THE LAST TEN ALBUMS I LISTENED TO (Fall, 2017 Countdown–All Vinyl Edition)

I’ve been in a vinyl mood this week. I listened to a couple of CDs as well, but, for the purposes of this list, I’m pretending I didn’t. Until the very end at least.

10) Johnny Bond Bottles Up (1965)

I found this at a local antique store (my town basically consists of such) and took a chance. Had to pull Donald Fagen’s The Nightfly, which I had used the night before to cure insomnia, off the turntable to make room. One thing is for sure. Johnny Bond was way weirder than Steely Dan.  This album sounds the way the cover looks. What more recommendation do you need?

 

9) Kid Ory The Song of the Wanderer (1958)

And while I was there, I spotted this lovely little item, also cheap. I see a Kid Ory item I haven’t heard for five bucks, I’m gonna take a chance.

Ory was best known as a key associate of Louis Armstrong in the days when Pops was reorienting American music and, by exension, American life. This is not that. What this is, is a very pleasant, lovely and conservative jazz record from the fifties, which breezes along as though Bop and Rock and Roll had never happened, and almost as though the searing early New Orleans jazz scene, of which Ory had been such a vital component, never happened either. Music to read and smile by, then, right up until “The Sheik of Araby” comes on, at which point it is time to stop reading but not to stop smiling.

8) The Atkins String Company The Night Atlanta Burned (1975)

Generally referred to as a “Classical Country” album, with the classical part referring as much to Mozart as Bill Monroe or Flatt and Scruggs. However defined, unique in the annals of American music.

This is a mix of standards and incidental mood music composed by John D. Loudermilk, based on his recollection of an old man from his home town who claimed to have learned scraps of what he taught the young Loudermilk from sheet music he found left in a music case (along with the mandocello the case had been built to protect) which had been rescued from the Atlanta Conservatory of Music after Sherman marched through in 1864 and since been lost again in a hobo camp. Loudermilk was wry enough to suspect every single bit of that might not have been true, but he, Chet Atkins, and assembled session players (including Lisa Silver, Paul Yandell and the legendary Johnny Gimble) made an album that deserved to complete the story. There are a few great albums that stop time, but none of them stop time in quite the same way as this one.

Meaning, gently, gently.

7) Iron City Houserockers Blood on the Bricks (1981)

A crit-fave from the late New Wave/Early Heartland phase of Rock and Roll’s decline. Listening now, it’s a lot easier to hear all the reasons they didn’t make it–lack of distinction in the singing, writing, playing and general Zeitgeist (which is derived from J. Geils and Southside Johnny, who did the same things better)–than why so many people were excited in the moment. This is typical fare, and just fine. But on this and every other side, what I hear most is “almost.”

6) Various Artists Stiff Records Presents:The Akron Compilation (1978)

This was a much better shot at sending Rock and Roll off in a new direction. There’s some failure on this record–songs or sounds that don’t quite finish somehow–but forty years on, it still sounds like something trying to be born on cut after cut. Never released on CD, It’s still the best place to hear every artist here but one. And it’s still the best place to hear that one’s greatest record (which, had it made her the star she deserved to be, might have redefined a lot of things in 1978).

5) The Beach Boys Sunflower (1970)

Commercially, the Beach Boys got swept out with the tide around the latter part of 1967. They kept on making great sides, year by year, but this was probably the best album they made between Wild Honey and Love You…and it doesn’t need to take a back seat to much else that was going on in 1970. I’ll take it over Let It Be eight days a week.

Somebody in the marketing department was either asleep at the switch or having their mind seriously altered by drugs. “Cool, Cool Water,” perfectly fine as a trippy album closer, was the least commercial single ever–and I mean ever–released by a major artist. The B-Side was one of the greatest records of their career–and definitive of the era’s often wistful secret ethos, so often lost among the noise. Sleep does these things. So do drugs.

Then there’s stupidity. For hardcore Beach Boys’ fans, a touchstone. For everyone else, a lost gem.

4) Various Artists Lost in the Stars: The Music of Kurt Weill  (1985)

I don’t even remember how I first heard about this record, but it’s still my go-to for Kurt Weill, or just the Weimar mood transported.

Boy does it transport to now–even more than to 1985, which I once would have deemed impossible. As often happened with high middle-brow music of an earlier vintage, rock and rollers did better by it than anyone else, in some cases, maybe better than the music deserved. And the truest rock and roller did better by it than anyone. A fine companion piece for The Night Atlanta Burned, which is also born of defeat.

