90125, 1983. Owner of a Lonely Heart and Leave It are the hits, as well as the tracks that find the most idiosyncratic middle path between radio-ready pop shlock and new-wave rethinking of same. The rest of the album sounds like Toto's forgotten B-sides. New guy Trevor Rabin seems to have bypassed seniority issues to become the band leader and head writer; his slick craft and harmonic cleverness annoyed old Yes fans who missed Steve Howe's folkadelic streaks and smears and strums, but it was the 80s now. People who like Toledo should check out the song Our Song, which is about how Toledo is the best city in the USA, and also music is magic. The music in the actual song sounds like a toothpaste jingle.
Big Generator, 1987. Laminated production quality makes everything sheen and sparkle. They don't seem to have worked nearly so hard on the material, though standout track Shoot High, Aim Low has a misty predawn quality that welcomes and envelops the irruptions of contrasting voices and guitars. Attempts to recreate the old Yes suites take a few pleasant chances, as on I'm Running; the title track is a gimmicked-up retread of Owner of a Lonely Heart. Holy Lamb (Song for the Harmonic Convergence) fulfills its subtitle. I got in trouble for arranging a screening of the bawdy Rhythm of Love video in my English class on some forgotten pretext.
Anderson Bruford Wakeman Howe, 1989. Not officially a Yes album, but a reunion of all the key members of Yes's finest lineup except the one who controlled the rights to the band name (bassist Chris Squire.) This album relies on prettiness, pastiche, fanciness and fussiness. Late-80s digital synthesizers and digital drums sparkle and shimmer and shine, while layers of acoustic and electric guitars create a glittery mobile sculpture in then-fashionable shapes and colors. Lots of work must have gone into the stratigraphy of overdubs that made this album what it is, but as with Big Generator, all that craft and skill can't compensate for banality. Bill Bruford, the member with the best taste and the most artistically rewarding non-Yes career, has revealed in his memoir that he took this assignment on the grounds that he be a well-paid hired hand, able to save his artistic first fruits for his jazz ensemble Earthworks.
But I LOOOOVED it when it was new. I had only become a Yes fan (on the basis of Close to the Edge) about a year before this album appeared, and I listened to it every day on the walk from the bus stop to the house, enjoying the way the high trees and cocky brick houses embraced the shimmery archipelagoes of arpeggios this de facto Yes was pumping out. It's music for walking around suburbs in the late 80s.
Union, 1991. Less a reunion than a shotgun wedding between two bands, each consisting of 4 ex-Yes guys and various session cats. An armada of session musicians swamps most of the album, rendering it a factory-fresh product. A solo guitar spot by Steve Howe rises above the rest, while Miracle of Life (not an anti-abortion/creationist screed as far as I can tell) hints at the next album's more dynamic sound, with an organ riff that I still burst out singing in weak moments. Otherwise, all the sheen of the previous two albums, with little personality.
Talk, 1994. Essentially a Trevor Rabin/Jon Anderson duo album. Invigorating commercial pop if you like well-oiled rock guitar machinery resting on a bed of cushiony synths and processed vocal harmonies. Rabin's predilection for bombast does no one any favors. A compositional sensibility undergirds the whole enterprise, shaping this bit to fit nicely alongside this other bit, balanced by another bit. The final big long thing seems like a demo reel of soundtrack ideas, and perhaps it worked, because Rabin makes Tinseltown soundtracks now. Takes shots at televangelists, because Yes knows no fear.
Outside, 1995. Not a Yes album. A Bowie album that completely reprogrammed my musical interests. As a result, my engagement with the next few Yes albums was diffident at best. Anyway, Outside is a Twin Peaks concept album that recasts Leland Palmer with Chris Burden, and it blends musical vocabularies with the ambitious aplomb of prog rock in better days.
Keys To Ascension, 1996. Bland new live performances of old favorites. Guitarist Steve Howe sounds like he's straining to remember how this stuff goes, and the rhythm section is sluggish. Then there's some new studio material, with some peppy sections and nicely rubbery bass. If you're sitting on the fence about whether or not to smoke crack, this album has some things to say about that. I'm not sure how many potential crack addicts were buying 1990s Yes albums, but you can't fault Yes for trying.
Keys to Ascension 2, 1997. I can't help but think this might have been a really special album, but the sound is lacking. Guitars sound tinny, vocals sound strident. One gets the impression that the band is playing and singing as well as it can, but that there wasn't enough perfectionism in the sound engineering or mixing to capture and enrich what the performers were putting out. The best Yes producers (Eddie Offord, Trevor Horn) bound the band members' efforts in a rich broth. That doesn't happen here. Everything's too sterile and lit by fluorescents.
Open Your Eyes, 1997. A side project converted into a Yes album. Various old Yes hands and session cats are parachuted in. I complained about the sound quality on the previous album, but KtAII sounds like Pet Sounds next to this basement tape. Which would be fine if this came out sounding cheerfully lo-fi, like Beat Happening or something, but of course Yes isn't about to do that. Potentially charming songs are undone by cheap ornamental effects. The cover art is just the classic Roger Dean logo from the 70s on a black background, and this spirit of not trying too hard pervades the album.
The Ladder, 1999. This time out they hired a proper producer for a change, and he got a pretty good album out of them, though sadly the effort literally killed him. A genuine spirit of enthusiasm and esprit de corps suffuses the album, and they perform with a verve they haven't shown in years. That said, I heard one song from here (If Only You Knew) on a soft rock station. It fit right in. Clearly, ambitions have settled, over the decades, into something more humble than the starry-eyed dreams of yesteryear.
Magnification, 2001. Working with an orchestra and an Emmy-award winning composer, Yes steers clear of the bombast and cheap prettiness that such a combo threatens, and produces some music that relies on restraint instead of the usual claptrap. Once I accepted that they wouldn't be taking advantage of the opportunity to channel Stravinsky (a key Yes influence in the 70s) I found that this one stuck to the ribs more than anything they'd released in many a moon. But only I bought it so they stopped recording new albums for a decade. Anyway, the last song on it, Time is Time, sounds like a lost track from The Yes Album 30 years before. A nice way to end.
But it wasn't the end.
Fly From Here, 2011. I saw the boring video for the boring song with the new lead singer and passed on this one. The first Yes album I've shunned.
Heaven and Earth, 2014. Listened to a sample of this item with the NEW new lead singer. Sounded like an Air Supply tribute band that over-relies on synths. Pass.
To make up for punting on the last two Yes albums, here's a bonus round.
BONUS ROUND!
Symphonic Music of Yes, 1993. Should be titled Steve Howe with Bill Bruford and an orchestra that's not too proud. More Mantovani than Stravinsky. Only Mood For a Day, Steve Howe's beloved Jose Feliciano tribute, survives, because it gets a very different treatment, with a chamber orchestra adding sharp counterpoint instead of drizzling mayonnaise all over it like the rest of the album do.
Tales From Yesterday, 1995. My parents had a tribute album dedicated to Elton John that had an all-star cast. Yes's tribute album does not have an all star cast. It has once and future members of Yes, like they had to throw their own birthday party. Robert "has worked with some other prog rockers" Berry does a rendition of Yes's 70s signature song Roundabout that turns it all angular. Not my style, but I admire the willingness to take chances and reinvent a chestnut. Steve Morse's rendition of Mood For a Day doesn't reinvent; it's just lovely, like a fine cup of tea on a sunny, frosty day. Pickup band Stanley Snail (after Yes Lyric "Cold stainless nail" and featuring Zappa associate Mike Keneally) does a note-for-note of Siberian Khatru, and their fiery investment makes it sing. Other note-for-notes on the album just sit there. Original Yes guitarist Peter Banks demonstrates that he can still play sharp-edged but melodic rock guitar and will someone please hire him. (Poor Peter.) Spurned Yes keyboardist Patrick Moraz improvises on a Yes melody as only a Swiss jazzman can. Steve Howe teams with Annie Haslam (of prog act Renaissance.) Phrasing has never been Yes frontman Jon Anderson's strong suit, but he sounds like Billie Holliday next to Haslam's cloth-tongued realization of Turn of the Century, a pretty if drippy retelling of the Pygmalion myth.
I've been hard on Yes, but I'll always love them. Close to the Edge is perfect. Goodnight.
