It took a while, but I finally found an intelligent take on the “Alex Jones Issue” (i.e., the banning of Jones from social media, and cutting off his financing by major credit companies, pretty much across the board, on the same day).
And any intelligent take was bound to be chilling (no matter what you think of Alex Jones or have even heard of him*, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.)
Now, the interesting part from a legal point of view about the collusion of the rich and powerful leftwing high-tech giants to stifle the speech of Alex Jones is that the companies have arrogated to themselves the power of the publisher to edit and control the speech of the published, but not accepted the responsibility and liability that comes with it.
It seems the modern tech giants–the new robber barons–learned their lessons from the Feudalist RIght (resurgent since the eighties) well. And they have far more insidious impact on your life than Big Rail, Big Steel, Big Oil, Ma Bell and ATT (just to mention the more well-known previous monopolies/oligarchies trust-busted by our previous form of government once upon a time–there is no hint of such serious moves against Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, etc. these days) ever had.
Team Trump vs Team Mueller is an epic battle. The outcome will determine how your grandchildren live, whether you like it or not, whether you believe it or not.
Next to this, it’s poo-poo in a sandbox.
Just wanted to cheer everybody up!
Take it Chrissie….let loose the pigeons from Hell.
*I monitor Jones, a conspiracy theorist radio shock jock, just like I monitor everybody–I probably listen to him an average of 4-5 hours a week, usually in half-hour segments when I’m working or driving around doing errands. He’s no less reliable than CNN, WaPo or Fox News (would that even be possible?). And he’s no crazier than Chrissie Hynde, a legit genius who also likes to call her fans the worst names she can think of (to their faces) and believes animals are people, too, an idea I refuse to take seriously unless you admit it means cats should vote and camels should have driver’s licenses.
At which point I really refuse to take it seriously.
Greil Marcus’ website has become one of the livelier, more interesting places on the internet. And he’s been most gracious in responding on the two occasions I’ve submitted a question/comment to his mailbag.
But Jesus H. Christ.
From 1980, in the midst of a recently linked, and otherwise fine, dissertation on the demise of the Summer Record (centered around the Jamies’ “Summertime, Summertime”):
And that means that when the battle of the giant radios takes place on the beaches this summer, the music just isn’t going to be appropriate. You’re going to hear Van Halen groaning about how the cradle will rock, Chrissie Hynde getting gang-banged, Bob Seger feeling sorry for himself and, for the sixth month in a row, Pink Floyd chanting “We don’t need no education/We don’t need no thought control.”
(Greil Marcus: New West, “Real LIfe Rock” 7/28/80)
Chrissie Hynde getting gang-banged?
Given 1980 was the summer Marcus was referring to, the only records Hynde (i.e. the Pretenders) could have had on the radio were these:
Not that even one record she’s released since would justify imagining her–or any woman–gang-banged, assuming anything ever could.
I’ve spent the last two days turning this over in my mind, trying to see it from all conceivable angles. And I haven’t been able to see it any way but the bookish male’s standard desire to see all women humiliated in both theory and practice while suggesting she asked for it.
I’d really like to hear from anyone who sees it some other way.
There are things one could say about Chrissie Hynde. She thinks animals are the same as humans, for instance–and I mean really the same–whereas I lean towards Chesterton’s warning that people who start by worshiping animals invariably end by sacrificing humans.
But I’ve never found my disagreements over such minor issues tempting me to imagine her needing to be taught a lesson for daring to first assemble the greatest rock and roll band in the world (even if neither she, Marcus nor anyone else could have known she would watch it disintegrate into a whirl of deadly drug abuse in less than an eye-blink) and then lead it.
Meanwhile I think this is as good a place as any to assert the Fourteenth Maxim:
Always practice your craft in such a manner that no one ever need wonder–in even the most distant of futures–whether at long last you have no decency.
I must have been channel surfing. I usually preferred somebody jabbing at my eyeballs with red-hot needles to watching David Letterman define a-holery. Once in a while, though, there was a decent musical guest. There weren’t enough of them for me to check the listings or anything, but if I tuned in at just the right moment, I might linger.
That night I lingered. Cyndi Lauper was on.
It had been two years since her last sizable hit–and that had been a cover of “What’s Going On” that nobody seemed to like but me (and plenty of people thought was sacreligious). I had heard and liked her new one, which would turn out to be her last sizable hit ever, a few times on the radio.
It’s hard now, to describe just how bleak the musical landscape felt then, when, unlike now, a glorious past was still so near that it seemed impossible it could be gone.
Still, the possibility was real: Whitney Houston had defined the new ballad style and it owed more to Kate Smith than Bessie Smith. The seventies’ era artists who had defined the eighties–Michael Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, Prince–had all gone a bit stale for everyone but their most devoted fans (of which I wasn’t one, though I liked them all). Any chance that the old New Wave might change the world had gone a-wasting because the big talents–Joe Strummer, Elvis Costello, Chrissie Hynde–either didn’t care about being stars (their excuse) or were afraid of the burden (the stronger likelihood).
Cyndi herself had clearly lost the fake battle the media staged between her and Madonna.