3) Various Artists Beserkley Chartbusters Volume 1 (1975)

Cheeky title for a cheeky collection. Unlike the Stiff label compilation above, this is almost entirely reactionary–rock and roll as it might have  sounded if it really were made by  entirely arrested adolescents obsessed with their older brothers’ record collection. Not without its charms mind you–older brothers tended to have some cool tastes ten years before this happened. I lean towards Earthquake’s heavier take on the whole, but the closest thing to a killer is Jonathan Richman’s “Roadrunner” which almost justifies his rep when he starts speed rapping like the world’s whitest white boy.

There was, so far as I can tell, no Volume 2.

2) Various Artists Less Than Zero Soundtrack (1987)

The sound of rock and roll closing down for good. From here there was nowhere to go but Grunge (and from there, no way to go but the Exit). Afterwards it was every man for himself, but this still sounds of a piece. It’s everything the lame movie it supported wasn’t–loose, funky, cynical to a fault. And, at the last minute when the concept of “Loa Angeles” meant anything, definitive L.A., right up to the living end, when the Bangles show up and stomp all over everybody. Certainly Aerosmith and Public Enemy, who are at their sleaziest and most self righteous, (meaning best) respectively. But also “Goin’ Back to Cali,” which has a claim on being the greatest Hip Hop record ever. And even Roy Orbison and Glenn Danzig, who have claims on being peak Roy Orbison (no more need be said) and the greatest Scott Walker record not made by Scott Walker (who made damn few to match it). Even now, it kinda makes me wonder where the world might have gone if the movie had been better. (I can’t speak for the source novel as I haven’t read it. Based on the Bret Easton Ellis novel I have read, I can’t imagine it could have been made into a much better movie.)

1) Marianne Faithfull Broken English (1979)

Disco punk and, to be honest, I never came close to getting it.

Until now.

Maybe I didn’t get it because it turns large swathes of rock and roll–often the rock and roll I love most–inside out. When I’m listening now, Brenda Lee’s throb, always vulnerable, suddenly sounds like its coming from the bottom of a barrel just before somebody seals the lid. Girl group romanticism sounds like it must emanate from the dark side of the moon. The Rolling Stones’ Some Girls, out the year before and on my CD player the night before I made the deliberate decision to make this the end of this list, now sounds like the Rape Record record they always had in them–the one where they’re finally so bored they could scream, and, for the last time, do.

Perhaps the news of the moment–rapists/harassers/assaulters being turned up and out everywhere you look–has given a tiny, pitiful bit of context to the rest of us that only a woman who had literally crawled out of the gutter of addiction and homelessness after being the Queen of Swinging London (i.e., the World) to ask “Why’d you spit on my snatch?” without succumbing to self-pity or psychoanalysis (if only because one or the other might kill her), could have comprehended, let alone communicated, at any previous cultural moment.

Anyway, after sitting on my shelf for thirteen years or so (the town’s last vinyl store put dates on their price stickers) the find of the year.

And please don’t think I’m anything less than frightened by it.

SOMETIMES THE MOST EXISTENTIAL QUESTIONS COME TO YOU IN THE MOST UNLIKELY SETTINGS (Segue of the Day: 10/15/17)

So a couple of days ago I’m sitting in my local corner cafe, eating my tuna wrap, reading my F. Scott Fitzgerald, and, suddenly, unbidden, the question crossed my mind.

What exactly did we need the Brits for?

I’m sure it had nothing to do with the speaker behind my head, which was emitting a string of programmed oldies in crystal clear sound, having just yielded these two back to back…

Among other things, It made me wish all over again that I could track down the quote from Marianne Faithfull where she recalled a conversation with Jack Nitzsche, where she had repeated the Approved Narrative that rock and roll was dead until the British Invasion saved it and he proceeded to play her a bunch of records like these until she realized the error of her ways. (One reasons I’d like to track it down is to prove I’m remembering correctly. Age gets to you that way.)

Now if he only could have gotten hold of the staff at Rolling Stone!

BTW: I’m still working on the answer to that question. F. Scott Fitzgerald isn’t helping a bit. Maybe looking long enough at this will…

 

CELEBRITY NEWS (Or, What Can a Poor Girl Do?)

Not my usual beat but some things beg for a response:

News Item #1: Mick Jagger’s former long-time squeeze (1976–1999), Jerry Hall, is now engaged to Rupert Murdoch.

Which brings to mind a couple of discerning quotes.

“This is just a white-trash theory, but I think if he married Ann-Margret, he’d still be alive today.” (Dwight Yoakam, concerning Elvis)

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“This is just a white-trash theory, but I think if he stayed with Marianne Faithfull, he’d still be alive today.” (Me, concerning Mick Jagger)

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I’m not one to go around blaming the woman for the demise of some man’s soul. But if, by chance, Jerry did have something to do with the hollowing out of Mick Jagger–in case it wasn’t just Satan (who, come to think of it, would use a Texas girl) or Pod People taking their inspiration from Invasion of the Body Snatchers–then here’s hoping she can do the same for the Murdoch media empire.