About Me
- Aaron White
- Go out with you? Why not... Do I like to dance? Of course! Take a walk along the beach tonight? I'd love to. But don't try to touch me. Don't try to touch me. Because that will never happen again. "Past, Present and Future"-The Shangri-Las
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Friday, August 29, 2014
Monday, December 09, 2013
The Studio Albums of Yes, Part 2
Fragile, 1971. If you can't imagine any Yes album being essential, this one just might change your mind. Band tracks are interspersed with short solo pieces, and while the solos are hit and miss, they demonstrate what each member brings to the mix. Lead singer Jon Anderson's tape-loop-heavy concoction demonstrates, probably, a fondness for Revolution #9, but maybe also Steve Reich; Anderson's pseudo-koan lyrics are front and center. on those tape loops. Bassist Chris Squire's spot may be more notable for the work ethic involved in multitracking a zillion bass lines than for anything else. Keyboardist Rick Wakeman tries to do a Wendy Carlos thing with some Brahms, demonstrating that he should probably create, in Brian Eno's phrase, frames for other peoples' pictures, (as he did with his delightful piano work on David Bowie's album Hunky Dory) rather than pictures of his own (bear this in mind before buying any of Wakeman's showoffy solo albums). Guitarist Steve Howe does a lovely tribute to Jose Feliciano. One of the things I find most invigorating about Howe is that he crafted a rock guitar sound that was rooted in everything BUT the blues. Drummer Bill Bruford's brief burst of rhythmic danger is titled "Five Percent For Nothing" in honor of a former manager with a contractually obligated cut of the band's take, but it could be titled "Audition For King Crimson," the edgier band for which Bruford would soon leave Yes.
But the group efforts are what make the album. Roundabout is the signature song, but South Side of the Sky, which could have coasted all the way on its rollicking riffs, includes a lyrical (but lyricless) piano-and-voice interlude and some thoughtful lyrics about death that I still find reassuring. Long Distance Runaround could almost pass for a Thelonius Monk composition.
Close to the Edge, 1972. When I discovered this album I spent a lot of time around high leafy trees, craggy cliffs, organs, choirs, sailboats, yellowing fantasy paperbacks, bibles and Beatles albums, sunbeams and moonmist. This album seemed to pack it all together in 40 minutes of Stravinsky-loving symphonic rock. The cheerful obscurantist lyrics bring a bit of Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons to the mix, and some lines wouldn't seem out of place in John Ashbury. If you only buy one Yes album, this is the one.
Tales From Topographic Oceans, 1973. An Anglo attempt at a Bitch's Brew that seems to go down smoother with stoners than it does with the rest of us, this blend of english folk and Epcot multiethnic jazzless jazzing around is 2 LPs long, but doesn't have 2 LPs worth of inspiration; merely 2 LPs worth of ambition (and rawk star ego). I can relate. Its repetitions have grown on me over the decades; by turns simpleminded and convoluted, struggling for expansiveness yet bound up in indulgence, it mirrors my own mind.
Relayer, 1974. This album cast a spell on me once, and I came to regard it as the last Great Yes Album. Now I see the seeds of everything I don't like about Yes sending up shoots here. The lyrics are plainspoken but banal (We go sailing down the calming stream/Drifting endlessly by the bridge... did they hire Thomas Kinkaide as a consultant?) and the straightforward ideology (war is bad, mystical illumination is good) doesn't enrich the music the way the bewildering lyrics of prior recordings did. Perhaps the irritable public reaction to Topographic Oceans put them off modernist verse. Much of one song is just a syke-a-delick guitar solo, skillfully done but not an interesting solution to an interesting problem. There's a lot to love, though. The music is lush yet jarring, Telecaster instead of Les Paul, jazz touches instead of classical flourishes. It's producer Eddie Offord's last full album with them, and he weaves a rich tapestry of layered sounds. The closing sung passage has incomprehensible lyrics (by which I don't mean I defy anyone to explain them, but that I can't make out the words) that weren't documented on the lyrics sheet; a welcome final burst of inscrutability.
But the group efforts are what make the album. Roundabout is the signature song, but South Side of the Sky, which could have coasted all the way on its rollicking riffs, includes a lyrical (but lyricless) piano-and-voice interlude and some thoughtful lyrics about death that I still find reassuring. Long Distance Runaround could almost pass for a Thelonius Monk composition.
Close to the Edge, 1972. When I discovered this album I spent a lot of time around high leafy trees, craggy cliffs, organs, choirs, sailboats, yellowing fantasy paperbacks, bibles and Beatles albums, sunbeams and moonmist. This album seemed to pack it all together in 40 minutes of Stravinsky-loving symphonic rock. The cheerful obscurantist lyrics bring a bit of Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons to the mix, and some lines wouldn't seem out of place in John Ashbury. If you only buy one Yes album, this is the one.
Tales From Topographic Oceans, 1973. An Anglo attempt at a Bitch's Brew that seems to go down smoother with stoners than it does with the rest of us, this blend of english folk and Epcot multiethnic jazzless jazzing around is 2 LPs long, but doesn't have 2 LPs worth of inspiration; merely 2 LPs worth of ambition (and rawk star ego). I can relate. Its repetitions have grown on me over the decades; by turns simpleminded and convoluted, struggling for expansiveness yet bound up in indulgence, it mirrors my own mind.
Relayer, 1974. This album cast a spell on me once, and I came to regard it as the last Great Yes Album. Now I see the seeds of everything I don't like about Yes sending up shoots here. The lyrics are plainspoken but banal (We go sailing down the calming stream/Drifting endlessly by the bridge... did they hire Thomas Kinkaide as a consultant?) and the straightforward ideology (war is bad, mystical illumination is good) doesn't enrich the music the way the bewildering lyrics of prior recordings did. Perhaps the irritable public reaction to Topographic Oceans put them off modernist verse. Much of one song is just a syke-a-delick guitar solo, skillfully done but not an interesting solution to an interesting problem. There's a lot to love, though. The music is lush yet jarring, Telecaster instead of Les Paul, jazz touches instead of classical flourishes. It's producer Eddie Offord's last full album with them, and he weaves a rich tapestry of layered sounds. The closing sung passage has incomprehensible lyrics (by which I don't mean I defy anyone to explain them, but that I can't make out the words) that weren't documented on the lyrics sheet; a welcome final burst of inscrutability.
Tuesday, December 03, 2013
The Studio Albums of Yes, Part 1
I'm going to comment on each of Yes's studio albums. It's my blog, and my life, and this is what I choose to do with it.
Yes, 1969. I've read multiple testimonies that the original lineup of Yes could delight crowds, but this album doesn't reflect such power. In an interview (Source: something I read somewhere) guitarist Peter Banks said that neither the producer nor the editor assigned to work on the album was accustomed to working with rock bands, and kept telling them to turn it down. They refused to believe that if you're playing rock loud, you're doing it right. Perhaps this blunted the results. There is something this uneven but charming post-Beatles recording does demonstrate, though: one of Yes's big breaks came when Sly and the Family Stone couldn't make a show, and Yes filled in. Even though Sly Stone has more funk in his earwax than Yes has in its entire discography, the two bands had more in common than is obvious. Sly's band was integrated along racial and gender lines, while Yes was all white guys, but both bands integrated an array of popular musical modes into ambitious, multifaceted songs without seeming like dilettantes.
Yes, 1969. I've read multiple testimonies that the original lineup of Yes could delight crowds, but this album doesn't reflect such power. In an interview (Source: something I read somewhere) guitarist Peter Banks said that neither the producer nor the editor assigned to work on the album was accustomed to working with rock bands, and kept telling them to turn it down. They refused to believe that if you're playing rock loud, you're doing it right. Perhaps this blunted the results. There is something this uneven but charming post-Beatles recording does demonstrate, though: one of Yes's big breaks came when Sly and the Family Stone couldn't make a show, and Yes filled in. Even though Sly Stone has more funk in his earwax than Yes has in its entire discography, the two bands had more in common than is obvious. Sly's band was integrated along racial and gender lines, while Yes was all white guys, but both bands integrated an array of popular musical modes into ambitious, multifaceted songs without seeming like dilettantes.
Time and a Word, 1970. Guitarist Peter Banks told interviewers that he had a quarrel with the producer of this album; being a young man Peter did the only honorable thing and threw a guitar at the guy. It's no surprise that large chunks of Peter's guitar work got replaced with orchestration on the finished album. and that Peter was fired. According to Wikipedia, his last band was named Consolation in Isolation, which was also the title of an instrumental he recorded a couple decades before his death. We can surmise he had a tougher life than he might have had if he hadn't thrown the guitar.
The Yes Album, 1970. New guitarist, new producer, new success. I used to assume this was the first really successful Yes album because of guitarist Steve Howe, but now I think the arrival of producer Eddie Offord was the exponential upgrade. Offord midwifed their best work. This time out, Yes expanded their ambitious suite song structures and crafted some of their concert chestnuts, like Starship Trooper, which ends on a riff that can be expanded, inflated, and fiddled with all night. One can measure Yes's artistic decline by how long and bombastic Starship Trooper became in concert. My favorite ditty from this album is Perpetual Change, which mixes its musical themes, tempos and moods with aplomb, and includes some of the most cogent, tough-minded lyrics they'd ever write. Tough-minded lyrics were not to be a Yes mainstay, but they did it once.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Outside the Cage, Outside the Stage
I used to get The Actor's Nightmare all the time, as I've posted about before. Then I quit acting, and I started to get a variant: I'd dream that I was in a theatrical production, and I wanted to get out. I'd be desperate, not to remember my lines, but to quit the show without getting into some ill-defined trouble.
