After another successful thematic effort (with well over a hundred page views) we're back to our more "traditional" anarchic approach this week.
Erma Franklin, Piece of My Heart
I think this week's post will take two interrelated directions. The first is, once again, confirmation of my profound musical illiteracy. Seemingly all of my friends have a vast, if not encyclopedic, knowledge of music, so I'm used to being the dunce in the room. Nevertheless, sometimes I'm stunned by how little I know. I was watching a documentary on Netflix the other night on Janis Joplin (it's OK, don't rush out/in to watch it; it's that lazy surface level documentary that is so prevalent today, featuring a retelling of events with no attempt to delve deeper) and it got me thinking about my favorite Joplin song, Pierce of My Heart. I guess I assumed that it was probably a cover of a Motown song, but it had never occurred to me to check it out. And this is where you can begin the collective mocking at my ignorance. I didn't know that it was a cover of the Erma Franklin version from only a year earlier, but also that Erma Franklin was the older sister of Aretha Franklin. I know, I know, and yet they continue to allow me to teach the youth of America. I've decided I may actually like the Franklin version better.
Secondly, I asked myself why I didn't know that the Joplin song was a cover of another song. Partially, I guess, I have a conflicted appreciation of Janis Joplin, who I do like. I think I have a natural/unnatural prejudice against artists who don't write their own songs (although I will relax that rule if you have an extraordinary VOICE, in which case I don't care whether or not Sinatra or Winehouse wrote anything). Somewhere in the back of my mind I had some idea that maybe she was just another white singer who popularized the songs of underpaid and under-appreciated African-American singers, which seems to be true in this specific instance but may not be true in the larger sense. Like I said, I've found that I just haven't thought that much about it, which brings me to my second point. I was tinkering with my iPod the other day and "discovered" that beyond dozens of Neil Young albums I have exactly one "classic rock" album, the live Allman Brothers at the Fillmore East. I have a goodly number of REM, the Cure, the Smiths, Lucinda Williams, Uncle Tupelo, the Drive-By Truckers, Kathleen Edwards, Gillian Welch, Ryan Adams etc. I'm sure I was never on the cutting edge with any of them (as with my revelation a few years ago that Uncle Tupelo is the greatest band I never knew about until after they had broken up); rather, I probably discovered them several years down the road after I received a memo (or a burned copy) from Dave Kelley or Gary Beatrice or Dave Wallace or Mike Kelly. But why no classic rock? Back in the late 80s I was back at Franklin College, where I went as an undergraduate, teaching as an adjunct and finishing my dissertation. A couple of my students hosted a popular show on the college radio station and they invited me in every week (and apparently the college forgot that I had been kicked off the same station during my undergraduate career for crimes against polite society). We would just gab and they allowed me to play one Neil Young song every time. One time an unknown band (I wish I could remember who they were) was passing through the area and somehow they ended up on the show, which led to a music discussion and who we liked. I remember them saying that they really loved Led Zeppelin and the Who and the Stones, but that they wished they would move aside and let others have a chance. I don't think that they were opposed to artists who were still actively producing meaningful albums, but instead were frustrated by the tyranny of classic rock stations. I don't know why I even remember that event, but I've often wondered if it somehow colored my perception of classic rock and might explain why I so seldom listen to it.
Dave Mills
Library Voices, Oh Donna
Honestly,
I chose this song because of the opening lines:
all
of your heroes
they're all assholes
but that don't mean
you should piss on your dreams
they're all assholes
but that don't mean
you should piss on your dreams
Something
about those lines rang true, and induced me to listen to the rest of the
song, and indeed, the rest of the album. I had a bit of difficulty picking up
some of the rest of the lyrics in the song, and it's new enough that there
are no lyrics posted anywhere I could find. There's a line about the funeral of
youth in there somewhere, and then some stuff about Donna, whoever that is.
But, it's got a good indie rock meets classic rock sensibility, so it's worth a
listen. And just those little lyrical scraps are good sentiments. In my youth,
I did kind of think that I would always have people "ahead of me" in
life, people to look up to, to follow in the footsteps of, etc. But, yeh, turns
out they're mostly assholes (like me). So perhaps that is the funeral of youth,
the realization that life isn't really an idealized hero's journey, and that
it's rare to find people truly worthy of emulation in the idealized sense we
picture when we're young. But perhaps growing up is, in part, a process of
learning how not to piss on our dreams when we encounter the flaws in
those we've admired. And perhaps it also involves reconciling ourselves to our
own assholish ways, even while occasionally trying to curb such tendencies or
even trying to be more like other people who aren't assholes in exactly the
same ways we are.