If she’s got that kind of power, she owes us one.

NOTE: My sources insist there is absolutely no truth whatsoever to the rumor that Rupe’s initial pick-up line was, “Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste.” The vehemence of their collective denial is, I think, its own affirmation.

News Item #2:

Oscar noms out today. Paul Dano was robbed. Satan never rests.

WHAT IMPRESSED ME THIS WEEK (The Stones Prep for Altamont)

 The Rolling Stones Rock and Roll Circus–1968

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According to Pete Townshend’s interview (included on the DVD extras), this television show came about because he and Mick Jagger were tinkering with the notion of having a rock and roll tour that traveled around like a circus…ah, the ideas the lads came up with then! That particular idea didn’t really get off the ground and, for that, we can probably all be thankful. But Jagger was intrigued enough to pursue it down another avenue with this “live” television show being the result.

The show is passing strange for most of its length. Music Hall humor, touches (generally heavy-handed) of sixties-style cine-art, celebrity-spotting crowd scenes–all the qualities that generally make for a train wreck.

As usual, any redemption comes from the music. There’s plenty of that–music, anyway, if not quite redemption–and most of it is fine. Jethro Tull is surprisingly (to me anyway) good. Taj Mahal is solid as always. There’s good stuff from an all-star band led by John Lennon (and then Yoko Ono, in a number that’s mostly interesting for demonstrating just how infatuated Lennon was–backing her, he looks like every goofy-eyed schoolboy you ever knew and it’s genuinely endearing). The Who smokes the room, though, being as how they had just entered their arty phase, maybe not quite as thoroughly as usual. And Marianne Faithfull, doubtless on the bill only by virtue of being Jagger’s current squeeze, is good enough to have me looking up the cost of her greatest hits on Amazon.

But, of course, it’s the Stones show to steal and they were at an especially interesting place. Brian Jones, the band’s founder, was on the verge of being shown the door (this was his last appearance with them), and would find the grave not long after. And, coincidentally or not, the Stones were on the verge of eclipsing the Beatles. One way to view this entire special, which is dated from December 11, 1968, is as a passing of the torch–a passing that wasn’t at all obvious in the moment, but which comes into clear relief when Lennon’s loopy presence is contrasted with Jagger’s growing assurance.

And, of course, there was the whole question of whether Mick had met the devil down at the crossroads somewhere south of Carnaby Street and forked over his soul.

Let me just say that I’m ambivalent about this. On the one hand, having gone a round or two with Old Scratch (turned down his deal myself–nasty bugger), I’m not readily impressed by the fakers. And Mick could be a fake. Sure he could. Easy enough to fool the world, after all, if you’re just a clever lad. No need to call on the Prince of Darkness for that task. and, if anyone has ever been more down with the notion of one being born every minute than Mick Jagger, they’ve passed beyond my notice.

And yet…

They begin a touch stiffly. “Jumping Jack Flash” without  the jump. But it’s still “Jumping Jack Flash,” in the end, and by the time they lock onto the groove, they start to get….comfortable.

Then they get good. “Parachute Woman,” “No Expectations,” album cuts from Beggar’s Banquet in lieu of familiar hits and gaining power every second.

After that, a teaser–“You Can’t Always Get What You Want” minus the choir and orchestra which, as it turns out, it needs.

And then, just when it looks like things might wind down, that classic, “is the deal real yet?” intro to “Sympathy For the Devil” and they’re off. Mick in full flight. Contrasting him on stage with Lennon in the crowd, you can just about believe that Jagger–fake satyr tattoos and all–really did have that meeting at the crossroads and the deal went something like, “Well, I’m not sure about my soul…but I might be able to hand you a Beatle.”

You can laugh, but when I watched this the first time that’s what it felt like. An advertisement for the disappearance of John Lennon, to be replaced by his friend Michael Jagger. Primal Scream Therapy and imagining no possessions (except one’s own) straight ahead for the one (all disguised as an escape from “Hello Goodbye” and “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” and really who could blame him?). Let It Bleed and “Honky Tonk Women” and Sticky Fingers and Exile On Main Street for the other.

Oh, and Altamont–where Jagger would be haunted less by deaths resulting from his lack of judgment than by unfailing recognition that his business acumen (the thing he clearly valued most) had its limits.

That plus the “end of the sixties.”

And forty subsequent years of not mattering, even to yourself, except as a human cash register.

That’s what happens when you take the deal–even if it’s for somebody else’s soul and you get to play Satan on TV for the back end. No matter how slick you think you played it, Old Scratch always gets his in the end.

Like I said. Nasty bugger.