It was the eighties. Selling twenty-five million albums was chump change.
Of course, I wanted her to defy the odds and go on and on–for this one to spark a massive comeback.
So I wouldn’t have changed that dial, no matter what.
But the thing that had me holding my breath was waiting for the answer to the really big question.
Could she hold….that note?
I don’t remember what I thought while I waited. In memory, for years after, she stood still for the whole performance. When I finally thought to pull it up on YouTube a few years back, I guess I was surprised–maybe even shocked–that she bopped around for most of the song. I say I guess I was surprised because, in the memory I had built since, she was still standing in one spot.
So when I pulled it up again today, I was surprised all over.
I imagine if I wait a few more years, I’ll be surprised again.
I don’t think I really saw her the first time even though I had my eyes open. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember how, or even if, she moves.
Because whenever I watch it, then or now, the question is still the same.
Can she really, on live television, sans production tricks, hold that note?
I mean, she can…
But can she really?
I know she can. I know she’ll do it every time, but it still sends a tingle down my spine. Not just because it was her last big hit, and I somehow knew it would be as I watched her that night. But because, even as I imagined her standing still as a stone, I felt like I was watching somebody fight to keep the last ember lit, in the vain hope that it could reignite the fire.
Fight, you know, with every breath. Including the last one.
Today, on the radio. Chrissie Hynde’s lament for her OD’d guitar player. From 1982….a year which felt exactly like this death song when it happened (you know, for those who, like Ms. Hynde, were gifted or cursed with second sight) and is now repeating itself for the thirty-fifth consecutive time. For some reason, today, it sounded like shelter from the storm….
10) Trio (Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris and Linda Ronstadt) The Complete Trio Collection (1987-1999) (2016)
This collects the two albums the superstar “trio” made in the eighties and nineties, plus an extra disc of unreleased and alternate takes.
The released albums were always a little too pristine for my taste. Hearing the tracks all at once didn’t exactly reverse that judgment, though it did allow me to fully appreciate the sheer craft-work driven improbability of it all.
Given the restrictive natures of both Harris’s and Ronstadt’s art–we’re talking about two people who always had a hard time loosening up–it shouldn’t come as a big surprise that the real keepers are on the throwaway disc. The women who were never all that comfortable with the spotlight light up when it’s off, while Dolly just keeps on being Dolly. In that context, it seems no more than natural that “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues,” a great song that’s been searching for a home for decades, would finally get the definitive take it deserves.
2) Tom Petty and the HeartbreakersEcho (1999)
A modern blues, filled with all the hit-maker’s recognizable touches and a lot of things too many people assumed he couldn’t do besides.
Maybe that assumption was rooted in not paying enough attention. If so, I certainly do not exempt myself.
One effect of getting to know this album in recent years has been a better understanding of just how deep those hits had to strike–again and again, back when it seemed they lived entirely on the surface–in order to reach one generation after another in a way that was almost unheard of for any other rocker of his generation. Singling out the first cut is a little obvious, but first cuts are for leading you in. This leads you in.
8) The OrlonsBest of(1961-1966) (2005)
Auteurs of the Watusi and, you might think, the most faceless of the handful of girl groups who sustained even a modest string of hits.
While I wouldn’t say personality was their strong suit, this still sustains easily over half a decade and twenty sides. “Wah-Watusi” aside, they may never have been trend-setters (even that was a cover). But they kept up, no small thing when the Pop World was moving as past as it did during the years in question.
And, as often happens with these “obscure” artists, there’s a knockout hidden in the shadows that will lay you flat if you have your back turned.
I always loved the English spelling. Made it seem like it should be some kind of genteel sequel to a Cat Stevens album.
I know it’s sold a bajillion copies (thirty, forty million, like that) and been played to death…but it never wears out. Certainly not in 2016, when it sounded more contemporary than ever and stayed at the top of my playlist for the year. Another thing I like about it is that it broke contemporaneously with Punk Rock, which it buried then and buries now, not least because it’s a lot more “punk” than “God Save the Queen”…if by “punk” we mean “alive.”
Of course, these days it’s become even stronger. This edition restores Stevie Nicks’s “Silver Springs” to its original running order (the 3-Disc version released subsequently puts it at the end for some reason) and includes a disc of outtakes that, for once, deepens and contextualizes the finished product. You can click on the link above for my full take on all that. But in case you don’t make it over there, this little killer should still not be missed.
6) Mark ChesnuttThe Ultimate Collection (Complete MCA Singles: 1990-2000) (2011)
Playing next to Patty Loveless or even George Strait on the radio in his golden decade, Chesnutt seemed like a real if modest talent who reached an epic high now and then.
From this distance, across thirty tracks and a quarter of a century, he seems more like a minor miracle. He certainly wasn’t afraid of competition. He doesn’t embarrass himself on Don Gibson’s “Woman (Sensuous Woman)” or John Anderson’s “Down in Tennessee,” and bests Waylon on “Broken Promise Land,” which is one of those epic highs I mentioned.
