You know what? I really respect what Ravi Shankar is trying to do here. He begins the record with a comprehensive summary of the elements in Indian musical form. He cites terminology and provides examples, bringing in instruments and building the sound in layers. He even gives you tips on how to enjoy it more by relaxing and letting it float over you. It's not like jazz, he says, even tho it's all improvised. There's no harmony or counterpoint. That's western music, you cunt.
It's a very valuable foreword and I'll go back to it so I can memorise the terms. As I'm listening to the opening track I'm noticing actually that he is a far superior sitar player to the previous recordings I've encountered. His variations within the raga (if I have that right) are deep and complex and he's fast as fuck. There are moments where you think this guy could be Richie Blackmore. And in India, I bet he fucking was.
Norah Jones is his daughter isn't she? I think it's wonderful when a famous artist's children get into the same business. They must feel so proud of their kids and their relationship that it was possible without friction. Well, there was probably some. We're all little shits at some point, right?
Anyway, I've had this on for a bit now and in taking a detour to talk about Norah Jones I've managed to create the state of not really listening intently, as he instructed. Now that I'm aware of the music again, it's still very much an academic appreciation. My blood pressure is rising cuz I just don't like the noises and it's getting really fast and chaotic. It's like punjabi punk or something. I hope that's not offensive. I just wanted to use a bit of wordplay to draw a comparison between the thrashing nature of both styles.
There's another brief exposition from Ravi at the beginning of the next track and I can see how this is going to go and I won't be able to say anything that isn't repetitive so I'll leave it there.
This is about my enjoyment levels, of course, so I can't give it a very high score but a respectful one is in order, I think.
Saturday, December 30, 2017
#0110: The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society
I could analyse the progressions, assess the significance of the words in the context of my experiences and extrapolate theories of their combined impact on my audio receptors. I could do that. If I had anything approximating an advanced education in pop culture, music psychology and whatever other poncy qualification one would need to explain why...
...I fucking love the Kinks. It's as simple as that.
How have I gone all these years without getting into them? From the opening circular jam with the stupid nouns and the weird theme, through the harbinger of Mr Blue Sky foot tappers to the fun filled, self mocking brass band analogues, these songs stand apart. The arrangements are solid and the words are clever without being pretentious.
The little intricacies of the arrangements are tight as fuck, particularly on Do You Remember Walter. Picture Book bounces us effortlessly along with its dominant bass line.
Johnny Thunder is a slower track. What I notice is the hooks have variable lengths so he avoids them sounding the same not just with key and mode but also rhythm and tempo. That sounds obvious now I've written it down. but many just don't get it.
Last Of The Steam Powered Trains has that oom-pah bass line with a cheeky blues lick for a hook which the guitar and harmonica share. It's all just fun then it accelerates as if the train is running away. Great stuff and even at the climax, it's not a mess. It snaps back into a reprise at a faster lick and I think everybody is actually up for another chorus.
Even All Of My Friends Were There is the most peculiar track, I think. It's not what I'd call a good vocal but it's in character. There's a track called Mother on The Police album Synchronicity and it's not sung well but I love it. It's not supposed to be a good vocal. Maybe I just don't like the instrumentation on this and that's why I can't accept the character of the song. There's noises you like and noises you don't. They're still notes, tho. Other noises are just fucking shit. Dylan, I'm looking at you.
The lasting moment for me tho was the realisation that yet another song I very much like turns out to have been written so many years ago. What was particularly touching is that it was Kirsty MacColl's version that I knew first and I always feel a shiver of anguish when I'm reminded of her.
Another cracking album from this bunch, tho. 4 stars.
...I fucking love the Kinks. It's as simple as that.
How have I gone all these years without getting into them? From the opening circular jam with the stupid nouns and the weird theme, through the harbinger of Mr Blue Sky foot tappers to the fun filled, self mocking brass band analogues, these songs stand apart. The arrangements are solid and the words are clever without being pretentious.
The little intricacies of the arrangements are tight as fuck, particularly on Do You Remember Walter. Picture Book bounces us effortlessly along with its dominant bass line.
Johnny Thunder is a slower track. What I notice is the hooks have variable lengths so he avoids them sounding the same not just with key and mode but also rhythm and tempo. That sounds obvious now I've written it down. but many just don't get it.
Last Of The Steam Powered Trains has that oom-pah bass line with a cheeky blues lick for a hook which the guitar and harmonica share. It's all just fun then it accelerates as if the train is running away. Great stuff and even at the climax, it's not a mess. It snaps back into a reprise at a faster lick and I think everybody is actually up for another chorus.
Even All Of My Friends Were There is the most peculiar track, I think. It's not what I'd call a good vocal but it's in character. There's a track called Mother on The Police album Synchronicity and it's not sung well but I love it. It's not supposed to be a good vocal. Maybe I just don't like the instrumentation on this and that's why I can't accept the character of the song. There's noises you like and noises you don't. They're still notes, tho. Other noises are just fucking shit. Dylan, I'm looking at you.
The lasting moment for me tho was the realisation that yet another song I very much like turns out to have been written so many years ago. What was particularly touching is that it was Kirsty MacColl's version that I knew first and I always feel a shiver of anguish when I'm reminded of her.
Another cracking album from this bunch, tho. 4 stars.
Thursday, December 07, 2017
#0109: The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter - The Incredible String Band
Folk musical-theatre meets the storytellers convention doing a mummers play.
What does that mean? It means the last bastion of folk's dignity has been dragged out into the barn and had a pig's leg shoved up its jacksie repeatedly. And they left the tape running.
There's a load of fucking weirdos in this world and for some reason this particular pouch of personality disorders decided to go into music instead of becoming drama teachers or opening a crystal shop in Glastonbury High St.
What the fuck "sitting on your head like a paraffin soul" is supposed to mean I have no idea. Each track, strummed by a dog who's just this second had its front paws bitten off by an owl, and festooned by flutes, whistles and the such all blown with no skill. The vocals are out of tune. The harmonies....aren't.
I'm on "A Very Cellular Song", which is apparently 13 minutes long. Harpsichord plays while the vocal land confidently on exactly the wrong note. In fervent support of this mouse having an anal prolapse, a violin is tortured slowly - or what used to be a violin until it was defiled by the gormless twat who now holds it like the serial killer grips the victim, drawing the bow across the instrument like a rusty blade across the unfortunate's skin.
I cannot express the pain I am in right now. They can't sing, they can't play, the words are just fucking shit they wrote then they were semi conscious after eating too many lentils. There is not a scintilla of value in this, whatsoever. Who the fuck decides to record this?
There are people who are just shit. They can go play open mic and drive business away from local pubs on a Tuesday but can we please not give them record deals? That's like inviting children to play with explosives.
The Water Song is backed by sound effects of water sploshing about. I don't think it's clean water. I think it's the rancid shit water squirted from the arseholes of a 1000 dead crack whores. Every second that goes by and I haven't freed myself of this execrable doggerel is drops of that water being splashed in my face. And all too frequently the notes are so off that some gets in my mouth.
The "incredible string" Band? The only incredible thing about these strings is that they weren't used to garrote these feckless cunts at birth.
0 stars.
What does that mean? It means the last bastion of folk's dignity has been dragged out into the barn and had a pig's leg shoved up its jacksie repeatedly. And they left the tape running.
There's a load of fucking weirdos in this world and for some reason this particular pouch of personality disorders decided to go into music instead of becoming drama teachers or opening a crystal shop in Glastonbury High St.
What the fuck "sitting on your head like a paraffin soul" is supposed to mean I have no idea. Each track, strummed by a dog who's just this second had its front paws bitten off by an owl, and festooned by flutes, whistles and the such all blown with no skill. The vocals are out of tune. The harmonies....aren't.
