TO DEVIN NUNES AND ADAM SCHIFF (Late Night Dedication–Special Double Dedication Edition)

Bearing in mind that, if Bernie Sanders had been the Democratic nominee in 2016 (as well might have happened had the system not been inoculated against him) and then beaten the Republican nominee (say, Jeb Bush, as well might have happened had the system been as inoculated against Donald Trump as, down to the last toady and boot-licker, it believed itself to be), who had been granted a 90-plus percent guarantee of victory by the “independent” press and their reliable pollsters (as he would have been), then Nunes and Schiff would, with the fierce conviction of true believers, be making each other’s arguments right now, while everyone who has taken a side in the Twitter-verse along the way (for or against Security State corruption, which must be either believed or disbelieved, rooted out or abetted, according to the needs of the moment, with everyone granting themselves the right to switch sides at a moment’s notice should party loyalty demand it) would be taking the other side with the same vehemence they now hold their current position.

We may have ditched Christianity, but we’ll never ditch Puritanism…or whatever it is in human nature that causes us to believe with all our hearts and minds that anyone who opposes our most carefully guided opinions (the kind Security States specialize in shaping) must be evil or stupid or both.

In that spirit, here’s a couple of dedications from just before the Frozen Silence descended…I’ll let you decide which should be dedicated to who. It’s more fun that way, especially when all the tragedies have turned to farce.

A BRIEF REFLECTION ON THE INTERCONNECTEDNESS OF GO-GO-DOM (Found in the Connection: Rattling Loose End #129)

Somehow or other, things connected to the Go-Go’s have always had a singular effect on me, which is best summed up as: So…I am not the only one. 

For someone like myself–a true loner, who scoffs at notions of tribe, or “my people,” it would be impossible to overstate how significant a part of the basic survival strategy this connection can be.

The effect was most melodramatically epitomized by the time the Go-Go’s saved my life and maybe I’ll write about that some day.

But there have been other instances and, today, I ran into a new one.

It seems Jane Wiedlin’s sublime solo hit “Rush Hour” retains the power to create very intense reactions. I wrote about mine here.

Really, you need to go there and read (or re-read) that piece before you proceed.

Because, otherwise, you won’t have any idea of why I can’t help feeling a part of this somehow…

…I only wish things like running place and leaping in the air were still available options at the Ross household. Or that I could play drums.

Alas, they are not and I cannot.

But I can still smile…and remember.

BEAST OF WHAT NOW? THE HELL YOU SAY! (Found in the Connection: Rattling Loose End #128)

I’ve always been fascinated by acts who have exactly one great rock and roll record in them. It happened a lot in rock’s first two decades, when amateurs or quasi-pros or wannabes often caught lightning in a bottle. Of such things were doo wop, girl groups and surf and garage band legends made.

Then there were the pros. Barbra Streisand singing “Stoney End” comes to mind. It really was just the one studio moment, as she’s camped up every performance of the song since the day she cut it.

In some ways even stranger is Bette Midler’s take on “Beast of Burden.” She recorded it as a replacement for Bruce Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac” when he blocked her from releasing her version because it “wasn’t a girl’s song” and it doesn’t so much smoke the Rolling Stones as stomp a hole through their rotting carcass.

Stranger still because, unlike Streisand, rock and roll seemed like it should have been Midler’s forte. But, except for this, it wasn’t. I can see how the Stones never quite recovered from the shock. It’s one thing if Linda Ronstadt goes toe-to-toe with you. It’s another thing when someone whose entire career has careened from camp to sentiment and back again (sometimes, as on “The Rose” or her cover of John Prine’s “Hello In There,” earned sentiment, more often not quite), just flat out kicks you to the curb like it’s all in a day’s work.

Based on “Beast of Burden” you’d have thought she could be a better Pat Benetar without breaking a sweat.

I thought I had covered all this a few years back when I posted the MTV video of Midler and Jagger having a ball with it. There’s a cleaner version of the video available now–still the only proof I’ve seen that Mick has a sense of humor (as opposed to recognizing the uses of appearing to have one–that came with the Lucifer Lessons).

Even here, though, the Spirit of Camp is hovering nearby. Elsewhere, when Midler performed the song, live or synched, that Spirit always moved in and took over.

Except for once.

I’ll leave it to you to decide whether its angry dispersal here–and Midler’s total immersion in a synched performance, as if she and the song had fused into something no recording studio could contain–had anything at all to do with a nice Jewish girl refusing to camp it up in the home of Weimar decadence, a stone’s throw from the death camps.

Given that dynamic, it’s not impossible to imagine “I’ll never be your beast of burden” took on a whole new meaning. She didn’t do anything like this in Sweden.

**A few years later Natalie Cole’s version of “Pink Cadillac” scorched up the charts and no one was heard to complain. Midler’s live version on YouTube suggests she was better off with “Beast of Burden” but, given what she did with other live versions of “Beast” who knows? Maybe she had two great rock and roll records in her after all. Hope I get to hear her studio version some day, just in case.

LEARNING THE EXISTENTIAL GAME…ROSSELINI AND THE WEST….NOT TO MENTION WESTERNS (Segue of the Day: 2/11/18)

Before today, most of what I could tell you about Roberto Rossellini, the great Italian director who made his name taking Italian Neorealism to the world stage straight from the ashes of WWII, was that I once read where he said of his divorce from Ingrid Bergman that you should never marry an actress because you’ll never know when she’s acting.

It wouldn’t surprise me if even that was wrong.

I’d seen Rome, Open City way back when. VHS. Not a very good print. Left me thinking maybe you had to be there–mid-forties, war-ravaged Europe, the fall of fascism–to get what all the fuss was about.

But some years back I picked up Criterion’s collection of Rossellini’s “history” films about the Renaissance and Enlightenment, mostly because one of them was about Blaise Pascal and there was some kind of sale going on.

The collection’s been sitting on my shelf ever since, waiting for a rainy day.

Today it rained, all day.

Perfect for contemplating The Age of the Medici.

And I was….impressed.

I don’t know how anyone could fail to be…or how anyone could be more than impressed (say moved, say swept away, say any of the things one might expect art to do beyond educate). I know it’s happened, both directions. But, at least on first acquaintance, I was only, and suitably, impressed.

It’s four hours plus of talking.

Good talk to be sure, especially if you are still interested in how a certain We (the West, Christendom, the children of the Enlightenment–those for starters), came to be as we are.

But, still….Talking. The freeze frame above is one of the more active scenes.

Oh, and looking at beautiful things. Much of the talk is about how those beautiful things came to be themselves. What it took to create a platform for achievement and how best to preserve those achievements, meaning, in a four hour mini-series about Cosimo de Medici, there’s some serious political intrigue.

I don’t mean there’s anything like a conventional plot. Rossellini had come to a point in his life and career where he thought cinema was at an impasse if not a dead end. He devoted the last years of his life to educating the masses and this was his medium.

I learned a lot or thought I had. I mean something beyond facts (though I learned plenty of those too).

I assumed that would be enough for one day.

Then a funny thing happened. I needed something familiar when it was all over.  Not comforting, exactly, but something that moved. Naturally, I picked a western.  3:10 to Yuma as it happened. I’ve seen it over twenty times. Familiar enough then.

By the time Frankie Laine’s theme song was done, I had re-learned more than I learned listening to four hours of fine talk on one of history’s most important periods.

Actually, I re-learned that much in one line.

Fate, you see, travels everywhere….

I bet Rossellini could have made eight hours out of that. And never said more.

Movie’s pretty good too.

 

DIAMONDS IN THE SHADE (Wilbert Harrison Up)

“Let’s Work Together”
Wilbert Harrison (1969)
Billboard: #32
Recommended source: Let’s Work Together

As “Let’s Stick Together,” this number started life as an early sixties’ side by it’s composer, Wilbert Harrison, which paired the odd rhythm and Harrison’s characteristic dry vocal with a standard lover’s plea.

It was one of those records that sounded like it ought to be a big hit some time, for somebody, under some name or other.

In the UK, eight years later, it was. Canned Heat (who held off releasing their version in the States–where it made #26–while Harrison’s was still on the chart) took it to #2 across the pond and, a few years later, Bryan Ferry took it to #12.

Here at home, Harrison’s plaintive turn, by 1969 re-purposed as a call to brotherhood and released as “Let’s Work Together,” stalled outside the Top 30.

It’s probably more famous than most records that suffer a similar mid-charting fate. If so, that’s partly because its quality (rooted in duality–a celebration of the late sixties’ communal ethos by a black man who had more to gain from its acceptance and application than most of its more celebrated practitioners and, perhaps as a result, could not deliver the uplifting lyric with the expected bound-for-the-top smile in his throat) could not quite be denied and partly because, over the years, big name critics like Dave Marsh and Greil Marcus have harkened back to it in famous forums.

I’m glad they did, because that’s how I found it (I wrote about the fine album Harrison made around it here).

What specifically brought it back to mind this week (besides the times we live in, of course…the humor of it all) was running across Canned Heat’s version, also terrific, on YouTube. I post it here for comparison’s sake (it couldn’t qualify as a Diamond fully in the Shade itself because it made the Top Ten in the UK). I promise it’s a treat musically, from a too-often forgotten band. That it features a bunch of Top of the Pops young lovelies (a couple of whom can actually dance, not always a given in these scenarios, then or now) is, I assure you, entirely beside the point. My purpose here is purely educational.

THE LAST TEN ALBUMS I LISTENED TO (Winter 2018, Countdown)

10) Bob Dylan John Wesley Harding (1967)

I’m learning. This is probably the most perverse album ever released by a major star. Dylan’s previous three albums had all produced Top 40 singles (as would his next).

Despite Harding selling well, it produced no hit singles (though Jimi Hendrix later took “All Along the Watchtower” for a ride up the charts with a Cover from God), and seems to have been conceived as some kind of throwback to the days when nobody could imagine Dylan having hits of his own. You could hear it as the same kind of spitball to his rock and roll audience as “going electric” had been to his folk audience.

I’m a sucker for Dylan’s Rock and Roll Voice, not as much for his Folkie Voice.

Maybe for that reason it took me years to hear this–and this last year for it to become a go to.

Or maybe the times they’ve just a’ changed.

9) Arthur Baker Give in to the Rhythm (1991)

Baker was a big name in the early days of the remix craze. Since I’ve never been into remixes, I’m not sure why or how I came to have this laying around for years. This is the first time I’ve listened to it in ages–maybe the third time ever. Mostly, I like it without loving it, a reaction I often have to music that was made more for dance-floors than headphones. I wonder, though, if a single side ever sunk in, whether it would unlock the key to the rest? As it stands, I’d rather listen to Madonna remixes, which are the only ones I’ve ever found revelatory.

8) Various Artists Louisiana Roots: The Jay Miller R&B Legacy (1998)

Jay Miller was an avowed segregationist who nonetheless ran an integrated studio throughout the early years of rock and roll in the Jim Crow South and recorded a number of classic r&b sides of which this is a generous selection.  Like a lot of off-shoot projects that acquire a gut-bucket reputation based on the idea that relatively obscure music must be tougher than what reaches the mainstream, this one has more nuance and a lighter touch than you might expect. I can’t say much of it is transcendent but it’s consistently enjoyable and, given the predilections of Miller’s politics, a testimony to mankind’s thoroughgoing perversity. You’d never guess how he felt based on the sounds he made!

7) Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes If You Don’t Know Me By Now: Best of (1995)

One of the great collections of 70s soul. They could probably sustain one twice as long, but, given the number of long (12″) cuts, this is still generous and a fully realized journey. Of course, Teddy Pendergrass is the main show, but the Blue Notes were also the recipient of some of Gamble and Huff’s most startling arrangements (I wrote about “Wake Up Everybody” here), including “I Miss You” which, in its full version is almost unbearable, coming as it did at the moment when Black America seemed within sight of achieving a level of integration that transcended mere law and politics. You can still hear that possibility whispering close here. Once in a while, you can hear it shouting…and wonder just how it was we missed out on the Promised Land and came up with this unholy mess instead.

6) John Lennon Lennon Legend: The Very Best of (1997)

Lennon’s first two solo albums stand on their own and his box set isn’t a slog. The album released just before his death remains hard to hear through the haze of murder and grief it seemed designed to disperse. Hence, when I want to hear him without the Beatles, this is usually where I go. It doesn’t all work. As agitprop “Imagine” gets by on its melody (and the fact Lennon had a sense of humor about how far he was from living out its ideals), but his voice is just about all that redeems “Instant Karma” or “Cold Turkey.”

That aside, this is still a fine document of a man caught out of time. Lennon was the Beatle who most believed in all that “All You Need Is Love” stuff. It’s not surprising that he found the 70s a nasty shock, or that–in interviews and on record–he kept reaching back to something he could never quite find. It’s also not a surprise that, with “Nobody Told Me,” a posthumous hit that was his strongest side in years, he seemed to realize he would never find what he was looking for, even if he kept a phalanx of bodyguards and lived to be a hundred.

5) Various Artists Brown Eyed Soul: Vols. 1-3 (1997)

I’m counting these as a single entry, because that’s how I listen to this set, one of Rhino’s best, and that’s how I hear it. As a single experience.

“The Sound of East L.A.” is the music Chicano audiences listened to from the late fifties to the early seventies and someone took care in the sequencing and programming for each volume here to reflect an experience that’s of a piece–and is only enhanced when you listen them all over the course of an afternoon or evening or (like me) in the early a.m. How close it is the actual listening experience of those who lived in those communities in the time covered I can’t say (though I haven’t heard anyone complain). But the mix is beguiling–heavy on off-key doo wop, light soul (think Brenton Wood), garage bands (think Cannibal and the Headhunters and Thee Midniters, both local heroes) and slow-groove funk (think the mellow side of War)–and if it catches you in the right mood, you can find yourself wanting to be part of any world that would respond to this music as though it were the key of life.

Well worth tracking down for those who still think about acquiring music in some form more permanent than a microchip.

Pick to Click: “The Town I Live In” where Thee Midniters make like a west coast Rascals…and, for those three minutes at least, concede nothing.

4) Brenda Lee I’m in the Mood for Love: Classic Ballads (1998)

To say Brenda is underrepresented in the CD era is to concede that the sun rises in the east. This collection barely scratches the surface of her greatness as a ballad singer. But it’s what we have, and, to quote Spencer Tracy “what’s there is cherce.” It’s highlighted by killer original versions of “The Crying Game” and “Always on My Mind” and includes cuts from throughout the sixties, arranged out of sequence so that you can’t miss how centered her style was–how much 1968 was connected to 1960 in her voice if nowhere else. A thousand nuances, then, and always unmistakably her. It’s a perfect album and my only complaint is there could and should be another dozen like it.

3) Robert Johnson The Complete Recordings: Centennial Collection (2011)

The essence of Robert Johnson at this distance is how much his voice calls into question whether the arrow of defeat and humiliated pride that’s been driven deep in the heart of Black America can ever finally be withdrawn.

And if the question is left only to his voice, the answer will always be no.

That’s as true on a supposed novelty number like “They’re Red Hot” as it is on “Hellhound on My Trail” or “If I Had Possession Over Judgment Day,” which even the nonbelievers can’t pretend are jokes.

2) Various Artists The Disco Box (1999)

A fine overview that isn’t quite what it might have been. Disco can sustain four CDs and then some as a listening experience (as well as a dancing one). But the compilers at Rhino were always historically minded, so a pedestrian cut like Carol Douglas’s “Doctor’s Orders” is bound to take precedence over records that were real grabbers simply because it was a touchstone of the form’s early days and a big hit.  There’s a bit more of that here than I’d prefer as there’s no reason for a box of this significance to have any filler.

Even so, it sustains almost in spite of itself. The form was always more than its critics acknowledged so a run of soft spots (usually chant records or metronomic “mood” instrumentals) is inevitably followed by a commensurate handful of irresistible highs. And, often as not, the chant records are as great as “Keep it Comin’ Love” and the instrumentals are as non-metronomic as “Fifth of Beethoven.” Besides, with due respect to Barry White* and the white disco of “Dancing Queen” and “December 1963” (all absent here) and short-shrifting the Bee Gees (maybe understandable given they’re not exactly lacking appreciation elsewhere, including from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame which has ignored, say, Barry White), the form’s very greatest vocals are here: Vicki Sue Robinson on “Turn the Beat Around,” Candi Staton on “Young Hearts Run Free,” Jimmy Ellis of the Traamps on “Disco Inferno” and Evelyn “Champagne” King on “Shame,” which in its 12″ version, (not presented here–another complaint is they always settled for the single) calls out the same questions Robert Johnson does…and gives back the same responses.

Bonus understanding this time around: recognizing how great a vocal arrangement this is. You live, you learn.

1) Edgar Winter Best of (2002)

Outside his two big hits, “Frankenstein” and “Free Ride” Edgar’s reach mostly exceeded his grasp. The fine bands he assembled tended to be stronger than his writing–just not quite strong enough to overcome the lack of inspiration in Winter’s own lyrics and singing (Dan Hartman was another story).

Still, he and his group had an interesting niche–a rare white funk band who retained a foothold in the burgeoning concept of Classic Rock.

And kudos to the programmer.

You could do a lot worse than close down a “last ten” with this. Speaking of arrangements….

Til next time!

*NOTE: White is represented as an orchestra leader, but not as a vocalist.

COLLEGE KNOWLEDGE….ROMAN HOLIDAY REDUX

A week ago, I folded a five-dollar bill into my wallet, knowing that Roman Holiday was playing at the college the night before payday. I wanted to make sure I had the money for an alumni ticket and a diet coke. Made it with a couple of bucks to spare.

This was the first time I’ve seen it either on a big screen or with an audience.

A college audience at that.

I’m happy to report that whatever reasons may now exist that prevent us from having nice things….it isn’t really the college kids.

They got it. Not just the comedy either. For the last twenty minutes, sitting among the restless generation, you could have heard a pin drop.

In my experience, when they’re watching movies actually pitched at their own generation, that never happens.

Maybe the kids are alright….

TESTIFIER (Dennis Edwards, R.I.P.)

Dennis Edwards was one of the last great soul men–and, perhaps because he replaced another legend in the greatest call and response vocal group of the rock and roll era (there’s competition among the harmony groups, where they’re also in the running)–one of the least appreciated.

Like a lot of soul singers, he was the son of a preacher man. Very few brought as much raw gospel power to the world stage. He turned every venue into a revival, every microphone into a pulpit. If you need a measure of his quality, consider only this. The Temptations survived the departure of David Ruffin (whom Edwards replaced). They survived the death of Paul Williams. They survived the departure of Eddie Kendricks.

When Dennis Edwards left in 1977, they were finished as a major force in American music. By then, he had helped extend their legacy by nearly a decade. Shouting all the way, from his first mighty hit (which kept them firmly at the forefront of the changing times)…

to his (and their) last.. which might have been his (and their) mightiest.

Higher ground tonight brother. Every inch earned.

BLADE RUNNER 2049 (At the Multiplex: January, 2018)

Blade Runner 2049 (2017)
D: Denis Villenueve

 

[NOTE: For more advanced and detailed thoughts than I’d be willing/able to provide without re-watching Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner and/or re-reading Philip K. DIck’s source novel (both terrific…I just lack the time), you can go here, for Noel Vera’s review. I should probably have this site in my blogroll anyway. Soon, I promise. Spoilers in Noel’s review, but, since he’s doing the heavy lifting, none here.]