So why did I quit? Not in the dream, but in real life?
There's many answers to that question, as there are many facets of the problem.
Recently, though, I read something that gave me a fresh perspective on the matter. I finally bought a copy of Genesis's album The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, and I was eager to learn anything I could about the backstory of the album's creation.
Sidenote: My official position is that, post-college, I'd rather listen to Coltrane go to the toilet than waste time on english art-school boys of the 70s as they churn out maximum arpeggios per square inch and lyrics that play like Tennyson freestyling; but it's all a lie, a horrible lie. I heart Progressive Rock. Readers may remember Genesis for Invisible Touch, but long before they crafted slick pop songs with Phil Collins on vocals, they crafted ornate fantasy ballads with Peter Gabriel on vocals and Phil on drums.
I'd resisted getting Lamb even though it's reputed to be their finest hour (or 80 minutes) since I already own a few albums by the band, and one's pretty much interchangeable with the other for a non-fanatic. This one, though, really was different. It starts in a gritty-ish urban setting, and while it eventually gets around to the usual fantasy material, the band manages some tasty atonal free-jazz, along with some stripped-down revisions of their prior lush sound. It reminds me more than a bit of Abacab, a later album on which they made a clean break with Ye Olde Genesis and surfed a New Wave. And while the Puerto Rican street tough who figures as their protagonist probably wouldn't listen to the synth-heavy Anglo plunkings of this band, that's not necessarily a fault. Pynchon's characters mostly wouldn't read Pynchon's books.
Oh yeah but anyway, when they played this stuff live Gabriel put on a big theatrical show, with costume changes and stuff. So poking around for info on this stuff, I found this website. It's got a quote from Gabriel's wife at the time, pilfered from an authorized bio of Peter by one Spence Bright. Take it a way, Peter Gabriel's ex-wife!
"He was angry, and it was a very powerful performance. He totally opened himself and put himself on the line to the world, but he wasn't in his relationship with me. I would say to him, 'Why can't you be like that for me?' I remember sitting in the audience and feeling completely turned on by this guy who I was married to. But he was not able to be that person outside the stage. And that is what has slowly broken down over the years, being able to take that part of himself into his everyday life."
So. Back in 2000 or so, I was in a play which included a bit of flirting between my character and another. The stage manager mentioned to me that I became a different person in that scene; "Your whole demeanor is different," she said, and she was right. I became utterly free and open and flirtatious, in a way that was barred to me in offstage life. The stage was a safe place to play at such experimental things as "flirting". It would be years before I decided to take that onstage demeanor into my real life.
I few years ago I concluded that I couldn't sustain that energy, that power, in real life while bringing it onstage at the same time. In performance situations (including auditions) I became enervated, lacking the will to give my first fruits to the 25-year-old white boys who handle the casting-call scut work in most regional theatres. I had somewhere better to put my energy, my openness, my Eros. I put it into my marriage.
Not long ago I dreamt of attending the theatre. I was a cheerful audience member, enjoying a mysterious pageant upon the stage. The actor's nightmare has been replaced by the audience member's sweet dream.
* * *
And speaking of sweet dreams, here's an old Yes song (more prog rock, I know) featuring Peter Banks on guitar. Peter was the first of many people to leave/get fired from Yes, and is now the first former Yes member to die. His death is more melancholy than the death of many other Yes people will be, because he never got to taste much success. I've read a few interviews with him, and he seemed painfully aware of the missed opportunities in his career. He made some interesting recordings, though. Sweet Dreams.
So why did I quit? Not in the dream, but in real life?
There's many answers to that question, as there are many facets of the problem.
Recently, though, I read something that gave me a fresh perspective on the matter. I finally bought a copy of Genesis's album The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, and I was eager to learn anything I could about the backstory of the album's creation.
Sidenote: My official position is that, post-college, I'd rather listen to Coltrane go to the toilet than waste time on english art-school boys of the 70s as they churn out maximum arpeggios per square inch and lyrics that play like Tennyson freestyling; but it's all a lie, a horrible lie. I heart Progressive Rock. Readers may remember Genesis for Invisible Touch, but long before they crafted slick pop songs with Phil Collins on vocals, they crafted ornate fantasy ballads with Peter Gabriel on vocals and Phil on drums.
I'd resisted getting Lamb even though it's reputed to be their finest hour (or 80 minutes) since I already own a few albums by the band, and one's pretty much interchangeable with the other for a non-fanatic. This one, though, really was different. It starts in a gritty-ish urban setting, and while it eventually gets around to the usual fantasy material, the band manages some tasty atonal free-jazz, along with some stripped-down revisions of their prior lush sound. It reminds me more than a bit of Abacab, a later album on which they made a clean break with Ye Olde Genesis and surfed a New Wave. And while the Puerto Rican street tough who figures as their protagonist probably wouldn't listen to the synth-heavy Anglo plunkings of this band, that's not necessarily a fault. Pynchon's characters mostly wouldn't read Pynchon's books.
Oh yeah but anyway, when they played this stuff live Gabriel put on a big theatrical show, with costume changes and stuff. So poking around for info on this stuff, I found this website. It's got a quote from Gabriel's wife at the time, pilfered from an authorized bio of Peter by one Spence Bright. Take it a way, Peter Gabriel's ex-wife!
"He was angry, and it was a very powerful performance. He totally opened himself and put himself on the line to the world, but he wasn't in his relationship with me. I would say to him, 'Why can't you be like that for me?' I remember sitting in the audience and feeling completely turned on by this guy who I was married to. But he was not able to be that person outside the stage. And that is what has slowly broken down over the years, being able to take that part of himself into his everyday life."
So. Back in 2000 or so, I was in a play which included a bit of flirting between my character and another. The stage manager mentioned to me that I became a different person in that scene; "Your whole demeanor is different," she said, and she was right. I became utterly free and open and flirtatious, in a way that was barred to me in offstage life. The stage was a safe place to play at such experimental things as "flirting". It would be years before I decided to take that onstage demeanor into my real life.
I few years ago I concluded that I couldn't sustain that energy, that power, in real life while bringing it onstage at the same time. In performance situations (including auditions) I became enervated, lacking the will to give my first fruits to the 25-year-old white boys who handle the casting-call scut work in most regional theatres. I had somewhere better to put my energy, my openness, my Eros. I put it into my marriage.
Not long ago I dreamt of attending the theatre. I was a cheerful audience member, enjoying a mysterious pageant upon the stage. The actor's nightmare has been replaced by the audience member's sweet dream.
* * *
And speaking of sweet dreams, here's an old Yes song (more prog rock, I know) featuring Peter Banks on guitar. Peter was the first of many people to leave/get fired from Yes, and is now the first former Yes member to die. His death is more melancholy than the death of many other Yes people will be, because he never got to taste much success. I've read a few interviews with him, and he seemed painfully aware of the missed opportunities in his career. He made some interesting recordings, though. Sweet Dreams.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Why, do you think?
I'm sure your friends aren't sending you enough Youtube links, so here.
This is pretty much the greatest thing ever. If I could do something as jaw-droppingly perfect as the first song on this clip, my life would be entirely justified. I also enjoy the way the host steals a kiss from the second act and a look of annoyance crosses her face for an instant. You know he took this gig purely out of a desire to get lucky with one of the guests. Too bad we don't get to hear the DeLorean song at the end. Truly, the 80s were a magic time. Or maybe they just seemed that way because I was a kid.
If you're wondering what Penney Peirce, the woman behind "Why Do You Think You Are Nuts?" is up to, the answer follows:
She looks happy and I'm glad, but I hope she'll put the lingerie back on and sing more outlandish punk songs for us.
Here's a video we first saw in Montreal, home of the artist:
Hope we get to see more of Socalled on our next trip to Montreal. Also hope we get to see The American Devices:
Here's a short some friends of mine made! It won awards of some kind.
And here's the closing credit sequence from Please Save My Earth becuz I love it.
And in conclusion,
This is pretty much the greatest thing ever. If I could do something as jaw-droppingly perfect as the first song on this clip, my life would be entirely justified. I also enjoy the way the host steals a kiss from the second act and a look of annoyance crosses her face for an instant. You know he took this gig purely out of a desire to get lucky with one of the guests. Too bad we don't get to hear the DeLorean song at the end. Truly, the 80s were a magic time. Or maybe they just seemed that way because I was a kid.
If you're wondering what Penney Peirce, the woman behind "Why Do You Think You Are Nuts?" is up to, the answer follows:
She looks happy and I'm glad, but I hope she'll put the lingerie back on and sing more outlandish punk songs for us.
Here's a video we first saw in Montreal, home of the artist:
Hope we get to see more of Socalled on our next trip to Montreal. Also hope we get to see The American Devices:
Here's a short some friends of mine made! It won awards of some kind.
