledge, which is strange considering the big time connections it has. Recorded by The Band’s Garth Hudson at the titular location of what’s probably that group’s best record, it’s also quite noteworthy that two of the Bauls are found in the cover photo of Dylan’s excellent John Wesley Harding album. So it would seem that this cool slab of druggy Indian jamming would be a prime candidate for some label’s licensing department. But it hasn’t, so if you’re interested, happy hunting. Released on Buddha Records right at the end of its decade, the disc is a fine addition to the discography of a wide open era. So much stuff was on the shelves at the time that it’s not surprising this didn’t make a bigger splash. Plus the music lacks any overt rock elements that many people to this day seem to require. But Big Pink’s lack of retrospective stature is more than a bit quizzical. It’s a fine listen, full of prime smoky drifting, and it would’ve been a stone(d) treat to be seated on the floor, cross-legged and heavy-lidded, while this baby was recorded. I’d love to “score” an LP copy of this because here’s a perfect case where the download experience just isn’t the same. There NEEDS to be a record sleeve on the mantle when this one plays. Lie back on a big-assed pillow, inhale deeply and enjoy. Shit. Gotta turn the record over.

Mr. Pitiful

WEDNESDAY 2/4- Otis Redding is well served by assorted reissues, but I can’t think of a better one than the 3-disc set above, which chronologically presents twenty songs per disc in the too short career of one of the greatest artists/showmen that R&B/soul music ever had. Redding possessed a striking ability to work with his bands and stir up a massive series of both rousing party belters and slow grooves through a wounded psyche. He could filter a touch of uptown blues into his cagey country thrust, or extend the gorgeous template of Sam Cooke. He could riff on and vamp up chart material from invading Britons, and could tangle in a good-natured snap contest with Carla Thomas. He could simultaneously pay homage to and challenge one of his strongest peers by simply nailing “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag”. He could send crowds of Brit mods and rockers into a wigged-out frenzy and captivate the “love crowd” at Monterey. The guy appeared to be in complete control of his creative impulses. He could elevate average material to the realm of classic, knew exactly how to navigate chancier terrain and make it sound timeless, and seemed to have a nearly faultless ability to know what boundaries to push and what wouldn’t work. Redding was certainly versatile, but his artistic personality never lost focus. He always sounded like Otis Redding. His bands were often the star of the show, particularly live (some of the live tapes just BURN with soul grease), and his generous relationship with the musicians who played with him seemed to add a spark to the proceedings and also helped promote racial goodwill, since one of the most inspiring extra-musical aspects of the Stax/Volt story involves how it was an integrated scene, where black and white denizens of Memphis came together to create brilliant, lasting art. And all of the above was just fucking NATURAL. What’s amazing is the utter lack of self-consciousness, while also appearing in no way naïve. It’s clear whenever I play this collection that Redding’s work is one of 20th Century music’s great pleasures. I think this specific release is out of print, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find an inexpensive copy. Sure, the mastering is a bit crappy like most CDs from the ‘80s, but this stuff will always sound best spilling from one speaker on a battered transistor radio while baking in the summer sun and guzzling bug-juice from a mason jar. Who wants a sno-cone?

And this was an off-night.

THURSDAY 2/5- Lux Interior has checked out of this astral plane, and his status as the original roots-punk trash culture maniac-as-deity is eternally secure. Along with his wildly coiffed mate Poison Ivy and a revolving door of third (and occasionally fourth) members, including such worthy characters as ex-Electric Eel Nick Knox and ex-Gun Clubber Kid Congo Powers, Lux basically invented the raw and simple punk tinged celebration of youth junk ephemera that included everything from hot rod worship, dinkus surf instrumentals, cheesecake mags, wildly harroomphing horn-laden R&B singles, z-grade horror movies, hopped-up hillbillies going bonkers, forgotten dance craze non-hits, and assorted other societal fragments that for many are still little more than kitschy detritus.
Since its 2009, it’s maybe possible that a well adjusted, right minded person might not be familiar with The Cramps. If this is the case, can I suggest checking out at least one of the Songs The Cramps Taught Us compilations discs? All three of these highly educational volumes are just stuffed to the latex gills with the source of Lux and Company’s lovely mayhem. And the compilers make a couple of judicious decisions in the programming: instead of grouping the songs by genre or roughly similar styles they choose to just splatter the contents haphazardly onto the discs and therefore present the sounds as some mythical lower-class nogoodnik might’ve actually heard them. In addition, there is a smattering of names that will actually resonate with the culture at large. Link Wray, The Sonics, Bo Diddley, The Trashmen and Andre Williams are all included on the first installment, and they sit like ringers in a mass of lesser known obscurities. As it plays it forms a mind-flaying soundtrack to wildly nowhere forms of youthful suburbanite obsession that flourished in the prosperity of the ‘50s and didn’t really stall out until rock music (the main locus of the generation gap during this period) truly assimilated into the culture at large. Sitting in a clubhouse leafing through beat-to-shit copies of Mad Magazine and Famous Monsters of Filmland and listening to a jive-talking pill addicted disc jockey spin whatever he damn well pleased with a temporary freedom that everyone that was really receiving it took for granted. There’s a car show in the dollar store parking lot Saturday. I heard a band’s going to play…..Who?......I dunno who, but Crazy Carlton is going to be there too, giving away stuff…..Hey, we can go to see Eegah afterwards, I saw that poster in front of the theatre…...You guys know Bettie Page?.....Yeah, man who doesn’t…..My brother has some postcards of her under his mattress…..And the clubhouse is suddenly, eerily vacant in a manner that would make Rod Serling almost crack a smile.
One of the most attractive elements of The Cramps was their blunt refusal to change their sound over the years. They did flirt around with bass and bigger, more pro production, but the essential message of Lux and Ivy remained constant until the very end. This means that pretty much everybody that’s into them will have a quite personal cutting off point in relation to the band’s discography. How much of a good thing do you want? How many bootlegs do you own? I personally run up to A Date with Elvis, but there’s certainly no defined reason why I haven’t bought into the records released since, other than shelf space and a mild non-judgmental feeling that their oomph had codified somewhat. But that’s a contradictory assessment, isn’t it? The Cramps were always about code. They dumped any aims toward originality into their visual/live presentation, and let the record’s serve as wonderfully bent party din that was also a conduit to how kids survived before The Man stole their music (not really rescued back briefly until punk rock bubbled up, with The Cramps securing themselves on the fringes of that scene). Anybody who denies that Lux and Ivy were shrewd calculators under the surface of their reckless abandon is either not getting it (hard to imagine) or they’re just being contrary. They were the band equivalent to record labels like Crypt and Norton, teaching as they gave stuffed clubs countless nights to remember. I feel like a dumbass for not ever paying to see them throw down. You don’t know what you got ‘till it’s gone. Thanks, Lux.

FRIDAY 2/6- The new in New Klezmer Trio is no general descriptor. The music found on Melt Zonk Rewire, which is the middle disc in a three release discography and the only CD that I’ve heard by this group, is quite strident in its groundbreaking. They make this clear immediately by reworking a traditional piece into a serious hunk of avant roots-plumbing that’s quite blunt in its appreciative nods toward rock progressions. Then they shift gears and examine the source of their inspiration on original compositions that start from a more tangibly trad base. I wouldn’t recommend this disc as a gift idea for that classic klezmer loving uncle. The focus here is squarely on grabbing avant-garde music fans that are open to the finely woven fabric of the past instead of sating those who are specifically spoken to by the undying beauty of the diverse threads of said fabric. But don’t think for an instant that these guys are in any way disrespectful of their muse. Unlike some releases from the avant-garde and a few on Tzadik (who released this), there isn’t a trace of the will to provoke. Instead it is drenched in a desire to keep this amazing style vital and moving toward the future. Ben Goldberg’s clarinet playing is tough but spry, and his bass clarinet is certainly raw but with the necessary ability to constantly express ideas emotionally (artistically) instead of just huffing and puffing. This is a group loaded with chops. Dan Seamans’ bass and Kenny Wollesen’s drums are continuously climbing around the tunes while also propelling them forward. Rewire is a beautiful work and I’m anticipating becoming acquainted with the other two records by the trio.






The Beau Brummells are best remembered for a two hit combo of Brit Invasion inspired pop-rock that still stands rather tall to this day: “Laugh Laugh” and “Cry Just a Little”. In a somewhat similar vein to The Turtles, but with more Everly Brothers influence, the band’s early stuff remains solid listening and is a great example of how chart inclined US bands were adapting the non-blues based UK sound to their own ends. Triangle was a departure into conceptual territory, though folkier and less psyche than many similar efforts, and therefore less dated. But Bradley’s Barn is a whole different kettle of trout. By this point the group was down to two original members, and Reprise sugar daddy Lenny Waronker took them to Nashville to record with producer Owen Bradley and a bunch of smoking session musicians (including the late Jerry Reed), with the results being one of the best slabs of country-rock I’ve ever heard. Situations like this one often find the playing surpassing the songwriting, but that’s not the case here. The original tunes are choice from top to bottom, with “An Added Attraction (Come and See Me)” being my favorite of the bunch: it actually reminds me a bit of the deep melancholia of the following year’s brilliant Oar LP by ex-Moby Grape Skip Spence, though it lacks the edgy stress of that record and instead feels wise and in control. The entirety of this baby is a pill sweet and wonderful, capped off with the record’s solitary cover, Randy Newman’s “Bless You California”. If you need another Nashville Skyline in your life then pucker up to this one.





SATURDAY 2/7- The late Richard Grossman is maybe the most underappreciated jazz pianist of the last thirty years. Playing free jazz in earnest is a sure fire path to neglect and occasional scorn, and Grossman’s non-prolific discography and his residences away from free-music friendly media centers surely added to the fact that almost nobody but the jazz obsessed know him, and even then it’s a coin flip. The West Coast’s free scene has always been small, including a batch of major names (Sonny Simmons, Smiley Winters, Horace Tapscott, John Carter, Bobby Bradford, Barbara Donald, James Zitro and the later Nine Winds Records group led by Vinnie Golia that Grossman was a part of) but never fostering enough closely knit activity to build momentum and help many of the musicians associated with it become more than just personalities recognizable to partisans of the movement. This is where Grossman spent most of his recording career, but a large portion of his playing life was based in Philadelphia, where he played post-bop in a scene that found him crossing paths with names such as Lee Morgan and Jimmy Garrison. Seduction by Ornette found him moving away from the accepted post-bop forms, and his move to California gave him the opportunity to record his work. This 2000 CD on the Hat Hut label reissues a very obscure 1994 release that hit the stores roughly two years after his death from lung cancer. It’s a challenging beauty. Made up of trio pieces featuring percussionist Alex Cline (bro of Nels if you’re wondering) and bassist Ken Filiano, the music starts at a very spacious and considered pace, reflecting Grossman’s interest in modern classical composition. Slowly the pieces move into a more established avant-jazz territory, with the piano rubbing up against Taylor-esque sounds (while never losing the vital thrust that makes this music Grossman’s own) and the trio conjuring an energetic back and forth that should appeal to anybody with an interest in small group free interplay. This is my first taste of the man’s music and it should be obvious that I’m still basically unsure of how to do him justice beyond stacking up his bio and then slobbering some unexceptional praise all over it. That’s okay, because I’m going to continue listening, and as the music gets under my skin and grows so that I can start to get a really worthwhile handle on it, I’ll return to the keyboard (as he so often did to his) and retool and expand upon the ideas touched on in this paragraph so that I can actually do the man some justice. It seems the least I can do.


SUNDAY 2/8- I remember buying Individuals’ Aquamarine LP used back in ’88 or so on a tip that I’d dig it and being nonplussed. I traded it back in on my next visit to the store. At the time the band’s guitar-pop sound was far too clean and sophisto for me. I basically shelved them in my memory as a New Jersey band with an ironically collegiate sensibility that didn’t appeal to me. Well, revisiting some of these previously dismissed groups has proved to be interesting. Individuals can still seem a bit forced at times, and at others moments appear intent on making covertly dancey music for bookworms (I can just picture a tightly packed club of lit-majors totally forgetting themselves and flailing into a frenzy as a DJ spins “My Three Sons”), but I can’t deny that this stuff goes down better with me now than it did back then. Individuals will never be my favorite Jersey band, but damn if the guitar in “Walk by Your House” didn’t make me smile. This disc is basically a complete discography, and while I don’t consider it essential listening, there are some moments in the mannerisms.

Individuals, don'tcha know....

The Week in Listening 1/26 - 2/1

1/26/09- The Chris McGregor Septet- Up to Earth CD 1969
The Left Banke- The Complete Recordings 1966-1969 CD

1/27/09- Sam Rivers- Fuchsia Swing Song CD 1964
Bon Iver- Blood Bank CDEP 2009

1/28/09- Elizabeth Cotton- Freight Train and Other North Carolina Songs and Tunes CD 1958
Bon Iver- Blood Bank CDEP 2009

1/29/09- Bon Iver- Blood Bank CDEP 2009
Hamilton Streetcar- self titled LP 1969
Phantom Orchard- Orra CD 2008
Loose Fur- Born Again in the USA CD 2006
Archie Shepp- Live at the Pan-African Festival LP 1969
The Go-Betweens- Lee Remick b/w Karen 7” 1978
The Mekons- Where Were You b/w I’ll Have to Dance Then (On My Own) 7” 1978
Stiff Little Fingers- Suspect Device b/w Wasted Life 7” 1977
Weirdos- We Got the Neutron Bomb b/w Solitary Confinement 7” 1977

1/30/09- Bettie Serveert- Palomine CD 1992
Yo La Tengo- And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out CD 2000
Various Artists- Africa Cameroon- Musiques du Cameroon- Bakweri Bamileke Bamoun Beti LP 1965
Various Artists- Africa Burundi- Musiques Traditionelles LP 1967
Band of Horses- self titled tour CDEP 2005
Band of Horses- Everything All the Time CD 2006
Souled American- Flubber CD 1989
Various Artists- Free Improvisation: New Phonic Art 1973, Iskra 1903, Wired 3LP 1974

1/31/09- Trevor Dunn’s Trio Convulsant- Sister Phantom Owl Fish CD 2004
Mary Halvorson Trio- Dragon’s Head CD 2008

2/1/09- Free Music Quintet- Free Music 1 and 2 LP 1968
Yo La Tengo- And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out CD 2000

Sharply dressed young men standing idly by the water

MONDAY 1/26- Left Banke were more than one hit wonders, but not really by much. And they can’t be described as an album band either, since they only released two slabs before breaking up the first time, and the second LP was just a collection of singles. “Walk Away Renee” and “Pretty Ballerina” are unmitigated classics of baroque pop, the former a very strange mix of thick strings, fragile vocals, steady rhythms and a proudly foofy horn bit. A #5 chart hit and a staple on oldies radio, it’s sneaky in its weirdness but incredibly confident in its ability to sound like one big teardrop. The second single is also very worthy, if a bit less sure if itself. The rest of the first eleven tracks make up the contents of the first LP, and they total a sum of fine whimsy. The remainder of the disc feels a bit lesser, but they just might turn out to be growers. It’s also possible to OD on the sheer fragility of this sort of sound, so isolating the later portion of this OOP release could prove revelatory. One thing is pretty certain: if you’ve ever thought the sight of a skinny downtrodden girl moping down a sidewalk in a raincoat was the most beautiful and bittersweet image on earth (and hey, who hasn’t?), then this stuff should warm some considerable cockles.

TUESDAY 1/27- The title track opener to this too short follow up to the very impressive debut For Emma, Forever Ago does a good job of calming any worries over Justin Vernon’s consistency. “Blood Bank” is moody folk-inclined strumming with building distorted touches, and while a long list of comparisons can be rolled out to indicate what’s going on here, that’s not really a bad thing at all. This track feels a bit like a less rustic M. Ward, more college town coffee shop and less party in a pumpkin patch. Dig? “Beach Baby” increases the pass the hat feel of the proceedings, possessing the kind of “SHHH!!! be quiet!” aura of one dude playing for a dozen cats on a nowhere Monday night while just enough snow falls outside to cover the sidewalks and the dude makes barely enough cash to buy a decent but cheap bottle of wine to take with him to see his girlfriend and to let her know it was okay that she couldn’t get off work to come see him play. There will be other chances. Maybe he’ll go through his set again in the living room while she rests her head in his lap, the dude sitting on the hard wood floor, the beautiful couple sharing the wine as candles burn and homework goes undone. It’s that kind of song. When the steel guitar comes in it provides a hint of the sort of boho-country tendencies that were common at the ‘60s tail-end. Then it fades out like the B-side of a single bought for a buck in a store on Bleecker St. while Fred Neil stood at the counter jawing with the cashier. Good stuff, in a nutshell. “Babys” takes a sharp but non-disruptive change of direction, returning to a bit of the Sufjan-ist feel that oozed from For Emma. And “Woods” tackles some vocoder terrain without feeling tossed off or like a deliberate attempt at being eclectic. It stands out yet seems right. The only thing that doesn’t feel right is the length of this EP. It’s just too goddamned short. It’s like only getting to make out for five minutes. Give us some tongue, Justin!

Ms. Elizabeth Cotten

WEDNESDAY 1/28- Elizabeth Cotten’s greatness was loose and slippery, yet still had the all-encompassing warmth to tug on the emotions of hipsters and squares, drunks and abstainers, and wrinkled and wiry great-grand moms and ADD addled cretins in short-pants. This combination of an eclectic, very personal style and the ability to retain a direct wide appeal (Harry Smith’s “Social Music”) has contributed to her lasting relevance. In some ways she reminds me of a gal Leadbelly, with some of the smooth string dexterity of John Hurt. But when she sings it’s impossible to compare her to anybody. Possessing an off-center delivery that unkind souls might call amateurish, its beauty is specifically related to the joyous non-pro aura that rides with her nimble, complex yet sweetly melodic guitar picking style. Cotten’s approach to the banjo is tough, forceful and non-polished, and her vocals shift when she switches her instrument, sounding deeper, less raspy and more androgynous. This distinct adjustment in style drives home just how thoughtful an artist she was, finding a specific voice in each situation. And her guitar playing really is spectacular, able to summon enough sharp, sweet tension and melodiousness to carry non-vocal numbers and make any additional musicians unnecessary. Her work seems likely to connect with both folk audiences and those more solitary mavens of American Primitive guitar expression. So it’s great for gatherings AND those times when the foul images of one-too-many hollowed out strip malls makes you want to be nothing but alone and connected to sounds made in an era before the rot took over. Cotten’s a sure-fire cure for cultural cancer.

THURSDAY 1/29- Based on one listen, Hamilton Streetcar positively screams “studio-project”, and is about as dated as high-healed sneakers. Apparently there are Lee Hazelwood connections, which are some great hooks to have, but this stuff is not that stuff, being cut for the Dot label after they left Lee’s custom LHI imprint. Less than a minute in I began wondering if I’d made some kind of mistake. Over the top vocals and a blitz of “hep” strings floated around me, and while the kitsch aura never really subsided, there were some interesting moments. The songs are all connected into two side-long suites, and it’s impossible for me to not imagine some “enlightened” (i.e. he dropped some low-grade acid once) character in a badly colored suit and turtleneck combo thinking this was really going to “make it” with the “kids”. Guess we all know how that one turned out. At the same time, lack of authenticity doesn’t equal illegitimacy (except when it does), and there are spots where there’s smoke if not fire, particularly in the rhythmic department. I did listen to the whole thing. And I didn’t laugh all that much. That said I don’t know when I’ll get around to spending time with this again. But since I currently have fifty miles of hard drive, I think I’ll keep it around.

Loose Fur's Born Again in the USA

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Those who love Wilco and don’t know Loose Fur are missing a big part of the picture. Though ironically Born Again, the second album from the trio of Jeff Tweedy, Glen Kotche and Jim O’Rourke is less boundary fucking than Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Side bands/projects often find an artist tapping into the urge to swim in choppier, less charted waters, but this record feels less like an opportunity to get loose and let some or all of an intangible “it” hang out and more like public woodshedding or an attempt at reinvigoration. It’s been well documented that Tweedy followed his artistic ideals instead of $$$ in the transformation of Wilco into a progressive and at times experimental (though still primarily rock inclined) group from their distinctive perch as high-toned graduates of alt-country. Loose Fur played a big part in this and the music included here is loaded with tough, smart hard rock numbers, plus detours into things folky, some crisp keyboard based jaunting, and even a little bit of mild stretching out. The whole thing radiates the feel of some left field early ‘70s LP that’s acquired cult status, though it’s not really comparable to anything specific. That’s nice. There is much to absorb here, and it never feels like a side project.

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Mr. Archie Shepp

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Live at the Pan-African Festival is a brain-blasting sustained interaction between the mainline of jazz freedom at the end of the 1960s and the deep heritage of Algeria’s native musicians. This essentially means that some burning and complex rhythmic ferocity is unleashed and Shepp (along with trumpet player Clifford Thornton, trombonist Grachan Moncur III, drummer Sunny Murray, pianist Dave Burrell, and bassist Alan Silva) meets it openly with some fine mastery of his (their) own. His horn is in particularly rough and bluesy form, working in some thoughtful sustained grooves while the percussionists percolate with depth. Along the way improvisatory ideas are interweaved into a dense fabric that slowly builds to a boil and provides explicit evidence to the connection between incendiary African roots and the essence of what’s (arguably? Perhaps) the USA’s greatest cultural entity. Sure, this show could’ve been better recorded, but complaining about it makes me feel like an impudent jerk. That there were microphones here at all is reason to give thanks. It’s not only urgent and beautiful, it also shows just how wide open the avant-jazz scene really was in this era. This isn’t jazz as a finger snapping good time, its jazz as a conduit to greater understanding, and the fact that it flows so righteously makes it a total keeper.
The late ‘70s punk era yielded so many great goddamned singles that a distorted and snotty pileup of days can span by without reaching any drop off in quality, mainly because the era was much more diverse and shrewd than it’s sometimes given credit for.

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The Mekons possess a sly artfulness that might be a turn off for those who demand unadorned bangers from the basement of Berry worship, but any inclusive personal aesthetic to the form will likely get a lift from the inspired perturbation on display on this, the bands second single. The sawing violin and loose gnawing guitar of "Where Were You?" helps to motor a cyclically simple but voluminous stream of accusatory alienation. It feels too short like the best punk singles do, features engaged bass playing which many punk singles (even great ones) don’t, and positively begs for repeat play. The flip has me in a more Gang of Four-ish zone, which is cool and makes sense, since they were on the same label. The Mekons have been survivors from the original Brit punk wave in the best sense, refusing to wear out their welcome while moving far afield of their basic din. They still feel like punks, though, which just might be the best compliment you could pay them.

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If pissed-off righteousness intertwined with melodic velocity is what you’re looking for, than early Stiff Little Fingers is about as solid an example as you’ll probably find. "Suspect Device" was the first single, a furious little ditty that had the sweet audacity to be so coherent in its oppositional fervor that it couldn’t be casually dismissed by stodgy grumpuses as the ranting of knuckleheads. It has the power to make a person raise their fist in the air and articulation to let that person know that their fist is flailing for good reason. Those who disdain protest punk as a lot of hot air with little musical oomph should relax in this case (at least), since the primary goal of SLF as they galloped out of the gate was to throw off some serious sonic sparks. Easily the least arty of the early Rough Trade bands, these guys are about as punk as it gets. This combines with the next single and the first LP (Inflammable Material) to form an undeniably blunt and raw statement that I’ll rank as the best Irish punk band of all time. The Undertones have the best Irish punk single (“Teenage Kicks”, natch), but for sheer authority challenging ruckus, nothing Irish I’ve heard beats the SLF.

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Weirdos aren’t my favorite Cali punk group from the late ‘70s, but I do consider the A-side to the above 7” to be one of the absolute cornerstones in the genre. The Dangerhouse label was pretty faultless in my estimation in documenting a batch of bands who’s collective noise still stands up tall to this day, and they did it for the most part on singles, which helps to place it in a fine tradition that spans all the way back to the unseemly birth of rock-n-roll. "Neutron" sticks to the ribs primarily because it features such bombast: where The Germs were riveting through ineptness and unpredictability, The Dils were stone faced with a density to match, Black Randy was a cagy prankster who still gets people’s hackles in an uproar, and X were unashamed classicists huffing the fumes from their younger cohorts, Weirdos had a Dadaist approach that while similar to fellow Dangerhouse mates The Deadbeats, combined with an explosive musical force (big riffs, bruising songwriting, bold throat action) to give the impression that this shit was designed to crumble buildings and negate stolid ideologies. A big part of Weirdos appeal was the sustained art-college prankster sensibility, but without considerable musical heft they would only be a curio at this point. I’d heard a whole lot of punk by the time this single graced my ears, and it still slapped me a good one. A good one? A GREAT one. And "Solitary Confinement" is just as tasty.

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FRIDAY 1/30- Bettie Serveert’s Palomine is a fantastic record that had diverse if not widespread appeal when it came out back in ’92. They could turn on fans of more classic song-based indie sounds ala Yo La Tengo, managed a grip on the attention of Dinosaur Jr. fans due to their loose congruence to hard-rock sensibilities, were pretty enough to gain the approval of the burgeoning indie-pop underground of the period, and were still heavy enough to pass muster in the presence of the partisans of noise in the Amphetamine Reptile/Touch & Go stripe. I happened to dig all off the above, but most people didn’t, and Bettie were a great common ground band to play when a bunch of people with twains that didn’t normally meet were hanging out in the same room. The record’s ultimate success lies at the crossroads of songwriting and delivery. Both the tunes and the execution are well developed and compliment each other fully. In this sense they really remind me of Yo La Tengo, which is a band that equally stokes song lovers and those that swoon over deft execution of ideas (not necessarily technical proficiency). They don’t really sound like Georgia Ira & James, and they sound even less like Galaxie 500, but they remind me just as much of that band: where Galaxie smartly applied VU moves to their own distinct approach, Bettie Serveert do something quite similar to Crazy Horse. They sound nothing like a knock-off of Young and Co, but FEEL like they’ve absorbed ideas from that band to their own unique ends. They don’t try and break new ground but instead reliably weave tried and true elements into a powerful whole, with Carol van Dyk’s vocals being particularly well suited to the instrumental dynamic. Debuts don’t get much stronger than Palomine. This bunch should’ve been a hell of a lot bigger then they were/are. There isn’t a thing obscure or difficult about them. It’s just well played melodic rock music, and I can’t help but feel they suffered significant neglect.





Mention the name Ocora to any heavy fan of native music from around the world, and it’s almost certain that you’ll be smiled upon. Then you’ll be asked if you have any Ocora’s to spare. What’s an Ocora? It was a French record label started in the late ‘50s by Charles Duvelle and Pierre Schaeffer to document the particular “folk” sounds of specific regions. Africa, India, Vietnam, Laos, Tibet, Yugoslavia, and many other countries were given spectacular overviews, and the music can run from entrancing to strange to familiar to surprising. The two volumes above are a portion of the intense spotlight the label gave to the African continent, and they are as gripping as anything I’ve heard from the Nonesuch Explorer series. And the depth of recording is spectacular, so strong in fact that it still sounds great after being ripped to mp3. No, I don’t have any Ocora vinyl. Some of the stuff has been reissued on CD, but reissues are often dodgy, and I’ve not taken the plunge. You got any Ocora’s to spare?




Band of Horses often get compared to My Morning Jacket. This makes sense, but there is a marked difference. Where MMJ have a strain of eccentricity and brassiness about them (particularly on their classic It Still Moves disc), BoH seem to favor a more straightforward approach that’s essentially about kicking out tunes that sink emotive (read: not emo) hooks into brain folds. I’m just now really latching onto their stuff, but both the discs I’ve played feel like serious winners to me. What led me to pay them more attention was “Funeral” from Everything All the Time. One song does not a great band make, but when you have a song as powerful as that one it’s likely you’ll have some more tricks up numerous sleeves. And they do. But “Funeral”, man what a sweet hunk of anthemic sadness that is. Last thing I’ll mention relates to the descriptor I’ve seen these guys (and MMJ) get tagged with, that is “Southern Rock”. That’s a stumper. I like pre-twang Allman Brothers as much as the next person (assuming the next person isn’t my Aunt Glenda, who HATES the Allmans), but what gives here, exactly? Southern Rock pretty much stinks up any room that holds it. ZZ Top was blues rock. The Band was from fucking Canada. Asleep at the Wheel was country swing and Commander Cody was roughly analogous to that genre as well. Little Feat? I consider them closer to The Dead’s early ‘70s studio stuff than anything rocking below the Mason/Dixon line and east of the Mississippi. The Outlaws sucked, and Lynyrd Skynyrd is a goddamned blight on my existence. If you dig Pure Prairie League and Marshall Tucker Band, hey good for you. I don’t, and these last four groups are what I think of when Southern Rock is mentioned (The elephant in the room is Black Oak Arkansas. Malkmus likes them, but I’m leery of any band with a song called “Happy Hooker”.) I’ll bet a bushel of ducks that Band of Horses is NOT listening to The Outlaws. They might be listening to The Band. And Dylan. Lots of people moaned about the genre descriptor New Weird America, but at least that made some real world sense, since the artists populating that scene were openly into things like Clarence Ashley and Bascomb Lamar Lunsford. I can’t cotton to Southern Rock as anything other than a putdown. My hang up, I guess.






European Free Improvisation may be descended from avant-garde (free) jazz, but it is ultimately best served to consider it as its own distinct genre instead of tagging it as a branch of the outré jazz continuum. Certainly the two can rub shoulders: Zorn and Chadbourne, Braxton, and a slew of Euro free jazzers, some of which appear on the legendary Free Improvisation triple LP from 1973. Free improv is a genre that I’m often in the weeds over from a writing standpoint, though it’s pretty immediate what sets it apart from avant jazz, which almost always holds onto some sort of momentum or connection to particular rudiments of its form, even when it appears to have forsaken overt swing completely. Free improv frankly conjures a different sonic environment, where silence, the examination of textures and the combination of different ingredients adds up to a unique geometry that differs from the feel of an aesthetic being stretched to its limits as a method of re-ignition. No, free improv feels like the beginning of something in a different way. It can sound academic and cold one minute and then appear giddy and hyper the next. And then silence. And then a rumble of drums that almost coalesces into recognizable form. This detours abruptly into a flat but diagonal horn line, a bit like someone moving down an amplified sliding board in rubber pants. Rattles, plucks, clangs and more silence. A gang of melancholy clowns rubbing on balloons. What a forlorn sound. On this box New Phonic Art 1973 are made up of personalities most associated with 20th Century classical composition, a bit of a supergroup of minor names in the field, the only one that I’ve heard elsewhere being Michel Portal, the others being Vinko Globokar, Carlos Roqué Alsina and Jean-Pierre Drouet. Iskra 1903 is a trio that in other contexts could throw down some fine Euro-avant-jazz (and has): Derek Bailey on guitar, Barry Guy on bass and Paul Rutherford on trombone. Wired are tangentially involved with Krautrock due to the presence of notable German musician and producer extraordinaire Conny Plank. The Wired disc is the one that’s probably most immediately approachable to those who have gone “out’ in their rocking-out, but have yet to dip their ears in these kinds of waters. The whole thing is a brilliant tour through abstract sound, and I can’t recommend it more to those looking to expand their aural pastures.