It’s not like I didn’t know he had a solid best of in him. “Brother Jukebox,” “Bubba Shot the Jukebox” “It Sure is Monday”–the titles alone always could bring a smile. But this sustains, in part, because his most epic high point of all–as great a song ever written about the intricacies of not breaking up–came early and two long discs gives the listener time to develop some perspective.
If you click the link, be sure to crank the volume.
5) The Easybeats The Definitive Anthology (1965-1969) (1996)
Speaking of cranking the volume.
Here’s fifty-six tracks that make a case for the boys who built the bones of Australia’s not-exactly-inconsequential rock and roll legacy by being the greatest garage band this side of Paul Revere and the Raiders.
I’m not gonna say they ever quite got up to “Friday On My Mind” again but not many got there once and, of those who did, few outside the legends sustained anything like this level of interest. Of course, they should never have taken on “River Deep, Mountain High,” but it brought a smile to think they had the nerve to try. And smile was what just about every other one of these fifty-six tracks made me do as I listened to them chase every trend of the era and catch one after another for the briefest, most transient, most exhilarating moment. Pick to Click: “Good Times” (which sure sounds like it cops at least one of its riffs from the Orlons’ “Don’t Hang Up”).
4) The PlattersThe Ballads (1953-1959) (2013)
Shelter from the storm.
If ballad singing is ever given its proper place in the Rock and Roll Narrative, the Platters’ lead singer, Tony Williams, will be as celebrated as Chuck Berry. Until then, you can search around for ways to hear him: this is the best I’ve found.
Great as any individual cut–or any short compilation–may be, you can’t really feel the weight of Williams’ accomplishment until you dig into something like this: thirty-three slices of heaven right here on earth.
A sly turn of the cards: Here, the Isleys cover mostly white acts, though not necessarily the ones who had spent the previous decade so profitably covering them.
It might have been conceived as a gimmick, but they dug in too deep for it to come across that way on record. “Ohio” meant more in their hands than any other, not just because they cross-bred it with Jimi Hendrix’s “Machine Gun’,” but because they were from Ohio. Unlike say, Kent State survivor, Chrissie Hynde, who grew up being persecuted by the white middle class in Akron and got out as soon as possible, they never left home spiritually, no matter how far their feet roamed.
I wonder if that’s why I–who always heard “Fire and Rain” as a great record even in its callow original–find their cover illuminating far beyond the usual “black people are deeper” shuck and jive? I’ve stated it before, but this is the sound of some lost soul looking for his people over the next hill. Pick to click: “Cold Bologna” (the only cut besides “Machine Gun” that doesn’t “give back” to a white boy).
2) Dwight YoakumGuitars, Cadillacs, Etc., Etc. (1986)
Thus began the odd, often glorious career of Dwight Yoakum, slick traditionalist.
Right there at the beginning–too clever title and all–I don’t hear the concept quite working. Pleasant enough but not as inspired as its rep. So when I put this one on it’s mostly for background music.
1) Martha & the VandellasLive Wire: The Singles 1962-1972 (1993)
Martha Reeves might be due a Vocalist of the Month essay pretty soon, so I’ll leave any deep thoughts for later. This beautiful thing was part of a three-artist series released in conjunction with similarly glorious 2-Disc sets on the Marvelettes and Mary Wells. There’s not a weak track on any of them.
What I hadn’t realized before was that if Dwight’s “South of Cincinnati” ever needs a sister record, it’s right here, in Martha’s finest vocal, equal to anything the powerhouses at Motown ever managed and, unlike most of the theirs and most of hers–which were only “Dancing in the Street,” “Heat Wave,” “Nowhere to Run,” “In My Lonely Room”– half-hidden by time.
“What did I take away from America? The radio. Where we lived in Ohio I could pick up stations from all over–WLAC in Nashville, CKLW in Detroit. I would lie there with the transistor radio under my pillow, nudging the dial all night, trying to pull stations out of the static. I’d happen upon all sorts of incredible stuff. Back in those days everything was still regional, and you’d pick up different things from town to town. There was no such thing as a national playlist–the DJ played what made sense for his community, and that included local music. So a late-night trip across the radio dial was just the most exciting adventure. When I arrived in England I thought I was like this dumb hillbilly kid, but I knew more about music than just about anyone I met. I discovered that I’d actually had a phenomenal education just from being saturated with American radio.”
Akron native Chrissie Hynde, survivor of the country’s other public education system, up to and including Kent State circa May, 1970, recalling her arrival in England in 1973. (Liner notes, Pretenders: Pirate Radio, 1979–2005, released 2006)
First of all, I had a nice rebound in traffic during October after the expected drop in September. Thanks to all for hanging in!
I’ve been doing this for about eight months now so I’m going to spend the next few weeks periodically doing something I probably should have done earlier, which is give some sort of outline of what I value most, “artistically” speaking. (It says so much more than one’s politics, religion or culinary habits.)
Figured I’d begin at the beginning, so here, more or less chronologically (that’s world chronology, not personal….I probably knew Cyndi Lauper before I knew Clyde McPhatter)….
MY TWENTY FAVORITE ROCK AND ROLL SINGERS (and five representative performances which also happen to be building blocks for a better world)…First a nice intro: