Everything old is . . . still old

Honestly, I try to broaden my musical consumption, if not my actual tastes.
Try as I might to listen objectively, The Kooks Konk album, for instance, is never going to sound as good as The Kinks Lola vrs. Powerman, or take its place in my collection.

Even newer acts aren't making new albums that appeal to me -- or get played -- as much as their older efforts. As much as I appreciate the broader palate of sounds they use and the attempts at variety, I simply don't like the new Raconteurs as much as the first one. At the very least, there's nothing on the new one I like as much as "Is She Really Going Out With-" . . . I mean, "Steady As She Goes"

As for anything outside my narrow, rock and roll comfort zone, I'm ignorant, unmotivated, and easily intimidated. Alarmingly superficial, too, but if you've ever read me, you know what a quick read I am.

While I will own up to my faults, can I help it if all three of the new albums I got a chance to hear this week are from artists that have been around for decades?

My attitude toward Tom Petty has made a 180 in the past year or so. I was so tired of the sluggish, strolling tempo that he seemed locked into on every single song, the lazy songwriting that sounded so redundant, the drawl that is probably legitimate but started to sound affected.

Then he and the Heartbreakers released Highway Companion, which I truly enjoyed, with a couple of songs ("Saving Grace" and "The Golden Rose") that played regularly for some months. The band I play in started doing some of their tunes, which are great to play and always go over. And Runnin' Down a Dream shows them to be very likable, even if, four or five hours into the otherwise-excellent, four-DVD set, they're sort of like house guests that just don't know when to leave.

The Mudcrutch album is still a pleasant surprise, even given my recent, positive disposition toward Petty and co. His decision to reconvene his pre-Heartbreakers band came out of the blue, and the timing seems especially surprising, given that he's launching a summer tour with his regular sidekicks. (One of our kids is seeing the show in July, so it's a good thing I'm over my aversion, since we're hearing a lot of TP & the HB's, to prep.)

While most of the Mudcrunchers are also in Petty's other outfit, the band sounds much less like the Heartbreakers on this album than I expected. True to Petty's stated intent, Mudcrutch has the sound of a 70's vintage road band, plugging into the studio between tour stops, putting on tape the songs they crank out every night. The material seems neither overly crafted or extremely tossed-off, just like a good, solid rock n' roll record used to. And while Petty may never get to be a Byrd, he and the 'crutch contribute a worthwhile studio rendition of one of their better, latter-day songs, "Lover of the Bayou."

On the down side, the world truly did not need another cover of "Six Days on the Road," particularly one done by a rock n' roll band. The other disappointment is that nothing on the album sounds all that much like the Mudcrutch tracks included on the Petty/Heartbreakers Playback box, which was what I'd hoped for.

Also blindsiding me, Elvis Costello's ode to instant noodles, Momofuku (which I'm guessing is contributing to all sorts of sophomoric humor, if there are any radio stations playing it). Here's another artist who has redeemed himself in recent years. Elvis got on the fightin' side of me many years ago when he spotted a (forbidden) camera a few songs into a show at Indiana University, and stormed off. Hurled some epithets, too, IIRC. Which was all nothing compared to the Bonnie Bramlett thing.

Our family's seen him in concert twice in recent years, however, in shows that have gone a long way toward erasing any ill-will (at least over that IU show). His concert with Emmylou Harris was just plain delightful, and in his solo opening slot for Dylan, he was as personable as he'd been rude in '79.

If I'd ventured a guess, it would have been that EC's next album would be along the lines of "From Sulfur to Sugar Cane"--written with T. Bone Burnett for All the King's Men, although not in the film--which he performed at the Dylan show. To no one's surprise, I would have been badly mistaken!

Elvis the rocker is back! Not a moment too soon. Momofuku has the raw, immediate sound of his classic records with the Attractions. If lacking a track as arresting and durable as "Pump It Up," "Clubland," or "Tokyo Storm Warning," the new one at least demonstrates his ability to rock satisfactorily at an advanced age (I say, as one in the same general demographic). It may not still land in my CD player in a few years, as This Year's Model, Armed Forces, and Trust, but when it does, it should still deserve a spin.

For me, EC is at his best when he's not attempting to shoehorn too many lyrics into tempos that are too slow, in arrangements that are too showy, and that's what we get here. The presence of Jenny Lewis, well, that's just a bonus.

Another EC shows up on the third new release I've been listening to, Steve Winwood's Nine Lives. A better title might be The Picture of Steve Winwood, because, after seeing and hearing him on last year's Crossroads concert, I'm convinced he's got a painting of himself in an attic somewhere, and in that portrait, he's looking like the dickens. Really, like Charles Dickens would today if you dug him up.