Incidentally, in
case you're curious, the band hails from Regina, Saskatchewan, an area not
really known for producing world-class bands. The only other Saskatchewan-based
band I know of is the Sheepdogs, from Saskatoon. If you're into
the 70's guitar rock sound, as produced by a current band, check 'em out
for a Saskatchewan twofer this week.
Cyndi Brandenburg
The
National and St. Vincent, Sleep All Summer
As
summer draws to a close for the academics among us, this song is well worth
listening to:
Curtains
fall, fashions fade, an endless summer over
Another
tide to launch an autumn moon over the dunes
There
must be a better way to pull a whole apart
To
keep a world from caving in
The
first time I heard it was summer 2014, performed live in concert by Neko Case
and Eric Bachmann. The song was originally written and performed by
Eric Bachmann and his band Crooked Fingers,
but I like this cover version better. (I so enjoyed the
concert version with Neko and Eric, but I can’t seem find a recording of that
anywhere.)
Anyhow,
it’s sad and beautiful, and it’s one of those songs that kind of makes me want
to smile and cry at the same time. I like it so much partly because I
can’t quite figure out for sure what the lyrics mean, even though I am certain
that they work as a great summer season finale. Ambiguity and uncertainty suit
me. On the one hand, it sounds like a cautionary tale about what happens when
we take too much for granted, and then pretend that we are okay when we are
anything but--when we waste too much time comfortably expecting things to just
fix themselves, while at the same time feeling haunted by the promise of
something better and new. Unfulfilled dreams are hard to let go of, and
ruts are easy to get stuck in. But then again, unfulfilled dreams propel us
forward. If “every time we turn away it surges like a tidal wave,” then
maybe it’s worth it to keep on trying. There is always room for hope, and
the inexplicable things that urge us to keep at it are probably worth paying
closer attention to.
Of
course, I’m probably reading way too much into it. And apparently, Neko
herself tweeted, “Saddest ballads? "Sleep all Summer" by Crooked
Fingers. I tell Eric he's an A-hole for writing that one whenever I see
him.” So there you have it.
Dave Wallace
Richard and Linda Thompson, Wall of Death
Richard Thompson may be the most underrated rock artist
ever. A fantastic songwriter, a very good singer, and a world-class
guitar player, he's made innumerable great songs and albums. One of my
favorite concert memories is Gary Beatrice, my Dad, and me seeing him with a
crack band back in the 80s. This song by Thompson and his ex-wife is one of his
best, in which he brilliantly uses a carnival ride as a metaphor for living
life to its fullest.
Gary Beatrice
Muddy Waters, Mannish Boy
Like a whole slew of Caucasian men in their mid-fifties I found and fell in love with the great Chicago blues men and their music through the Rolling Stones. I was, and remain, a huge fan of the Stones in their prime, and I even enjoy some of their post Some Girls music. I specifically remember being mesmerized by side three of their fine "Love You Live" album, in which they did solid covers of three blues and a Chuck Berry classic live in a small bar. It was my first exposure to Mannish Boy and I was blown away. Blown away enough to trace it back. And, damn, was that worthwhile.
Mannish Boy has shown up in enough generic settings that there are probably generations of folks that don't recognize the incredible power behind the Muddy Waters version. That is a shame. Seventy years after its recording it remains the most outrageous sexually braggadocio recording I've ever heard. There probably weren't a ton of white Americans exposed to Muddy or Howling Wolf when their best tunes were recorded, but those who heard them sure as hell understood that these men were no b-o-y-s, and that had to be terrifying.
And yes, as Gary Scudder knows well, Margie and I were able to get our oldest child to eat his strained vegetables by convincing him that Muddy Waters ate his carrots.