And here's the closing credit sequence from Please Save My Earth becuz I love it.
And in conclusion,
Monday, July 25, 2011
In Defense of the Mashup
This review of a new book titled Retromania by Simon Reynolds makes the book sound interesting, but dismissing the mashup as a barren genre is a mistake. Mashups are the only way to resuscitate 99% of the music that gets played on Clearchannel (speaking of barren) radio.
Mashups can be salvage operations. Take a lousy song with a terrific beat, a crummy song with a catchy riff, a limp song with a powerful vocal, a dreadful song with an inspired solo, a pointless song with a tantalizing bridge. Extract the good nuggets. Blend those nuggets together with a deep love for musical structure and fresh juxtapositions. Voila! A dynamite new song that rescues the good bits of a fistful of corporate audio product.
Mashups can be glorious new sound-blends. DJ BC's Art Raps fuses hiphop with old analog electro-music and takes listeners to a sonic landscape that never existed before. Check out L'eau de Rose (second tune down the page) from DJ Earworm. Is that lovely, or what? Admittedly the source tunes are lovely too, but this blend gives me chills.
Mashups can be nostalgia-2-go. There are songs that, to use a phrase my wife detests, are part of the soundtrack of our lives, but fall into a grey area somewhere between "Need to hear again from time to time" and "Never need to hear again". Incorporating these songs into a mashup lets us enjoy what works about them without sitting through, say, a five minute song to get 30 seconds worth of nostalgic kick. By the same token, mashups can provide a relatively painless intro to modern pop confections. Who wants to sit down and listen to an hour of the latest pop jams? I sure don't. That's why selfless DJs do the dirty work for us, listening to would-be songs of the Summer and compiling them into sampler platters.
Some people are pushing sound-collage and mashups pretty far, and have been doing so for years. People like Vicki Bennett, A.K.A. People Like Us.
DJ Food's "Raiding the Twentieth Century" is a splendid tour of the mashup art, blending lecture and demonstration.
Mashups can be salvage operations. Take a lousy song with a terrific beat, a crummy song with a catchy riff, a limp song with a powerful vocal, a dreadful song with an inspired solo, a pointless song with a tantalizing bridge. Extract the good nuggets. Blend those nuggets together with a deep love for musical structure and fresh juxtapositions. Voila! A dynamite new song that rescues the good bits of a fistful of corporate audio product.
Mashups can be glorious new sound-blends. DJ BC's Art Raps fuses hiphop with old analog electro-music and takes listeners to a sonic landscape that never existed before. Check out L'eau de Rose (second tune down the page) from DJ Earworm. Is that lovely, or what? Admittedly the source tunes are lovely too, but this blend gives me chills.
Mashups can be nostalgia-2-go. There are songs that, to use a phrase my wife detests, are part of the soundtrack of our lives, but fall into a grey area somewhere between "Need to hear again from time to time" and "Never need to hear again". Incorporating these songs into a mashup lets us enjoy what works about them without sitting through, say, a five minute song to get 30 seconds worth of nostalgic kick. By the same token, mashups can provide a relatively painless intro to modern pop confections. Who wants to sit down and listen to an hour of the latest pop jams? I sure don't. That's why selfless DJs do the dirty work for us, listening to would-be songs of the Summer and compiling them into sampler platters.
Some people are pushing sound-collage and mashups pretty far, and have been doing so for years. People like Vicki Bennett, A.K.A. People Like Us.
DJ Food's "Raiding the Twentieth Century" is a splendid tour of the mashup art, blending lecture and demonstration.
Thursday, March 03, 2011
Prog Slog
I've been too busy vomiting on airplanes to keep up this blog or call people on their birthdays (Four barf bags and two garbage bags. Really. I used to be able to take a plane. Wuhoppen?) But fear not, I'm going to get back to that Rahxephon recap you've all been waiting for. First I have to talk about MC Hammer's "Can't Touch This" video.
I don't think I ever actually watched this back when the song was unavoidable, but for some reason Laurie showed it to me last week and I've been pondering it, probably more than whoever directed it did. Now that I've watched the thing it's obvious to me that MC Hammer wasn't a rapper so much as a dancer with a hip-hop inflected patter. Apparently it was that silly baggy-pants dance that caught Laurie's eye back when she was fond of wacky entertainments like this:
But as fun as that is, let's stay focused on Hammer. Notice that the "Can't Touch This" video's full of beautiful dancing women of various ethnicities. At several points Hammer does a little gag about watching the women and not being able to decide between them. Then in the final shot he starts dancing with the whit
est looking girl we've seen in the video, a blond in some kind of schoolgirl outfit. I think interracial relationships just might save humanity; by extension I certainly have zero problem with a black man dancing with a white woman, and if the shot were in the middle of the video somewhere I wouldn't have anything to say about it. But placing this essentially modular shot at the end of the video suggests a narrative Hammer probably never intended; faced with a bunch of tantalizing black and Latin women, he chooses a blond honky schoolgirl. What kind of message does that send? White girls are the most desirable women? No wonder White America elected him White America's Favorite Rapper, a position held in tandem with Vanilla Ice.
Anyway, I tried to extend the old school rap video watching party with one of my favorites, Egyptian Lover:
Laurie was unimpressed. I love that shot of his Dad making time with mature, plus-sized women. Inspiring. And terrible mummies make everything better.
#
So today I listened to a really long podcast (Rogue's Gallery) devoted to prog-rock, the kind of thing that used to be called Art Rock by fans and Pomp Rock by foes. I call it The Stuff I Listened To In High School.
Yes, Emerson Lake and Palmer, King Crimson, Van der Graaf Generator... say what you will about them, but at their best they didn't sound like anyone else. No one listened to Yes and thought "Yet another band that combines symphonic song structures, Easter Sunday organ solos, and Les Paul-inflected guitar stylings." Nobody listened to Emerson, Lake and Palmer and said "Of all the militantly atheistic bands that play Bartok-flavored synthesizer flatulence noises, which one am I listening to?" King Crimson not only sounded like no one else, it didn't even sound like itself; founder Robert Fripp continually replenished the band through the magic of firing everybody.
Modern bands that position themselves as carriers of the Prog torch, though, seem to start with the question: "Which familiar band should we sound exactly like: Styx, Kansas or Whitesnake?" None of which fit my definition of Prog, although Kansas's fancy-pants boogie and portentious lyrics make them ringers. Styx also has a Prog-influenced emphasis on fancy interplay, high harmony vocals, virtuosity and SF/Fantasy concepts, but they are disqualified for sucking. If Prog bands must be derivative, why don't they at least copy actual Prog bands? I feel like I ordered baklava and got a baggie full of crumbling Oreos.
Another question modern Prog bands seem to ask: "Should we get 12-year-old Goth girls to write our lyrics, or 12-year-old Goth boys? Hmm, decisions decisions." Not to slur 12-year-old Goths; just that their poetic stylings shouldn't be coming out of grown-up mouths. If I had cash enough and time I'd buy a few Norton anthologies and lob them at Prog bandleaders. Please, guys and girls, write lyrics that couldn't have been whipped up by Instant Lyric Generators.
In the Seventies, it seems, Prog and Heavy Metal were seen as diametrically opposed. (I'm going on hearsay with this: my age was in the single digits at the time.) Prog was by and for Eloi, while Metal was by and for Morlocks. Then Punk came along and revealed just how closely related Prog and Metal were. They shared a fussiness and conceptual goofiness that Punk could only jeer. So current Metal and Prog seem to cling to one another for support. They blend the bombastic in-your-face heaviness of Metal with the maximum-arpeggios-per-square-inch fretboard knitting and precision ADD drumming of Prog.
From a quick online not-paying-any-money survey of the situation, there are some rewarding post-Seventies Prog acts out there. I'm indebted to the book Rocking the Classics by Edward Macan for tipping me to most of these.
(Something goes wonky with the formatting past this point. I'm learning not to care.)
I don't think I ever actually watched this back when the song was unavoidable, but for some reason Laurie showed it to me last week and I've been pondering it, probably more than whoever directed it did. Now that I've watched the thing it's obvious to me that MC Hammer wasn't a rapper so much as a dancer with a hip-hop inflected patter. Apparently it was that silly baggy-pants dance that caught Laurie's eye back when she was fond of wacky entertainments like this:
But as fun as that is, let's stay focused on Hammer. Notice that the "Can't Touch This" video's full of beautiful dancing women of various ethnicities. At several points Hammer does a little gag about watching the women and not being able to decide between them. Then in the final shot he starts dancing with the whit
est looking girl we've seen in the video, a blond in some kind of schoolgirl outfit. I think interracial relationships just might save humanity; by extension I certainly have zero problem with a black man dancing with a white woman, and if the shot were in the middle of the video somewhere I wouldn't have anything to say about it. But placing this essentially modular shot at the end of the video suggests a narrative Hammer probably never intended; faced with a bunch of tantalizing black and Latin women, he chooses a blond honky schoolgirl. What kind of message does that send? White girls are the most desirable women? No wonder White America elected him White America's Favorite Rapper, a position held in tandem with Vanilla Ice.