At least on a first viewing, I had the impression (it can’t be more than that on such brief acquaintance) that Denis Villenueve’s Blade Runner 2049 has surpassed Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (to which it is a sequel), as the best adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s world-view. It might even stretch that view a inch or two, which would be about as far as such a view can ever be stretched. All Dick’s big themes are there. Madness vs. sanity. Reality vs “reality.” Man’ s relationship to technology. The precise point at which one thing turns into another (man into machine, sanity into madness, “reality” into reality….or vice versa).

Creating a visual equivalent of Dick’s flat but evocative prose (except in his ability to place dreams next to nightmares with disarmingly casual ease, he was no stylist…when you can do that, who needs style?), has never been easy. Steven Spielberg tried it in Minority Report and didn’t come close. But Scott got pretty close in the original Blade Runner (is there such a thing as pedestrian grandeur?) and I think Villeneuve (with Scott producing) got even closer here, in a film that toys with the original humans vs replicants (or humans using replicants, unless, of course, it’s really the other way round) concept with just enough verve and nerve to touch something new. Seeing 2049 on a big screen (to be fair, I’ve only caught the original on tape and disc) I felt myself getting a touch emotional on a couple of occasions.

But was it me…or some spiritual simulacrum I conjured for the purpose of reclaiming a younger self who might have responded even more strongly, which was certainly more appropriate than my current self, who kept threatening not to respond at all?

Those are the kind of questions Dick’s novels always asked of me (I wouldn’t presume to speak for others, as I can imagine interpretations sufficiently different to make mine seem as incomprehensible to others as theirs would be to me), and Blade Runner (at least in its “director’s cut” version) almost asked as well. It was both refreshing and disturbing to feel those emotions watching 2049. Which I guess means it made me feel a bit more alive–not something I often experience watching movies made this millennia.

This is made a bit more interesting–to me and my simulacra anyhow–by how little I was taken with the first twenty minutes or so, when Ryan Gosling seemed even flatter than usual and the beauty Villenueve and his team would bring to some of the later scenes had yet to manifest itself fully. Whether the movie got better as it went along or simply took over my senses I can’t say. (I’d hate to say it overwhelmed my mind,. That would be creepy and I’d hardly feel comfortable recommending it to others–which I very much want to do–if I admitted all that. But I did catch myself observing myself once or twice. Only from the next seat over. I don’t want you to think I was having some kind of episode.)

Once the film did take hold, though, it was riveting, and remained so, no matter how often I replicated and re-converged. There were times when I wanted to be in this film’s world. And, when you’ve seen it, as you really should, you’ll know just how crazy that is.

Curse you Denis Villenueve. You’ve made me irrational. You’ve made me think I could accept being Ryan Gosling! Harrison Ford was one thing but this smacks of evil.

And curse you Philip K. Dick. You’ve blurred the distinction between Dystopia and Utopia yet again–and without contributing a word. Years after I swore I was past all this, I now spend part of every day looking over my shoulder and around corners. Maybe only metaphorically, but still….I came out of the theater wishing I lived in a land where Donald Trump was president despite everything the FBI could do.

That will never happen, of course. Walking out next to me, my simulacra-self at least reassured me of that!

And I believed.

In other words, it’s a trip.

TO THE SPINMEISTERS (Late Night Dedication)

…As reaction to the big news of the day proceeds on wearily familiar lines (the twitter-bonding between war-mongering neocons and the flower children of Hollywood is especially precious), it’s always fun waiting for something to play in your head that will put a smile on your face and inoculate you from what might otherwise be fatal weariness and the undying belief that your fellow citizens are all hopeless morons.

This showed up in mine, unbidden, around an hour ago. And it’s still going strong!

Perhaps it will do the same for you…