Like a whole slew of Caucasian men in their mid-fifties I found and fell in love with the great Chicago blues men and their music through the Rolling Stones. I was, and remain, a huge fan of the Stones in their prime, and I even enjoy some of their post Some Girls music. I specifically remember being mesmerized by side three of their fine "Love You Live" album, in which they did solid covers of three blues and a Chuck Berry classic live in a small bar. It was my first exposure to Mannish Boy and I was blown away. Blown away enough to trace it back. And, damn, was that worthwhile.
Mannish Boy has shown up in enough generic settings that there are probably generations of folks that don't recognize the incredible power behind the Muddy Waters version. That is a shame. Seventy years after its recording it remains the most outrageous sexually braggadocio recording I've ever heard. There probably weren't a ton of white Americans exposed to Muddy or Howling Wolf when their best tunes were recorded, but those who heard them sure as hell understood that these men were no b-o-y-s, and that had to be terrifying.
And yes, as Gary Scudder knows well, Margie and I were able to get our oldest child to eat his strained vegetables by convincing him that Muddy Waters ate his carrots.
Dave Kelley
I have started to adopt a
Scudderian approach to the weekly posts and am making my weekly selections
based upon what is hitting me at the moment. For myself, I am
finding that approach more interesting than pulling out certain classics like
"Gimme Shelter" or "What's Going On" and giving my take on
why I love them. (Both of which may well show up later this year because
I mean, fuck, they are great songs.) For myself, I believe that
the blog has turned into an ongoing conversation of sorts between people who
love music and give it an important place in their life. I think this
development is wonderful and has turned our group from a number of individuals,
many of whom will never meet one another, into a real online community of
sorts. Checking out the posts every Saturday morning
while sipping coffee and cuddling on the sofa with my dogs, has made it my
favorite time of the week.
So now I am thinking about rivers, and time, and seeing great
live music with friends. Going down to the river, sailing away on a
river, being baptized or washed clean in a river are all familiar images in
song and other art forms. One of my favorite lines in the Bible is
"The sea refuses no river." Pete Townshend used
that for the title of a song on one of his solo records.
A flowing river as a metaphor for the passage of time is also so
effective that artists continue to use it. Catching a great live show
with a friend or friends just takes music to a higher level. God knows
how many great shows I have seen with Gary B. and Dave W over the last thirty
plus years. More recently, Nate and Miranda have been at my side for some
memorable performances. Jack and G were with me for an historically
awesome Alejandro Escovedo show at The Southgate House.
So I will finally get down to my selections for this
week. I am choosing two songs that go together in multiple ways and tie
in with the first two paragraphs.
Darrell Scott, Down To The River
"Down To The River" is a song by Darrell Scott off
of his new album. To me it is about the joy of music and community, the
ridiculousness of trying to pigeonhole music and musicians into one rigid genre
or another, and the fact that much of the stuff on commercial radio "ain't
got no soul."
"Let's all go down to the river at midnight
We'll swim muddy waters and pick us a tune
And we won't give a damn if it's rock, folk, country or
blues."
Scott crosses many genres and clearly has never given a damn
about attempts to define him. In the song, he is arrested at the river,
apparently for the crime of resisting categorization and being faithful to his
muse.
"They read me my rights and sensed my conviction
and said you shall be released when we know what you are
The kangaroo court was now in session, Exhibit A was a
blaring radio
They said son is it clear what is to be expected?
I said sir, you music ain't got no soul."
And in my favorite most joyous verse:
"Now Woody fed Ramblin' some old hobo chili
And Ramblin' fed Dylan under a banana tree
And Guy and Townes made a stew down in Texas
And brought the whole hog to Tennessee"
Scott was a longtime friend and frequent collaborator with
Guy Clark who has previously had his praises song by GB on this blog. Guy
died earlier this year after a long illness. At the end of "Down to
The River", there is a spoken story by Guy Clark. Miranda and I
recently saw Darrell Scott at a tiny venue in Cincinnati, and the show was
freaking awesome. At the end of "Down to The River", Scott
quietly strummed his guitar while Guy Clark's story played over the sound
system. He had visited Guy during his illness, and this was his way to
include his great friend on his new album. As the spoken story ended,
Scott immediately began his version of a Guy Clark classic "Desperadoes
Waiting on a Train." That is my second selection of the week.