Anyway, I tried to extend the old school rap video watching party with one of my favorites, Egyptian Lover:
Laurie was unimpressed. I love that shot of his Dad making time with mature, plus-sized women. Inspiring. And terrible mummies make everything better.
#
So today I listened to a really long podcast (Rogue's Gallery) devoted to prog-rock, the kind of thing that used to be called Art Rock by fans and Pomp Rock by foes. I call it The Stuff I Listened To In High School.
Yes, Emerson Lake and Palmer, King Crimson, Van der Graaf Generator... say what you will about them, but at their best they didn't sound like anyone else. No one listened to Yes and thought "Yet another band that combines symphonic song structures, Easter Sunday organ solos, and Les Paul-inflected guitar stylings." Nobody listened to Emerson, Lake and Palmer and said "Of all the militantly atheistic bands that play Bartok-flavored synthesizer flatulence noises, which one am I listening to?" King Crimson not only sounded like no one else, it didn't even sound like itself; founder Robert Fripp continually replenished the band through the magic of firing everybody.
Modern bands that position themselves as carriers of the Prog torch, though, seem to start with the question: "Which familiar band should we sound exactly like: Styx, Kansas or Whitesnake?" None of which fit my definition of Prog, although Kansas's fancy-pants boogie and portentious lyrics make them ringers. Styx also has a Prog-influenced emphasis on fancy interplay, high harmony vocals, virtuosity and SF/Fantasy concepts, but they are disqualified for sucking. If Prog bands must be derivative, why don't they at least copy actual Prog bands? I feel like I ordered baklava and got a baggie full of crumbling Oreos.
Another question modern Prog bands seem to ask: "Should we get 12-year-old Goth girls to write our lyrics, or 12-year-old Goth boys? Hmm, decisions decisions." Not to slur 12-year-old Goths; just that their poetic stylings shouldn't be coming out of grown-up mouths. If I had cash enough and time I'd buy a few Norton anthologies and lob them at Prog bandleaders. Please, guys and girls, write lyrics that couldn't have been whipped up by Instant Lyric Generators.
In the Seventies, it seems, Prog and Heavy Metal were seen as diametrically opposed. (I'm going on hearsay with this: my age was in the single digits at the time.) Prog was by and for Eloi, while Metal was by and for Morlocks. Then Punk came along and revealed just how closely related Prog and Metal were. They shared a fussiness and conceptual goofiness that Punk could only jeer. So current Metal and Prog seem to cling to one another for support. They blend the bombastic in-your-face heaviness of Metal with the maximum-arpeggios-per-square-inch fretboard knitting and precision ADD drumming of Prog.
From a quick online not-paying-any-money survey of the situation, there are some rewarding post-Seventies Prog acts out there. I'm indebted to the book Rocking the Classics by Edward Macan for tipping me to most of these.
(Something goes wonky with the formatting past this point. I'm learning not to care.)
- There's a Swedish or something band called Anglagard that, from the online samples I've investigated, made instrumental music that sounded exactly like Yes during its early Seventies peak. They were doing this in the early Nineties, when I was yearning for Yes to make that kind of music; at the time Yes could only make music that sounded like a bunch of guys who hated each other and were only back together for the money. If only I'd known about Anglagard.
- Apparent fan favorite Marillion is supposedly a Prog band, but I don't hear it. They sound like a really good adult pop act, though. I wonder why they aren't VH1 faves. Does VH1 still exist? Anyway, the first stuff I heard from them sounded like Mandy Patinkin's Nyquil-fueled tribute to Elton John, but deeper listening showed some kind of real adult sensibility, with life experience and earned wisdom, seems to be encased within this prettiness; if this isn't Prog, it's probably better.
- Ozric Tentacles. Jam band flirts with House. Fortunately they seemed to have recorded about five hundred albums: look for the corny Shroom art. That's how you'll know.
- Edhels. French. The 17 year old Aaron within thinks this is pretty fab. A dulcet, delicate quality that defines what I loved about Yes's best efforts.
- Djam Karat. Another smart (D)jam band. Forty years earlier they would have called themselves Carrot Jam. Lead guitarist looks like he knows what 3D20 means. Racially integrated, which matters more than it maybe should to this guilty white liberal. Anyway, really fun nerd-testosterone stuff.
Hermetic Science, the band of Edward Macan himself. He was too modest to mention it in his book. This video quality matches the professionalism of the Yes concert video I had on videotape in high school. I dunno why a band that favors vibraphones over electric guitars is relegated to performing in what looks to be a hotel room.
After mentioning instant lyric generators I decided to see if there were any. Yes. I composed the following wonderfuless with it. The lousy formatting is the Generator's, not mine, and It, not me, swiped from Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb. Please note that Verse 2 is structured more like a chorus than the first verse.
Public Restroom
Verse One:
Smells bad
And the whole world is driving you mad
my leg
But you may feel a little sick.Can you stand up?
Chorus:
public restroom
There was lightning in your arms and then the
vomiting in a garbage bag
Me and some guys from school
Verse Two:
public restroom
Is there anybody in there?
where's my money
Is there anybody in there?
Chorus Two:
public restroom
Is there anybody in there?
vomiting in a garbage bag
Bound to win a prize
Chorus to Fade
Eat it, Leonard Cohen, there's a new boy in town.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Confused? Yes.
I was a fanatical Yes fan in high school (I'm speaking of the band Yes, here) which is proof that I was pretty confused. I mean, it's one thing to think Close to the Edge is good stuff; that's the if-you-only-buy-one-Yes-album-make-it-this-one album. It's a recording that doesn't need much defending. But thinking Tormato is a good album? With its prissy pastiches (Most anglo funk ever), vegan-meatheaded mystic-shmistic lyrics ("boy-child Solomon"? Oy, child,) and arpeggio-workouts-disguised-as-music? That's confusion.
In the liner notes for Relayer, the other Yes record I consider a keeper, there was a note informing anyone who cared to know that the album was recorded on producer Eddie Offord's portable recording equipment. As I have since learned from interviews, this means they set up shop in a band member's house. But at 16 or whatever I visualized the band recording in the trailer of a moving ten-wheeler, cutting an album as they rolled down the road on the way to the next gig. With Eddie Offord driving the truck, which had a sound board on the dash. I'm not kidding. This made sense to me.
I still seem to lose all sense when it comes to Yes. I've been downloading awful concert bootlegs, forcing myself to listen, then deleting them from my hard drive if not my mind, in an effort at aversion therapy. It just seems to keep me fixated, though; I much prefer jazz, these days, but some part of me will always be stuck on my first love.
One thing these concerts make evident, especially if you listen to them back to back with the original studio recordings: Yes suffered from bombast creep. If a tune was sensitively played and tastefully arranged at birth, bet on it turning into a thumping, crashing, squealing, effects-laden pomp-rock disgrace by the time it's become a concert staple.
Recently I went on a solo night-driving trip to the beach, and I listened to a long bootlegged instrumental medley of Yes tunes, as performed by Circle, a band composed entirely of members or de-facto members of Yes. Circle sounds a lot like the early post-psychedelic rough and ready version of Yes, so to hear Circle's version of later Yes music was awfully disorienting... like hearing the Beatles of Meet The Beatles play tunes from Abbey Road. They stripped bombast out instead of larding it up; the reverse of Yes's usual MO. I actually had to pull off the highway and get some food, because the music made me feel too discombobulated to drive. Music has power, and goofy music has goofy power.
In the liner notes for Relayer, the other Yes record I consider a keeper, there was a note informing anyone who cared to know that the album was recorded on producer Eddie Offord's portable recording equipment. As I have since learned from interviews, this means they set up shop in a band member's house. But at 16 or whatever I visualized the band recording in the trailer of a moving ten-wheeler, cutting an album as they rolled down the road on the way to the next gig. With Eddie Offord driving the truck, which had a sound board on the dash. I'm not kidding. This made sense to me.
I still seem to lose all sense when it comes to Yes. I've been downloading awful concert bootlegs, forcing myself to listen, then deleting them from my hard drive if not my mind, in an effort at aversion therapy. It just seems to keep me fixated, though; I much prefer jazz, these days, but some part of me will always be stuck on my first love.
One thing these concerts make evident, especially if you listen to them back to back with the original studio recordings: Yes suffered from bombast creep. If a tune was sensitively played and tastefully arranged at birth, bet on it turning into a thumping, crashing, squealing, effects-laden pomp-rock disgrace by the time it's become a concert staple.