I'm on "A Very Cellular Song", which is apparently 13 minutes long. Harpsichord plays while the vocal land confidently on exactly the wrong note. In fervent support of this mouse having an anal prolapse, a violin is tortured slowly - or what used to be a violin until it was defiled by the gormless twat who now holds it like the serial killer grips the victim, drawing the bow across the instrument like a rusty blade across the unfortunate's skin.
I cannot express the pain I am in right now. They can't sing, they can't play, the words are just fucking shit they wrote then they were semi conscious after eating too many lentils. There is not a scintilla of value in this, whatsoever. Who the fuck decides to record this?
There are people who are just shit. They can go play open mic and drive business away from local pubs on a Tuesday but can we please not give them record deals? That's like inviting children to play with explosives.
The Water Song is backed by sound effects of water sploshing about. I don't think it's clean water. I think it's the rancid shit water squirted from the arseholes of a 1000 dead crack whores. Every second that goes by and I haven't freed myself of this execrable doggerel is drops of that water being splashed in my face. And all too frequently the notes are so off that some gets in my mouth.
The "incredible string" Band? The only incredible thing about these strings is that they weren't used to garrote these feckless cunts at birth.
0 stars.
#0108: Traffic
An eponymous debut from Steve Winwood and the gang. Whether it's his band or not, I have no idea but he's the only one I've heard of. That's cuz I'm a teen of the 80s and his Back In The High Life solo effort was a big fave. Always meant to visit his back catalogue and this is me finally getting round to it. Cuz I have to. Heh.
You Can All Join In introduces Traffic as a Kinks analogue. Mason's voice sounds a lot like Ray Davis and the acoustic stomp underneath those every man lyrics doesn't do anything to distinguish them. That's said, it's a good song, well executed.
Pearly Queen is a complete change of pace, tho and we get treated to a Hammond-littered, funky blues that quickly shows the band has range. Whether that range is between two derivative extremes remains to be seen. Don't Be Sad reminds me of Whiter Shade of Pale in its feel tho it shares very little in terms of melody.
The album takes a very funky turn with Who Knows What Tomorrow May Bring. Winwood is showing his soul side with some great vocal ad-libs and the keyboard work is superb. That's followed by another groovy tune in Feelin' Alright. It's not sparkling with originality but it's certainly demonstrating a level of proficiency well above average in their chosen forms.
Then Vagabond Virgin comes along and this feels kinda Kinksy again. Rimshot on the one with latin percussion, acoustic guitars and piano lend this the kooky, throwaway feel but there's a melancholy air introduced in the change that, while setting this song apart from others of its ilk also jars and I'm not sure the incongruity is right for the song.
Our first foray into 60s weirdness comes with 40,000 Headman. It begins with a load of flute work that becomes progressively more chaotic, which was disappointing. There's a steady groove underpinning this but it lacks the dexterity of earlier tracks.
Cryin' To Be Heard is saved by the chorus swooshing in with the keyboards to create crescendo support for the multi-layered vocals. Too bad the ad-libs at the end are hit and miss and the verses lack conviction so they become this waiting room you have to sit in until the chorus comes back.
What exactly is No Time To Live trying to achieve? The melodramatic piano and whiny lyrics are punctuated by squeaky sax and eventually gain support from timpani before the already miserable progression collapses in a discordant heap. It's not really a big ballad. It's not long enough to be an epic, not enough mood changes. All I'm left with is a feeling of not wanting to hear it again.
It's a bit of a shame the second half deteriorated. The final track is back to groovy but by that point I was worn out with all the artsy bollocks. Let's face it. That's what it was. They were going for credibility.
Whatever. 3 stars.
You Can All Join In introduces Traffic as a Kinks analogue. Mason's voice sounds a lot like Ray Davis and the acoustic stomp underneath those every man lyrics doesn't do anything to distinguish them. That's said, it's a good song, well executed.
Pearly Queen is a complete change of pace, tho and we get treated to a Hammond-littered, funky blues that quickly shows the band has range. Whether that range is between two derivative extremes remains to be seen. Don't Be Sad reminds me of Whiter Shade of Pale in its feel tho it shares very little in terms of melody.
The album takes a very funky turn with Who Knows What Tomorrow May Bring. Winwood is showing his soul side with some great vocal ad-libs and the keyboard work is superb. That's followed by another groovy tune in Feelin' Alright. It's not sparkling with originality but it's certainly demonstrating a level of proficiency well above average in their chosen forms.
Then Vagabond Virgin comes along and this feels kinda Kinksy again. Rimshot on the one with latin percussion, acoustic guitars and piano lend this the kooky, throwaway feel but there's a melancholy air introduced in the change that, while setting this song apart from others of its ilk also jars and I'm not sure the incongruity is right for the song.
Our first foray into 60s weirdness comes with 40,000 Headman. It begins with a load of flute work that becomes progressively more chaotic, which was disappointing. There's a steady groove underpinning this but it lacks the dexterity of earlier tracks.
Cryin' To Be Heard is saved by the chorus swooshing in with the keyboards to create crescendo support for the multi-layered vocals. Too bad the ad-libs at the end are hit and miss and the verses lack conviction so they become this waiting room you have to sit in until the chorus comes back.
What exactly is No Time To Live trying to achieve? The melodramatic piano and whiny lyrics are punctuated by squeaky sax and eventually gain support from timpani before the already miserable progression collapses in a discordant heap. It's not really a big ballad. It's not long enough to be an epic, not enough mood changes. All I'm left with is a feeling of not wanting to hear it again.
It's a bit of a shame the second half deteriorated. The final track is back to groovy but by that point I was worn out with all the artsy bollocks. Let's face it. That's what it was. They were going for credibility.
Whatever. 3 stars.
Friday, December 01, 2017
#0107: Beggar's Banquet - The Rolling Stones
We were walking thru Glastonbury festival one year (I would guess 94) and there was some kind of rock music I don't remember blaring out of a tent on the side of the track we were walking dowb towards where a field opened out, possibly into where the Acoustic Tent was - not sure.
Beyond the tent blaring the music, under the canopy of a bar tent there were a bunch of people grooving around in a circle in a sort of tribal way and they were pushing their hands up the air together at the same point in their dance. But it was completely out of time with the music we could hear. It was so surreal but as we neared the bar and stepped under the canopy it turned out they were dancing to Sympathy For The Devil and their hands were doing the "wooh woooh"s.
We joined them. It was awesome. Then we got a beer. And it tasted weird. Cuz we were off our faces.
I was surprised to find it opening up this album. Firstly cuz I figured it was written much later. But it feels very much like a finale song to me. In bands, I've always played it later on in the set. Not that it doesn't work but it does rather oblige the next track to back down and admit defeat. That's why, I suppose No Expectations is next. Nice and mellow, non-confrontational, you-can't-compete-with-satan-so-you-might-as well-as-sit-down-have-a-cuppa-while-we-regroup. It's too long by about a minute, I'd say. Having said that, Wild Horses is not my favourite Stones track for the same reason, so those who *are* fans of overly repetitive dirges would probably love this.
And it seems the ground is still warm from all the scorching cuz Dear Doctor is treading very carefully in the direction of allegro with its white trash waltz that progresses steadily toward its eventual transition into a parody of itself.
In Parachute Woman we have the diddly-dink-a-dink-a-dink-a- blues. It's unambitious but the closing harmonica solo is pretty satisfying.
There are shades of Hendrix in the rhythm and meter of Jig-Saw Puzzle. Keef would be first to cry "three chords, two fingers, one arsehole" if I dared extend that comparison to the guitar work so let's not beat humility into the self-deprecating. The use of a lap steel in this rocky context is pretty cool tho and the unexpected shift in the progression plays well to the slide effect. I'm also drawn (somewhat unsurprisingly) to the piano track which is more interesting than Jagger's vocal. It's a fairly repetitive ballad which at 6 minutes really needed a bit more work done on the arrangement in terms of texture and arc if Mick wasn't gonna make any effort to vary the melody.
