Discography Year Two - Week 6

Yes, it's the sixth week of our Discography discussion and it's another great week, replete with great new songs (Cornbread and Butterbeans, Para Los Rumberos), songs that I'd forgotten (Under the Milk Way, the cover of Papa Was a Rollin' Stone), and some of my favorites that I can never hear too many times (Graveyard Shift, Still Be Gone). If not for another meandering, pretentious pseudo-intellectual reflection from me it would be one of our best weeks (happily, the other night over adult scholarly beverages, Alice admitted to me that her posts are always longer and more meandering than mine, and also that Cyndi is a much bigger nerd than me; so I got that going for me).

A quick reminder that next week will be our first thematic week for Year Two.  What song would you donate to the Museum of Broken Relationships?  It could be a breakup song, but in it's truest form it's that song which you keep around, like a lover's discarded t-shirt, your own hidden, guilty secret, which you know you should discard. By this time next week we'll all being feeling spiritually lighter after the cathartic cleansing of giving the song away (except for the couples in the group who will have a lot of explaining to do).

Gary Beatrice

Carolina Chocolate Drops, Cornbread and Butterbeans

I know embarrassingly little about music history. Gillian Welch looks and sounds Appalachian to me even though she's from LA so I accept her as authentic. Rhiannon Giddens and Carolina Chocolate Drops claim they perform the type of jigs that barely-getting-by, victims of the Old South racism, African American families played on household options for other similar African American families, and I accept that they are authentic, too. Carolina Chocolate Drops certainly don't sound like they fell into our hands out of the 1920s. They add stringed instruments to their mix, and the recording quality is outstanding, but I hear a whole lot of authenticity, as I understand it, in their music. And like Welch and Rawlings, they sound outstanding today.

My favorite of their songs is lighthearted and has little of Giddens in it, but "Cornbread and Butterbeans" hits the spot for me. The sound, the rhythm is contagious, and I can live by the values expressed in that tune, ain't nothing better than good food and making love.

Authentic, modern, and 1920 style. Somehow it works brilliantly.

Dave Wallace

Tito Puente - Para Los Rumberos

Thanks to Kevin Andrews for reminding me how much I loved Tito Puente.  I went through a huge Puente phase several years ago, but I hadn't listened to him much in a while.  I've been doing a deep dive back into Puente's music since Kevin's post and really enjoying it.  Para Los Rumberos is one of my favorites by him.

Kevin Andrews

Was (Not Was), Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone

By 1972, Motown records had lost much of the luster of its heyday. Many of its top artists were questioning founder Berry Gordy’s control over their music and several years before the label lost its hit-making songwriting team of Holland–Dozier–Holland. Berry had begun to give artists more creative freedom which soon would result in some of the labels biggest hits like Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On?

In 1972, The Temptations recorded a song that would become a soul/funk touchstone. Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone was 12 minutes long on the album and cut to 7 minutes on the single. This was radical by Motown standards but fit the standard for the burgeoning FM radio format and album oriented rock.

This ends today’s history lesson. In 1990 Was (Not Was) recorded a cover version of PWaRS. If a band covers a classic like this they better kick its ass. They did.

Dave Mills

Song: The Message

Artist: Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five

I've been reading and watching documentaries about the birth of hip hop recently, preparing material for my Street Art class. In the midst of that, I watched the Netflix documentary series Hip Hop Evolution, which I highly recommend if you are at all interested in this music. The series is full of interviews with many of the original artists of the scene, including Grandmaster Flash. Flash isn't the inventor of hip hop, but hip hop wouldn't be what it is today without his influence. 

In 1973, DJ Kool Herc, at his "Back To School Jam," used two turntables and fader to isolate the drum break sections of disco and R&B albums, switching from break to break across the platters, creating an extended break for the dance party (and thus break dancing was born). Grandmaster Flash took this technique to the next level. In the Netflix documentary, he talks about his childhood fascination with spinning objects -- fans, wheels, etc. In his teens, this naturally transferred to the turntable and he obsessively studied Kool Herc's technique, ultimately perfecting it by marking the start of the break sections of his LPs with crayon so that they could be easily located. He would then spin two copies of the same album on the two turntables, swtiching back and forth between, with one cued up to the beginning of the break just as the other finished it, fading seamlessly across them. He could extend breaks indefinitely this way. He pioneered and perfected other techniques like scratching as well. 

I chose this song by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five (his MC crew) not because it's the first hip hop album (that title goes to the Sugarhill Gang's Rapper's Delight), but because it combines two aspects of hip hop I think are really important. First, "The Message" is the first hip hop song to feature lyrics addressing the social and economic conditions of the Bronx that gave rise to the music (conditions which are still far too common today, as recent headlines attest). The verses describe scenes from the streets and the chorus urges the listener: "Don't push me 'cause I'm close to the edge; I'm trying not to lose my head; It's like a jungle sometimes; It makes me wonder how I keep from goin' under." Second, Grandmaster Flash's almost scientific approach to the turntable as a musical instrument captures something really important about hip hop. One person in the Netflix documentary (whose name escapes me at the moment) pointed out that hip hop continues a tradition of repurposing other instruments to create art. The saxophone, for instance, was part of the symphony. But black musicians took it and made it a centerpiece of jazz music. We'll never listen to the saxophone again after John Coltrane. And we'll never look at the turntable the same way again after Kool Herc and Grandmaster Flash. They took a device intended only as a tool for re-presenting the music of others, and turned it into an instrument for making their own music. And music will never be the same. Their creative innovation in the face of adversity and oppression, (like that which fueled the use of the Krylon spray can as an artistic tool), carved out spaces for joy in the midst of suffering, and ultimately generated a voice that carried its demand for recognition far beyond the Bronx neighborhoods where it began.

Alice Neiley

On Sunday mornings when I was a kid, my dad and I would make breakfast together, everyone else asleep. Seaside Breakfasts, we called them, even though our real view was filled with wintery Iowa sidewalks and low bushes. We wore old aprons, looked out the closed windows, pretended to see whales. We’d eat together standing up and listen to the oldies station on the radio, one that mostly played 1950s hits at that hour: Little Anthony and the Imperials’ “Tears On My Pillow”, The Del Vikings’ “Come Go With Me.” Often, my dad turned down the radio all the way three or four seconds into a song. That’s right. Seconds.

“Okay, Al,” he whispered. “Which one is this?”

My dad and I are close. We have similar interests and a similar half shy/half exuberant constitution. But it’s those songs, and more have been added over the years, that have given us the language of good friends— just listening to “Smackwater Jack” or “Judy’s Turn to Cry” (the best narrative sequel to a song EVER) can take the place of conversation.

So, long story short, my preferred mode of communication started early. As many of you know already, one of my favorite things to do in life is to make and trade mix CDs. There’s something more immediate about the connection involved, and as I’m not exactly a patient person, and one who often feels rather socially awkward to boot, mix CDs are the most comfortable way for me to…arrive. To make friends. It was how I found a best friend nine years ago. Matty. I know the phrase “best friends” implies a certain willful innocence, but what else can I call someone who texts me the lyrics of a Patty Griffin song at 2am: As I row, row, row going so slow, slow, slow, just down below me is the old sea, just down below me, is the old sea.  Granted, because I’m an old person chillin’ in a young body and go to bed at 10, I don’t get these texts until the following morning, but time doesn’t matter. Not with us. I know, at the very least, that he’s listening to the 7 volume mix cd anthology I made titled “Melt in Your Mouth”. More likely, though, he’s reassuring me that we are still connected, even though we are separated by almost a whole country now, that no matter what happens, we’ll keep replanting roots in each other with music.  Or he wants me to reassure him. Probably both, because that’s the eerie, twin souls kind of friendship that shared music provides, perhaps especially when friends are far away. I text back Joni Mitchell: Everything comes and goes/pleasure moves on too early and trouble leaves to slow, which he will know translates to “I know exactly what you mean.”

So – to the music we go. The top five songs that explore that “best friend” feeling, the endlessness we share, the melancholia, the secret hungers, the joy and love. 

5. Happy – Brandi Carlile

4. Growin Up – Bruce Springsteen  

3. Blue Sky – Patty Griffin

2. Orange Sky – Alexi Murdoch + My Heart – Neil Young

1. Moon River – Audrey Hepburn

Phillip Seiler

Gmail decided it would be cool to discard everything I wrote in my first draft of this post which is ironic considering they probably indexed every fucking word and are using it to push specific ads to me even as we speak. So, this is the greatest post in the world: tribute. 