Recently I went on a solo night-driving trip to the beach, and I listened to a long bootlegged instrumental medley of Yes tunes, as performed by Circle, a band composed entirely of members or de-facto members of Yes. Circle sounds a lot like the early post-psychedelic rough and ready version of Yes, so to hear Circle's version of later Yes music was awfully disorienting... like hearing the Beatles of Meet The Beatles play tunes from Abbey Road. They stripped bombast out instead of larding it up; the reverse of Yes's usual MO. I actually had to pull off the highway and get some food, because the music made me feel too discombobulated to drive. Music has power, and goofy music has goofy power.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Mor for Ya'll
More music. My last batch for a while.
BTW Laurie and I are thinking about moving to Vancouver or someplace like that. Lots of biotech, lots of acting work, lots of health care.
BTW Laurie and I are thinking about moving to Vancouver or someplace like that. Lots of biotech, lots of acting work, lots of health care.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Offended by Nostalgia
In the Summer of 1991 I was seventeen years old, and I knew that there was no more vibrant and essential musical collective than YES!
Boy howdy I loved me some Yes. A potted history of the band: they started when the Beatles were ending, and played "Progressive/Prog Rock" (imagine a stew of Abbey Road, Hendrix, and grab-bag Psychedelia) throughout the Seventies. They had a lot of membership turnover, but had a rep for exciting concerts and long compositions... they broke up in the early Eighties, reformed a couple years later as a pop act with the hit song "Owner of a Lonely Heart," then broke up again. In the early Nineties (by which time I was a crazed fan of the no-longer-extant band) there were two bands consisting of former Yes members trying to put albums together. Their record company decided to rush out a Yes album with tunes by both acts on it, and send them on tour as an eight-person band (it had always been five at a time before).
And there I was at the concert in Atlanta. Trembling with excitement. I listened to Yes every day. I was in the fan club. I owned expensive coffee table books by the artists who did their album covers. I went out of my way to buy solo albums by the band members (generally not worth the effort, drummer Bill Bruford serving as a noteworthy exception). I believed Yes INVENTED music. And I was about to be only a few hundred feet away as they played live. I even had a date! For the first time! Maybe love would blossom (no)!
People were still finding their seats before the show, when out of the audience appeared a cheerful middle aged woman wearing a vintage t-shirt, faded and yellowed (the shirt, not the woman), obviously dug up for the concert (again, the shirt, not the woman). It read:
HELP STAMP OUT DISCO IN OUR LIFETIME
And I was irked.
I didn't mind her having the shirt. She had probably worn it to a Yes concert in the late seventies, when it would have been timely. I was a high schooler, so Sharks Vs. Jets stuff made sense to me, and I could well imagine Prog Vs. Disco strife...in the late Seventies. But her wearing the shirt in 1991 declared "This concert is a nostalgia act, prog is as dated as disco, and my presence here has more to do with memories of 1977 than with 1991." And my Yes-fixated brain, steeped in boiling pubertal hormones, wanted to shriek.
Of course I said and did nothing to her, but I haven't forgotten her and her shirt. And now I realize she was right and I was wrong.
The last time Yes made an album I really, really cared about was in 1975 when I was a toddler. Granted, a piece of music is only as old as the first time you hear it, so as far as I was concerned Yes's entire oeuvre was about four years old, which made it daisy-fresh, right? I had imagined the tour was motivated by the purest of artistic considerations, plus the love and brotherhood of the musicians, right?
Wrong.
Subsequent interviews showed that the musicians hated the stage-managed-by-the-record-label vibe of the reunion, wished their solo ventures were sufficiently viable to keep the bills paid, largely disliked each other, and resented having to work as Yes to sell their music... Yes WAS a nostalgia act, reunited for the most cynical reasons. Their best days as a unit were long behind them, and while some individual members were still doing interesting stuff, they were doing it outside of Yes.
Happily I enjoyed the concert anyway, and then shipped off to college, where my musical parameters expanded exponentially. I now agree with that T-Shirt woman, wherever she is, that it's fine to luxuriate in nostalgia, as long as you acknowledge it for what it is.
Boy howdy I loved me some Yes. A potted history of the band: they started when the Beatles were ending, and played "Progressive/Prog Rock" (imagine a stew of Abbey Road, Hendrix, and grab-bag Psychedelia) throughout the Seventies. They had a lot of membership turnover, but had a rep for exciting concerts and long compositions... they broke up in the early Eighties, reformed a couple years later as a pop act with the hit song "Owner of a Lonely Heart," then broke up again. In the early Nineties (by which time I was a crazed fan of the no-longer-extant band) there were two bands consisting of former Yes members trying to put albums together. Their record company decided to rush out a Yes album with tunes by both acts on it, and send them on tour as an eight-person band (it had always been five at a time before).
And there I was at the concert in Atlanta. Trembling with excitement. I listened to Yes every day. I was in the fan club. I owned expensive coffee table books by the artists who did their album covers. I went out of my way to buy solo albums by the band members (generally not worth the effort, drummer Bill Bruford serving as a noteworthy exception). I believed Yes INVENTED music. And I was about to be only a few hundred feet away as they played live. I even had a date! For the first time! Maybe love would blossom (no)!
People were still finding their seats before the show, when out of the audience appeared a cheerful middle aged woman wearing a vintage t-shirt, faded and yellowed (the shirt, not the woman), obviously dug up for the concert (again, the shirt, not the woman). It read:
HELP STAMP OUT DISCO IN OUR LIFETIME
And I was irked.
I didn't mind her having the shirt. She had probably worn it to a Yes concert in the late seventies, when it would have been timely. I was a high schooler, so Sharks Vs. Jets stuff made sense to me, and I could well imagine Prog Vs. Disco strife...in the late Seventies. But her wearing the shirt in 1991 declared "This concert is a nostalgia act, prog is as dated as disco, and my presence here has more to do with memories of 1977 than with 1991." And my Yes-fixated brain, steeped in boiling pubertal hormones, wanted to shriek.
Of course I said and did nothing to her, but I haven't forgotten her and her shirt. And now I realize she was right and I was wrong.
The last time Yes made an album I really, really cared about was in 1975 when I was a toddler. Granted, a piece of music is only as old as the first time you hear it, so as far as I was concerned Yes's entire oeuvre was about four years old, which made it daisy-fresh, right? I had imagined the tour was motivated by the purest of artistic considerations, plus the love and brotherhood of the musicians, right?
Wrong.
Subsequent interviews showed that the musicians hated the stage-managed-by-the-record-label vibe of the reunion, wished their solo ventures were sufficiently viable to keep the bills paid, largely disliked each other, and resented having to work as Yes to sell their music... Yes WAS a nostalgia act, reunited for the most cynical reasons. Their best days as a unit were long behind them, and while some individual members were still doing interesting stuff, they were doing it outside of Yes.
Happily I enjoyed the concert anyway, and then shipped off to college, where my musical parameters expanded exponentially. I now agree with that T-Shirt woman, wherever she is, that it's fine to luxuriate in nostalgia, as long as you acknowledge it for what it is.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
A Christmas Supreme
We had our first rehearsal in the theatre today. It's going surprisingly smoothly. I just tell myself I'm in my own Christmas Special and the motivation takes care of itself. I was always a sucker for Christmas kitsch.
As I left the theatre tonight I noticed a statue across the street. I strolled over to check it out, and almost burst into tears.
John Coltrane.
It turns out that High Point is his childhood home town. I'm working not far from where one of the Twentieth Century's most essential musicians spent formative years.
Excuse me; I'm off to listen to A Love Supreme for about the thousandth time.
As I left the theatre tonight I noticed a statue across the street. I strolled over to check it out, and almost burst into tears.
John Coltrane.
It turns out that High Point is his childhood home town. I'm working not far from where one of the Twentieth Century's most essential musicians spent formative years.
Excuse me; I'm off to listen to A Love Supreme for about the thousandth time.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Acting/singing lessons from El Bowza
I've been thinking about my frustrations with the Sweeney Todd movie (sure, I haven't seen it, but every day NPR plays more excepts, accompanied by various critics unpersuasively assuring us that the stars' wimpy pipes don't detract a whit from the end result) and I've been listening to David Bowie. Say, ya know who's a really interesting acting singer? David Bowie.
Of course he's an accomplished actor as well as a big rock star, and he's got a really multifaceted voice. The weird whimsical nasal voice he used a lot in the early days and the rich sexy baritone he used in stuff like Labyrinth are boundary markers of his vocal styles, but on albums like "Heroes", Outside and Heathen he is very clearly making character choices even when he isn't explicitly playing a character. I wasn't crazy about his apparently tentative vocals on Heathen until I read an interview in which he discussed each song as if it were being sung by a character; while most of them are first-person, they're not exactly Bowie's perspective. On Heathen his vocal choices where more about characterizatino than about pure musical beauty or forcefulness. In musical theatre this kind of singing-in-character is expected, but not many pop-rock vocalists would even consider singing as anyone other than themselves.