Street Fighting Man is a well known tune, which again has Mick on a repeated tension note but then there are a couple of changes in this song and it's half the length so it really works.
Is it bluegrass? I'm not sure what brand of acoustic, porch-swing blues this is but Prodigal Son pulls it off with some panache even down to the lyrics being completely inde-fucking-cipherable. I assume they're about wasting money, coming home or forgiveness depending on the songwriter's level of Biblical understanding.
Stray Cat Blues is a pearl of rock. Heavy on everything with shades of Iggy Pop's vocal. It crashes about with an acceptable anarchism for a few minutes and then stops before the neighbours complain. Tidy.
Back to acoustic country blues for Factory Girl which shows you a bit of tongue in the cheek of Keith's self-effacing demeanour and we have a nice little anthemic finale in Salt Of The Earth making this a well-rounded and enjoyable jaunt.
I wanna come back to this. 4 stars.
Beyond the tent blaring the music, under the canopy of a bar tent there were a bunch of people grooving around in a circle in a sort of tribal way and they were pushing their hands up the air together at the same point in their dance. But it was completely out of time with the music we could hear. It was so surreal but as we neared the bar and stepped under the canopy it turned out they were dancing to Sympathy For The Devil and their hands were doing the "wooh woooh"s.
We joined them. It was awesome. Then we got a beer. And it tasted weird. Cuz we were off our faces.
I was surprised to find it opening up this album. Firstly cuz I figured it was written much later. But it feels very much like a finale song to me. In bands, I've always played it later on in the set. Not that it doesn't work but it does rather oblige the next track to back down and admit defeat. That's why, I suppose No Expectations is next. Nice and mellow, non-confrontational, you-can't-compete-with-satan-so-you-might-as well-as-sit-down-have-a-cuppa-while-we-regroup. It's too long by about a minute, I'd say. Having said that, Wild Horses is not my favourite Stones track for the same reason, so those who *are* fans of overly repetitive dirges would probably love this.
And it seems the ground is still warm from all the scorching cuz Dear Doctor is treading very carefully in the direction of allegro with its white trash waltz that progresses steadily toward its eventual transition into a parody of itself.
In Parachute Woman we have the diddly-dink-a-dink-a-dink-a- blues. It's unambitious but the closing harmonica solo is pretty satisfying.
There are shades of Hendrix in the rhythm and meter of Jig-Saw Puzzle. Keef would be first to cry "three chords, two fingers, one arsehole" if I dared extend that comparison to the guitar work so let's not beat humility into the self-deprecating. The use of a lap steel in this rocky context is pretty cool tho and the unexpected shift in the progression plays well to the slide effect. I'm also drawn (somewhat unsurprisingly) to the piano track which is more interesting than Jagger's vocal. It's a fairly repetitive ballad which at 6 minutes really needed a bit more work done on the arrangement in terms of texture and arc if Mick wasn't gonna make any effort to vary the melody.
Street Fighting Man is a well known tune, which again has Mick on a repeated tension note but then there are a couple of changes in this song and it's half the length so it really works.
Is it bluegrass? I'm not sure what brand of acoustic, porch-swing blues this is but Prodigal Son pulls it off with some panache even down to the lyrics being completely inde-fucking-cipherable. I assume they're about wasting money, coming home or forgiveness depending on the songwriter's level of Biblical understanding.
Stray Cat Blues is a pearl of rock. Heavy on everything with shades of Iggy Pop's vocal. It crashes about with an acceptable anarchism for a few minutes and then stops before the neighbours complain. Tidy.
Back to acoustic country blues for Factory Girl which shows you a bit of tongue in the cheek of Keith's self-effacing demeanour and we have a nice little anthemic finale in Salt Of The Earth making this a well-rounded and enjoyable jaunt.
I wanna come back to this. 4 stars.
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