Given his inhuman youthfulness, and his remarkable talent, it's reasonable to expect Winwood to produce at least listenable music, even four decades into his career. Although he was a major contributor to one of my favorite all-time albums, Traffic's John Barelycorn Must Die, nothing I've heard from Winwood in the past couple of decades gave me much hope that he'd produce anything nearly so memorable.

"When You See A Chance" is a perfect example of what's disappointed me about Winwood's music: a cool tune with that Traffic-esque, light jazzy feel, with his piano and organ driving it. All well and good, until that wretched, wriggly synth starts playing over the top of everything. Seriously, where did he get that sample? From someone letting the air out of the neck of a balloon? My perception may be off-base, but that annoying synth blatt seems like the signature sound of his entire solo career. And it utterly ruins songs I would otherwise enjoy.

Can you guess where I'm going with this?

Winwood's new one has considerable promise of a return to earlier, pre-blatting form, and the high spots, like Clapton-spotlight "Dirty City," suggested that recent concerts featuring the Blind Faith music might not have been a fluke. Most of Nine Lives' music, while unremarkable, could fit nicely in a Traffic playlist.

A couple of tracks, however, feature an instrument as prominently and as gratingly as the ol' blatt-synth. It would take a bagpipe, or possibly a concrete drill, to introduce a sound that so utterly undermines and ruins a song for me as the sub-Kenny G* soprano sax bleating lavished on "Fly" and "Other Shore."
It is not just the sound itself--although that's enough to single-reededly wreck a song--but the hideous lapse in judgment in allowing that pathetic moaning licorice stick sound on a recording. Seriously, I'd give me the blatt-synth before making me listen to the bleat-ophone again.

Somewhere I read someone taking Winwood to task as a ghoul for sampling (late Traffic sax/flute player) Chris Wood's sax sound. I think there's a real good chance that lots of samples in today's synths were created by folks who are deceased, so I'm not sure that objection has a lot of merit, or at least, stands out in its ghoulishness. What diminishes Winwood in my eyes is failing to distinguish between a sound like Wood's sax playing and the sorry sax-o-whine on Nine Lives.

* According to Wikipedia, Kenny G's nephew, David, plays bass in the band, Puking Up Sunshine. Uncle Ken has yet to sit in with them, I'd surmise.

Junk to the World!

[Here's a review I wrote recently for Blogcritics. Some years ago, I read a mountain of biographies to contribute to a book called The Juicy Parts, which started me on a nearly all-nonfiction reading diet for more than a decade. One I read in the late 90's became the subject of frequent ridicule from me, a book I'd point out as the generic rock star auto-bio, one that had all the stereotypical sex-and-drugs excess, leading to rehab and redemption. It was so by-the-number (and so poorly written), it could pass as a parody of the rock star tell-all.
It was One Is the Loneliest Number by Jimmy Greenspoon (now out of print, and I gave away my copy, long ago!). The book I review below validates Greenspoon's story. And, while it is equally lousy as a piece of writing, it is compelling, and one of the most depressing books I've ever read.*]

Three Dog Nightmare - The Continuing Chuck Negron Story by Chuck Negron

Through the early 1970s, Three Dog Night was a fixture on the pop charts, a non-‎threatening alternative to the Stones and Zeppelin, yet hipper and harder-rocking ‎than Bread or The Carpenters. The band filled this niche for nearly five years, racking up 21 consecutive Top 40 hits and selling over 80 million albums. They were unusual, not only in their three-lead-vocalist format, but also in the degree of control they had over choosing their material, using their own band in the studio, and acting as co-producers of many of their records. The group’s phenomenal success, and broad appeal, afforded them uncommon freedom from ‎Dunhill, their record label through 1973.

By 1975, though, they were on their third label in three years and the hits had dried up. And by the time Elvis’ walking pharmacy, Dr. Nick, confided to the world the King’s prodigious appetite for prescription drugs, Three Dog Night’s Chuck Negron was selling his gold records to subsidize a $2,000 a day heroin habit.‎

In case the title isn’t sufficient, Negron sets the tone for his autobiography with the book’s first sentence — “I should be dead” — and an opening chapter that catalogs overdoses, car crashes, gun play, suicide attempts, and nearly becoming a victim in the notorious Wonderland murders. By the book’s end, it does seem miraculous that he survived the dissolute life he depicts in Three Dog Nightmare. Negron is merciless, even relentless, in portraying himself as a reckless, impulsive, and selfish junkie who thinks no further than his next score.