Ms. Mary Halvorson

SATURDAY 1/31- Mary Halvorson is one of my favorite personal discoveries from the past year. Besides being a member of Anthony Braxton’s amazing current group, she has her fingers in all kinds of pies. A thrilling and dare I say original guitar player that can adapt to a variety of situations, Halvorson tackles her instrument and communicates with her cohorts with such freshness and energy that she's surely poised for a long stretch of creativity. Her work with Trevor Dunn’s band spans back over four years, but even then she possessed incredible proficiency and an obvious sympathy for Dunn’s modus operandi with Trio Convulsant, which is spatic, almost atheletic jazz-metal that makes most math rock sound like radio jingles. The stuff is simply all over the place in the best possible way. The kicker is that the music never looses an emotional connection, always avoiding becoming an exercise in dexterity. One of my favorite releases on the Ipecac label, Sister Phantom Owl Fish takes the sort of heaviness that’s associated with The Melvins and injects it with a hyperactive angularity that’s a bit like being gang-jumped in a Surrealist museum by a pack of metal heads that are on a very strong jazz-prog bender. Intimidating yet euphoric.







Dragon’s Head is from Halvorson’s trio with Xiu Xiu drummer Ches Smith and Andrew Hill alumnus John Herbert, and it’s a different affair, yet still quite attractive due to her numerous skills as a musician. Her compositional abilities are simply startling in addition to her amazing sound (tough as titanium nails I tell you) and the sheer adeptness that she shares with Smith and Herert in navigating the terrain she’s mapped out is the liquor soaked cherry on top of the whole thing. Compared to the amphetamine spazz journey that is the Dunn disc, Dragon’s Head may sound somewhat more explicitly (not conventionally) jazz oriented, but it’s actually quite a bit acquainted with rock of a more experimental strain, and I’d recommend it to anybody who gets sweaty over the sounds of Deerhoof, Zu, old Don Caballero, the more eclectic corner of the Thrill Jockey catalogue, and even Slint. I’m not really pushing this is jazz-rock per see, but it does have some serious crossover appeal that more flat out avant-jazz lacks. No, this is solidly a jazz record, but it pushes into all kinds of new areas, which is what the best jazz always does. Ultimately it’s Mary Halverson’s music. I can’t think of a better compliment. Get ready, because she’s going to be around for a while.





SUNDAY 2/1- The Free Music Quintet album is one of the more obscure jazz discs from the ESP label, featuring two side-long excursions into huffing outsider exploration, and it’s a must for anybody that wants to understand just how widespread and diverse the whole free jazz movement actually was. The names involved in this group aren’t exactly prolific, though percussionist Pierre Courbois and trumpeter/bugler Boy Raaymakers have been on a fair amount of recordings. The others (bassist Ferdy Rikkers, saxman/flautist Peter Van Der Locht and violinist/vibist Erwin Somer) are more mysterious figures. Everyone here assists in the percussive realm, and that should give a pointer to the direction this baby is heading. One direction anyway. The end of side one kicks up a righteous storm of can-rattle, but along the way there’s some well-blown and rough horn skronk with a small early patch that felt like a murky free jazz response to Roland Kirk’s riffing circa We Free Kings. There is some acceptable fluting, moments of sharp trumpet shrapnel, and a large overall gust of collective expansiveness. Side two isn’t as wall pinning in its sonic landscape, but it still sounds quite worthwhile. Recorded in a barn in Holland, this definitely lacks the production depth that militant audiophiles might require, but a big part of the ESP Disk appeal is how non or underproduced so many of their records were. The aura is stark, basic and hot, and The Free Music Quintet howls mightily from the Days of Rage.