Of course he's an accomplished actor as well as a big rock star, and he's got a really multifaceted voice. The weird whimsical nasal voice he used a lot in the early days and the rich sexy baritone he used in stuff like Labyrinth are boundary markers of his vocal styles, but on albums like "Heroes", Outside and Heathen he is very clearly making character choices even when he isn't explicitly playing a character. I wasn't crazy about his apparently tentative vocals on Heathen until I read an interview in which he discussed each song as if it were being sung by a character; while most of them are first-person, they're not exactly Bowie's perspective. On Heathen his vocal choices where more about characterizatino than about pure musical beauty or forcefulness. In musical theatre this kind of singing-in-character is expected, but not many pop-rock vocalists would even consider singing as anyone other than themselves.
Friday, November 30, 2007
I wanna be karaoke
Work is hectic and will continue to be hectic for a while, so I'll be posting lighter. Anyway, last night was fun even though I didn't see the woman I was hoping to see.
A few things I noticed about gay-bar karaoke as distinguished from straight-bar karaoke(although admittedly my sample size is really small):
Generally better singing at the gay bar.
More gospel songs at the gay bar (People who think gay=depraved take note).
More general friendliness and less strict cliquishness at the gay bar.
Singing about how I am an antichrist, I am an anarchist doesn't go over any better at a gay bar than a straight one (people who think gay=depraved take note).
A few things I noticed about gay-bar karaoke as distinguished from straight-bar karaoke(although admittedly my sample size is really small):
Generally better singing at the gay bar.
More gospel songs at the gay bar (People who think gay=depraved take note).
More general friendliness and less strict cliquishness at the gay bar.
Singing about how I am an antichrist, I am an anarchist doesn't go over any better at a gay bar than a straight one (people who think gay=depraved take note).
Monday, September 10, 2007
Over the Weekend
It was a bit on the busy side. I waddled around Artwalk, the big yearly downtown art festival, and enjoyed bumping into a bunch of folks I knew, as well as looking at cool art. Since there's a spending moratorium on me I couldn't buy any tempting art-treats, but I got a lot of business cards and will be placing some orders soon.
Also I attended the Virginia-Samford Gala; not the deluxe ticket that would get me into the reception so I could tell all the performers how awesome they were, but hey. The orchestration was probably the lushest and most singer-supportive I've ever heard on that stage; amazing, considering it was 22 musicians sawing away. Coordinating all that behind the performers is quite a task. It was a treasure trove of Birmingham's music theatre talent. Very little hoofin' but fantastic singing, enough for three musicals. (Take a bow, Frank!) I do wish they'd do something like this with some lesser-known treasures of the music theatre repertoire, though; if Leigh Sherer Seirafi (whom I don't believe I've heard before the Gala) had broken into Cole Porter's "Where, oh Where" (my favorite song, period) I would have ascended bodily into Heaven.
Sunday I cleaned. I have a walk-in closet which is full of piles of books. Now I'm taking the books out with the intention of ordering them... somehow. Buying bookshelves will no doubt be a necessity, but now I just have to get that musty closet empty and scrub it down. I think I may have my apartment in acceptable condition by February and the one-year anniversary of The Virginia Sister's intervention.
Check out strange world botanicals and bradbrad to see some groovy art by my former classmates.
Also I attended the Virginia-Samford Gala; not the deluxe ticket that would get me into the reception so I could tell all the performers how awesome they were, but hey. The orchestration was probably the lushest and most singer-supportive I've ever heard on that stage; amazing, considering it was 22 musicians sawing away. Coordinating all that behind the performers is quite a task. It was a treasure trove of Birmingham's music theatre talent. Very little hoofin' but fantastic singing, enough for three musicals. (Take a bow, Frank!) I do wish they'd do something like this with some lesser-known treasures of the music theatre repertoire, though; if Leigh Sherer Seirafi (whom I don't believe I've heard before the Gala) had broken into Cole Porter's "Where, oh Where" (my favorite song, period) I would have ascended bodily into Heaven.
Sunday I cleaned. I have a walk-in closet which is full of piles of books. Now I'm taking the books out with the intention of ordering them... somehow. Buying bookshelves will no doubt be a necessity, but now I just have to get that musty closet empty and scrub it down. I think I may have my apartment in acceptable condition by February and the one-year anniversary of The Virginia Sister's intervention.
Check out strange world botanicals and bradbrad to see some groovy art by my former classmates.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Don't Worry
I heard that song "Don't Worry, Be Happy" the other day. It brought back confusing memories. I attended a lot of church-related youth group events in my teens, and when that song was popular it seemed like everyone who spoke to youth felt like they had to address the theological implications of Bobby McFerrin's cheerful little song. An awful lot of them were deeply disturbed by it for reasons that I can't remember. Boy, they didn't like that song, and not just because it was unavoidable. OTOH Freddie Langston, a musician who was all over the Southeastern Presbyterian youth scene, loved the song and performed it regularly. I hadn't quite figured out this whole Protestant thing wherein one is really supposed to make up one's own mind, so the mixed messages I was getting from theological authority figures had my head spinning.
Listening to it again I think Freddie got it right; this song isn't meant to be taken with such furrowed-brow seriousness. How could anyone listen to this thing and take it too seriously? Do you think Bobby McFerrin really wants you ringing up at all hours and beg him to cheer you up? Or that he'd really advise anyone facing eviction to simply not worry and be happy? Added to which, once we found out the Bobby didn't really have a Caribbean accent, and collaborated with ironic performance artists like Laurie Anderson, the penny should have dropped.
It may seem like I've spent way too much text explaining that Don't Worry, Be Happy was not a Satanic meme designed to lull Christians into a false sense of security, but when I was a baffled teen it seemed pretty ambiguous. Around the same time I was confused because plenty of church folk were picketing Last Temptation of Christ, while my Dad, a devout Christian and proud Elder of the church, was singing Last Temptation's praises.
Probably the best advice I ever heard on these matters came from a lady I worked with on a temp job. She was fond of going to casinos and gambling. She related how her nephew asked her "Don't you listen to what the preacher says?" Her reply: "Yes I do. I also listen to what I say." That's the power of Protestantism.
Listening to it again I think Freddie got it right; this song isn't meant to be taken with such furrowed-brow seriousness. How could anyone listen to this thing and take it too seriously? Do you think Bobby McFerrin really wants you ringing up at all hours and beg him to cheer you up? Or that he'd really advise anyone facing eviction to simply not worry and be happy? Added to which, once we found out the Bobby didn't really have a Caribbean accent, and collaborated with ironic performance artists like Laurie Anderson, the penny should have dropped.
It may seem like I've spent way too much text explaining that Don't Worry, Be Happy was not a Satanic meme designed to lull Christians into a false sense of security, but when I was a baffled teen it seemed pretty ambiguous. Around the same time I was confused because plenty of church folk were picketing Last Temptation of Christ, while my Dad, a devout Christian and proud Elder of the church, was singing Last Temptation's praises.
Probably the best advice I ever heard on these matters came from a lady I worked with on a temp job. She was fond of going to casinos and gambling. She related how her nephew asked her "Don't you listen to what the preacher says?" Her reply: "Yes I do. I also listen to what I say." That's the power of Protestantism.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Formatted
Marshall McLuhan wrote that when you speak on the radio you have no face and no body. This is a big part of why, as a youngster, I enjoyed radio drama; I would listen and imagine all the performers and myself folded together in a cozy abstract environment. Radio drama enthusiasts rhapsodize about how radio allows the listener to imagine the visuals; I would add that they allow the listener to NOT imagine any more visuals than they want. I like to imagine the radio drama world as a series of warm, quilted beds in dark rooms, with the actors all snuggled up together (this is very much a pre-sexual holdover from my childhood) in the comfy dark.
Stop laughing at me!
* * *
I've read and enjoyed the novel Ragtime, but never seen the movie or checked out the musical. I suspect the musical format is a better medium for a Ragtime adaptation. The novel has multiple storylines and is saturated with information; in the movies it's hard to do justice to that without compressing it, being confusing, or being offputtingly arty and abstract. In a musical (particularly post-Sondheim) songs can provide that richness of detail and information while being entertaining, rather than seeming like an infodump. Set it to song and it's entertainment as well as information. Movies tend to thrive on saturation of sensuousness rather than saturation of information.
Stop laughing at me!
* * *
I've read and enjoyed the novel Ragtime, but never seen the movie or checked out the musical. I suspect the musical format is a better medium for a Ragtime adaptation. The novel has multiple storylines and is saturated with information; in the movies it's hard to do justice to that without compressing it, being confusing, or being offputtingly arty and abstract. In a musical (particularly post-Sondheim) songs can provide that richness of detail and information while being entertaining, rather than seeming like an infodump. Set it to song and it's entertainment as well as information. Movies tend to thrive on saturation of sensuousness rather than saturation of information.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Second Post of the Day: Swing, Swing, Swing
Here's Slate's cut of the aforementioned Clive James article on the alleged evils of Coltrane. At some point this week I'll sit down, listen to a few Trane albums with an ear to figuring out why I like them, and hold forth.