Guy Clark, Desperadoes Waiting on a Train
"Desperadoes Waiting For a Train" is a song
written by Guy Clark when he was a relatively young man about his grandmother's
boyfriend who basically served as his grandfather from the time he was a
child. I find it beautiful and haunting. Guy apparently continued
to go and visit this man as he got old, got sick, and eventually died. I
hope you enjoy the attached live version of the song. Even out of context
it is amazing. What really gets me though is how the Guy Clark
monologue at the end of "Down to The River" and the way Scott
performed "Desperadoes Waiting For a Train" immediately afterward
showed the passage of time. When he wrote the song, Guy Clark was the
young man visiting an old sick man who had been important to his life.
After taking a long ride down that river of time, he is now the old sick man
being visited by someone he had mentored. Both great songs, but now
cemented together in my brain because of a live performance. I am glad
that Miranda was there to share that with me. I only wish the rest of you
had been as well.
By the way, Miranda purchased a download of the Darrell Scott
show and was kind enough to burn it for me. I would be happy to do that
for anyone interested.
Now off to do interpretive dance to the live version of
"Wildfire."
Gary Scudder
Erma Franklin, Piece of My Heart
I think this week's post will take two interrelated directions. The first is, once again, confirmation of my profound musical illiteracy. Seemingly all of my friends have a vast, if not encyclopedic, knowledge of music, so I'm used to being the dunce in the room. Nevertheless, sometimes I'm stunned by how little I know. I was watching a documentary on Netflix the other night on Janis Joplin (it's OK, don't rush out/in to watch it; it's that lazy surface level documentary that is so prevalent today, featuring a retelling of events with no attempt to delve deeper) and it got me thinking about my favorite Joplin song, Pierce of My Heart. I guess I assumed that it was probably a cover of a Motown song, but it had never occurred to me to check it out. And this is where you can begin the collective mocking at my ignorance. I didn't know that it was a cover of the Erma Franklin version from only a year earlier, but also that Erma Franklin was the older sister of Aretha Franklin. I know, I know, and yet they continue to allow me to teach the youth of America. I've decided I may actually like the Franklin version better.
Secondly, I asked myself why I didn't know that the Joplin song was a cover of another song. Partially, I guess, I have a conflicted appreciation of Janis Joplin, who I do like. I think I have a natural/unnatural prejudice against artists who don't write their own songs (although I will relax that rule if you have an extraordinary VOICE, in which case I don't care whether or not Sinatra or Winehouse wrote anything). Somewhere in the back of my mind I had some idea that maybe she was just another white singer who popularized the songs of underpaid and under-appreciated African-American singers, which seems to be true in this specific instance but may not be true in the larger sense. Like I said, I've found that I just haven't thought that much about it, which brings me to my second point. I was tinkering with my iPod the other day and "discovered" that beyond dozens of Neil Young albums I have exactly one "classic rock" album, the live Allman Brothers at the Fillmore East. I have a goodly number of REM, the Cure, the Smiths, Lucinda Williams, Uncle Tupelo, the Drive-By Truckers, Kathleen Edwards, Gillian Welch, Ryan Adams etc. I'm sure I was never on the cutting edge with any of them (as with my revelation a few years ago that Uncle Tupelo is the greatest band I never knew about until after they had broken up); rather, I probably discovered them several years down the road after I received a memo (or a burned copy) from Dave Kelley or Gary Beatrice or Dave Wallace or Mike Kelly. But why no classic rock? Back in the late 80s I was back at Franklin College, where I went as an undergraduate, teaching as an adjunct and finishing my dissertation. A couple of my students hosted a popular show on the college radio station and they invited me in every week (and apparently the college forgot that I had been kicked off the same station during my undergraduate career for crimes against polite society). We would just gab and they allowed me to play one Neil Young song every time. One time an unknown band (I wish I could remember who they were) was passing through the area and somehow they ended up on the show, which led to a music discussion and who we liked. I remember them saying that they really loved Led Zeppelin and the Who and the Stones, but that they wished they would move aside and let others have a chance. I don't think that they were opposed to artists who were still actively producing meaningful albums, but instead were frustrated by the tyranny of classic rock stations. I don't know why I even remember that event, but I've often wondered if it somehow colored my perception of classic rock and might explain why I so seldom listen to it.
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