Last night, I found myself home alone with pets and whiskey on my 26th wedding anniversary. The beautiful and tenacious Kathy Petri was spending our anniversary in another country, wining and dining the powerful, in an attempt to improve the lives of her colleagues, students, and institution. I was doing nothing, something I am quite adept at, and allowed my mind to wander to a different time and place, and ultimately, my song for the week. As might be evident by now by our posts, the Venn diagram of musical interest between Kath and myself is relatively slim. As a young man, I always believed that musical taste alignment was a requirement for relationship success. Music is foundational to who were are as a person. And yet I fell in love with a woman that loves urban beats while I loved the obscure and offbeat. And she fell for me. So we learned to appreciate the other's music or at least leave the room when we just couldn't deal with it.

And thus, my song this week, inspired by our anniversary, is an odd choice to celebrate us as I am relatively certain Kath is indifferent to this song at best. There are other, more personal, more meaningful songs from our past (I see you, Lovesong by The Cure.) But this song has a story and captures a moment in our time.

The Church

Under the Milky Way

In the fall of 1988, I left UVM for a long weekend to travel back to Maryland to spend time with my girlfriend of a few months, Kathy. While there, I helped her move from one dorm room to another as her first roommate was a disaster. At some point during that night, I found myself alone in one of the rooms of a high rise of dorms feeling more than a bit miffed, as only an entitled jackass of a teenager could be, that this was the result of my long journey south. But then Under the Milky Way came on a stereo in the room and those first perfect acoustic chords from Marty Willison-Piper followed by that first perfect line of Steve Kilbey "Sometimes when this place gets kind of empty..." sorted me right out. None of this was about me. In fact, none of this is about any of us, as we struggle to make sense of our time under the Milky Way. We all wish we knew what someone else was looking for and believe that we are the ones that know what they will find. But, no, this is not how life works. In the end, it is just something quite peculiar, maybe shimmering and white. And despite our destination, we are lead to where we are, under the milky way this night.

Despite our destination.

Maybe, we all need to spend less time trying to reach our destination and more appreciating where the Milky Way would have us be. I know I chose this road, and that has made all the difference.

Kathy Seiler

Imogene Heap, “Bad Body Double”

This week, a study was published that shows the ages at which we peak at lots of stuff.  Total disclosure: I haven’t read the study and I have no idea if it has any scientific merit at all, although it was published in a National Academy of Sciences publication, so it probably has some validity. Mostly I looked at the visual from Business Insider, and it informed me of the following:

My salary peaked at 39 (that’s pretty close for me, I make way less in my late 40s than I do before I was 40 because I changed jobs). I’m way past the age when I’m most likely to win a Nobel Prize (every scientist’s dream), which is 40, but since I’m female, that was unlikely anyway. I’ll be most psychologically happy at 82, if I live that long. But I was struck by this – the infographic informed me that my peak attractiveness to men was when I was 23. And I will be most happy with my body when I’m 74. What. The. Fuck.

This reminded me of the Imogene Heap song Bad Body Double, in which Heap so accurately describes how women feel about their bodies on a pretty regular basis, unless you hate yourself all the time. The ladies reading the blog will likely hear the words and say, “Yup.” And gentlemen, pay attention. If you have a lady, and you are having an intimate personal moment and suddenly she gets all weird on you, remember this song. Her bad body double probably just made an appearance, no matter how many times you’ve told her that she’s beautiful. I don’t know why, all I know is that it’s pretty accurate. We’ll get over it sometime around when we turn 74.

Dave Kelley

Uncle Tupelo, Graveyard Shift and Still Be Around

In my opinion, Uncle Tupelo was one of the greatest American bands of the last few decades and far superior to Wilco and Son Volt the bands that Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy started after Uncle Tupelo disbanded.  They are so fantastic I am listing two songs.

"Graveyard Shift"  This is a great loud rock song with the terrific line, "What a life a mess can be."  Play it as loudly as you can.

"Still Be Around" is perhaps my favorite Uncle Tupelo song.  The singer is clearly dealing with substance abuse issues ( heavy drinking was a major issue for many band members).  He is imploring someone, a lover, a friend, a family member, to still be around when he finally gets his shit together.  We all want at least one person in our life to get us.  The good and the bad both.  To be fully known by another person is a rare and valuable thing.

Gary Scudder

Neil Young, A Man Needs a Maid

Ana de Armas as Joi.

So the other night my son and I went to see Blade Runner 2049, which we both liked but didn't love.  After it was over we spent a few minutes standing outside the theater dissecting the film and then we went our separate ways.  Once we made it to our cars we ended up sitting in the parking lot swapping texts, which went something like this, with each text following about two seconds after its predecessor:

GS: I don't know, maybe we were too hard on the film.

G3: Yeah, maybe we should see it again.

GS: Oh, and I'm not sitting in my car googling information about the actress who played Ryan Gosling's virtual reality girlfriend.

G3: Me neither.  And her name is Ana de Armas.

GS: I fell in love with the actress.

G3: She was playing a part that I could understand.

We eventually made it home and continued to swap texts, which I shared with my SO (even though she clearly didn't get the obscure Neil Young references).  At one point she said, less in exasperation than in a grudging admiration, "Didn't you guys just spend three hours swapping the same messages in person?"  She is the mother of four teenagers, and so even getting even a few sullen words out of them is often a challenge.  I replied, "Yeah, but you know, someday your kids come back to you."  I've happily reached that point with my son where we do spend many days swapping texts messages about Neil Young and Cure and Drive-By Trucker songs or Mystery Science Theater references or plans for foreign travel (we were supposed to be going to Peru, but apparently now it's the Democratic Republic of the Congo - don't get me started). I am not, and will not, age gracefully, but it is lovely to be able to see what they are becoming, and that they still make room for you in their lives (even if you could have done a much better job making room for them in yours).

So, what does this have to do with Young's A Man Needs a Maid (beyond the swapping of obscure lyric references, of course)? Well, first off, I'm keeping with my traditional pattern of writing on the songs that I'm listening to that particular week, and even though I've heard this song ten-thousand times I've been playing it non-stop this week.  Once it popped up in our exchange it's been on my internal playlist.  Certainly it's always been one of my favorite NY songs, coming in #8 on my list of 110 Neil Young songs better than Heart of Gold. It's a song that's sometimes criticized for either being overdone (Young recorded it with the London Symphony Orchestra) or sexist, but I don't think it's either (Dylan told Young it was one of his favorites, and that was enough for Neil). I don't think it's sexist as much as it's about a person who is so emotionally devastated that he can't even begin to think about having another woman in his life, but he needs something, anything, even if it's just fleeting human contact:

"I was thinking that maybe I'd get a maid
Find a place nearby for her to stay.
Just someone to keep my house clean,
Fix my meals and go away."

Actually, and oddly, and I guess inevitably, I think there's more going on here.  As those of you know who have been unfortunate enough to click on the non-music portions of my blog I'm in the midst (much closer to the end than the beginning) of a two years quest to read and comment on all of Marcel's Proust's Remembrance of Things Past.  I'm at the point where his relationship with his long-time mistress Albertine has come to an end.  She's left him, forming the dividing point between the volumes appropriately entitled The Captive and The Fugitive.  Eventually Albertine sends him a note to explain her actions, ending with the seemingly innocuous and pre-packaged line: "Good-bye: I leave you the best of myself."  When reflecting upon her letter, and her absence, I argued that maybe Albertine did leave him the best of herself; she left him her memory, shaped by his perception of what she was, as compared to the reality of her true self.  "And it is perhaps one of the causes of our perpetual disappointments in love, this perpetual displacement whereby, in response to our expectation of the ideal person whom we love, each meeting provides us with a person in flesh and blood who yet contains so little trace of our dream."  Or, to put it another way, did Albertine leave him his dream, which is more than she ever gave him, or could have given him, in real life?  And cycling back to the film, was Ryan Gosling's character K's love for Joi just a science fiction, although still utterly real, expression of the same dream?  It seems to me that Young's song and Proust's observation and K's love for Joi (he is only with another woman when she merges with Joi; yes, I know, metaphor alert) are all getting at the inherent tension between perception and reality.  What I find interesting is the role that culture, and especially for our purposes music, plays in intensifying that tension by shaping the former and denigrating the latter. Now there's a good thematic week: songs that shaped your perception of love or your perfect partner.

My traditional, and well-documented, crushes, exemplified by the excellent Marie Dompnier from the French series Witnesses, are dark European actresses with terrible secrets.  She follows in the tradition of Juliette Binoche and Isabella Rossellini.

I may have to expand my crush scope to include dark Cuban actresses with terrible secrets, including the fact that they're holograms. As the great Canadian philosopher reminds us, "You're only real with your makeup on."