I must acknowledge that James knows more about music in general than I do; his learned discourses (or seemingly learned, anyway) on Bach, Schubert and Ellison offer much food for thought. Doesn't mean he's right in his assertion that Jazz actually don't mean a thing if it ain't got that etc. James' anti-Coltrane snark reads a lot like H. L. Mencken's anti-jazz snark; affective and reactionary.
Again, though, my disagreement with James should not be taken for dismissal. I am cherishing his book. He's sniffed out a boatload of witty and intriguing quotes, and even when I sharply disagree with his commentary, I find it worth engaging. He lays out his stances with clarity, even when the rationale for his stances are dubious.
I must acknowledge that James knows more about music in general than I do; his learned discourses (or seemingly learned, anyway) on Bach, Schubert and Ellison offer much food for thought. Doesn't mean he's right in his assertion that Jazz actually don't mean a thing if it ain't got that etc. James' anti-Coltrane snark reads a lot like H. L. Mencken's anti-jazz snark; affective and reactionary.
Again, though, my disagreement with James should not be taken for dismissal. I am cherishing his book. He's sniffed out a boatload of witty and intriguing quotes, and even when I sharply disagree with his commentary, I find it worth engaging. He lays out his stances with clarity, even when the rationale for his stances are dubious.
Cultural Pursuits of Birmingham and Clarksville
I have a lot of kin in Clarksville Tennessee. I've never lived there, but I've got such a huge extended family congregation there that it feels like I'm related to half the town. So I was a bit excited when I saw (on my site meter) that someone from Clarksville looked at my blog! Then I got a bit creeped out when I saw that they had been doing a googlesearch for "dungeons and dragons cartoon Sheila naked." A blood relative may have looked at my blog in his search for naked cartoon pictures. Brrrr! Of course from what I remember of Clarksville, naked cartoon pictures is about as thrilling as it gets.
I owe Diane some comments on Tarkovsky's Sacrifice, but the film's still sinking in. This is one movie (Raul Ruiz's Suspended Vocation is another) that's going back into my Netflix queue for an eventual rewatch. It's so concise that unpacking it will take me some time. I'll have something to say soon, though.
The Magic City Actors' Theatre production of Evita was extraordinary. I don't know how they got the production to work so flawlessly. I really don't. I also saw a well-turned straight play, the Cripple of Inishmaan, mounted by City Equity Theatre. A few volume problems from the younger actors, but a majority of the performers offered rich character work and sharp comic timing. This, along with a crafty script, made it a show to remember. Both of these shows were operating at a semi-pro level, which surely has a lot to do with the high quality. Of course The Big Bang, a charmingly witty cook's tour of world history at Terrific New Theatre, was quite sharp. A 2-person cast and 1 person orchestra makes quality control a more focused operation.
I'm reading Clive James' Cultural Amnesia, and it's a rewarding book. Basically James offers essays about political tyranny and enriching art, unified by the pure Clive Jamesness of it all. Every page has an insight or rhetorical trick that I'll want to remember. It's also a book to argue with; James attacks John Coltrane and company for draining the swing out of jazz; I want to retort, but my love of Coltrane is so intuitive that I'm not sure I can mount an articulate counterargument. It's a bit like the Tarkovsky film; I adored it but can't talk about it yet.
I owe Diane some comments on Tarkovsky's Sacrifice, but the film's still sinking in. This is one movie (Raul Ruiz's Suspended Vocation is another) that's going back into my Netflix queue for an eventual rewatch. It's so concise that unpacking it will take me some time. I'll have something to say soon, though.
The Magic City Actors' Theatre production of Evita was extraordinary. I don't know how they got the production to work so flawlessly. I really don't. I also saw a well-turned straight play, the Cripple of Inishmaan, mounted by City Equity Theatre. A few volume problems from the younger actors, but a majority of the performers offered rich character work and sharp comic timing. This, along with a crafty script, made it a show to remember. Both of these shows were operating at a semi-pro level, which surely has a lot to do with the high quality. Of course The Big Bang, a charmingly witty cook's tour of world history at Terrific New Theatre, was quite sharp. A 2-person cast and 1 person orchestra makes quality control a more focused operation.
I'm reading Clive James' Cultural Amnesia, and it's a rewarding book. Basically James offers essays about political tyranny and enriching art, unified by the pure Clive Jamesness of it all. Every page has an insight or rhetorical trick that I'll want to remember. It's also a book to argue with; James attacks John Coltrane and company for draining the swing out of jazz; I want to retort, but my love of Coltrane is so intuitive that I'm not sure I can mount an articulate counterargument. It's a bit like the Tarkovsky film; I adored it but can't talk about it yet.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
I'm so bored that I'm posting a second time today
When I start rehearsing my next show I'll probably stop fixating on this durn blog. It's all about leaving my stain on the world, through one medium or another...
Anyway, if I ever start a punk band I'm naming it Car Bomb Footprint. If I ever become a rapper it'll be as MC Everythingz A $. If I ever become a DJ it'll be DJ Chillable Red, after the most Kool-Aidish boxed wine I ever swilled down, back when I drank boxed wine. Eechh! Once I brought a box of wine to a cast party; the host of the party had all this classy bottled wine, and when I waddled in my chum Tom the hillbilly homosexual said "Where's The Box?" He said it like that, with capital letters implied in his enunciation. He knew I was bringing a box, and was so excited. We swilled that trash down, with these bottles staring at us in dismay. Water seeks its own level, and so do drunks with unrefined palates. Tom finally took the bag out of the box and squeezed it dry. At least I think he did. Maybe I just dreamed it.
Ah, those were the great cast parties. Drinking awful wine and snubbing the good stuff. Why is this such a fond memory?
Sadly I can think of other boxed-wine anecdotes, but I shudder to think my 5 readers a day might come to think of me as King of Boxed Wine.
Anyway, if I ever start a punk band I'm naming it Car Bomb Footprint. If I ever become a rapper it'll be as MC Everythingz A $. If I ever become a DJ it'll be DJ Chillable Red, after the most Kool-Aidish boxed wine I ever swilled down, back when I drank boxed wine. Eechh! Once I brought a box of wine to a cast party; the host of the party had all this classy bottled wine, and when I waddled in my chum Tom the hillbilly homosexual said "Where's The Box?" He said it like that, with capital letters implied in his enunciation. He knew I was bringing a box, and was so excited. We swilled that trash down, with these bottles staring at us in dismay. Water seeks its own level, and so do drunks with unrefined palates. Tom finally took the bag out of the box and squeezed it dry. At least I think he did. Maybe I just dreamed it.
Ah, those were the great cast parties. Drinking awful wine and snubbing the good stuff. Why is this such a fond memory?
Sadly I can think of other boxed-wine anecdotes, but I shudder to think my 5 readers a day might come to think of me as King of Boxed Wine.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Candle Light and Soul Forever
T'other night I finally made it out to McAnally's pub (yes, that's the name) to see my buddy Chris and some other roustabouts do standup. It was a casual affair due to the low turnout, but while the material was painfully uneven the comics were all genial types who knew how to make that personal connection which, according to Woody Allen at least, is what people mainly seek from a comic. A guy billed as Super-King was particularly genial and amusing, even when the gags were flat. It was less "Laaf-Out Loud Comedy" than it was "Pleasantly amusing guys talk to you." I've had worse nights. There was karaoke after the show. A cute young couple toyed with the vintage rap number "It Takes Two," and while it wasn't good rappin' it was a high-spirited demonstration of playful and affectionate relationship dynamics. I love it when people who really care about each other get up and sing together, even when it's as bad as this stuff usually is.
I sang "Survivor" by Destiny's Child and "2 Become 1" by Spice Girls. Darn it, I gotta start singing songs for guys. I can sing these songs, just not in the set keys. Even when I sing along with the recordings I sound okay to my ears, but the karaoke tracks always seem to be pitched so I have to keep flipflopping my octave range. Boo!
Plus I'm tired of getting beat up in the parking lot.
P.S. I'm unapologetically putting a "theatre" label on this post cuz standup is a variation on the theme. Plus inflating my number of "Theatre" posts makes me feel like more of a theatre person.
I sang "Survivor" by Destiny's Child and "2 Become 1" by Spice Girls. Darn it, I gotta start singing songs for guys. I can sing these songs, just not in the set keys. Even when I sing along with the recordings I sound okay to my ears, but the karaoke tracks always seem to be pitched so I have to keep flipflopping my octave range. Boo!
Plus I'm tired of getting beat up in the parking lot.
P.S. I'm unapologetically putting a "theatre" label on this post cuz standup is a variation on the theme. Plus inflating my number of "Theatre" posts makes me feel like more of a theatre person.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)