His focus throughout the book, an update of the 2000 edition, is his drug use, his repeated attempts at rehabilitation, and his eventual recovery; his musical career is almost incidental to his addiction story. In fact, it becomes obvious that Negron was already dealing with a propensity for substance abuse even before he became a rock star. A few musically-related Three Dog Night anecdotes — like Danny Hutton singing the lead vocal for “Liar” with “his head a few inches above the water line . . . of this scummy toilet” — tease the story of the band that remains largely untold (the only other autobiography out of the band to date, Jimmy Greenspoon’s One Is the Loneliest Number, offers a disturbingly similar, addiction-oriented approach to the Three Dog Night story, and is long out of ‎print.)

Negron’s account of free-lovin’ rock and roll on the road, however — from the exploitation of groupies to his own sexual accomplishments — is covered in exhaustive, sometimes implausible detail. The book has gained some notoriety for the “penis explosion” episode, which is as repulsive, and ludicrous, as it sounds.‎

While Negron’s band mates are generally spared, when he does illuminate his dealings with them, especially his fellow vocalists, it is often in a negative light. Danny Hutton, who appears to have been the band’s early leader, is said to have a “dangerous” ego, and Negron “could no longer trust him with [their] careers” when they disagree on releasing “One” (coincidentally, a Negron lead vocal) as a single. Cory Wells is depicted as both miserly and passively complicit in forcing, and keeping, Negron out of the reconstituted band. When Negron attempts to rejoin them on stage for one song, in 1992, Wells turns him away, allegedly ‎saying, “We’ve been giving them hamburger for so long that if I bring a piece of steak on stage, I’ll never be able to give them hamburger again.”

Other celebrities pass through the book’s pages and, given the pervasiveness of drug abuse and Negron’s sometimes vindictive nature, most of them don’t come off well, either. Sly Stone and his heavies are depicted beating Three Dog Night’s road manager Bob Tomasso nearly to death over refusing to pay for a band ‎member’s cocaine. The legendary porn star, John Holmes, is among the periphery of Negron’s junkie circle, who is ultimately implicated in the Wonderland murders, which take place at the home of a friend where Negron often shot up.

The L.A./Hollywood rock scene was so insular in Three Dog Night’s heyday that Negron comes in contact with a number of other big names, in different circumstances. In their early days, as Redwood, the band collaborated with Brian Wilson, until other Beach Boys reportedly bullied Brian off the project; Mike Love is quoted, true to his reputed character, as saying Redwood is “nothing.” Negron’s band and Chicago encounter each other as collaborators and as both musical and romantic rivals. And when Negron meets Julie, who becomes the mother of one of his children, she was married to the Doors’ John Densmore and pregnant by Allman Bros. Berry Oakley, who was already deceased.‎

Negron reports that Hutton and Wells were apprehensive when he first published Three Dog Nightmare, concerned about their dirt being dished, but his goal was, “[not] telling anyone’s secrets other than mine . . . I was exposing the horrors of my addiction in hopes of helping others with addiction problems.” Through most of the 300 pages, and nearly 20 years, Negron’s single-minded desire for heroin (along with alcohol and other drugs) is shown jeopardizing the livelihoods of his band mates and the safety of his own family.

To his credit, Negron seems to recognize how deplorable his selfishness and self-indulgence are, and how serious the consequences have been for everyone in his life. That doesn’t make it any easier to read about his son, Chucky, being born addicted to heroin or his girlfriend deciding between an abortion or giving birth to a second addicted baby. And despite his candor, Negron seems lacking in introspection over what led to this destructive lifestyle, or what he could have done to prevent it. Had he used a Three Dog Night song title for the book, “My Impersonal Life” might have been appropriate.‎

One of the book’s most disturbing aspects, and the apparent reason for this new edition, is to update the fate of Chucky Negron, that addicted baby. By age 28, Chucky had become a “full-blown heroin and crack addict” and was on his way to prison. Despite the family’s participation in A&E’s Intervention series, Negron indicates that, at the time of his writing, Chucky’s addiction was far from under control.

It’s evident that Negron had the best intentions in portraying himself so negatively and that he is a testament to the practice of rehabilitation, given his ongoing sobriety after more than 30 failed rehab attempts. Three Dog Nightmare should have the desired “Scared Straight” effect, while offering encouragement for addicts and their families. Still, any personal victory Chuck Negron has achieved must be overshadowed by the tragic legacy he handed down to his son, which is certainly the most profound cautionary message of his book.‎

[* With the possible exception of Cormac McCarthy's The Road, which, while masterfully written (seriously, how can you describe an ash-gray landscape over 300 hundred pages without being repetitive or dull?), made me want to lay myself out in one.]

Shine a (Dim) Light

What kind of reviewer, blogger, or writer of any kind would presume to comment on a film or its soundtrack without having seen or heard it?

Hi, everybody!

The idea of Scorsese's Shine A Light appealed to me: a concert film, at IMAX size and volume, by the director of The Last Waltz, contender for best rock concert film to date. No, I haven't yet seen the film or heard the soundtrack, and yes, I am prejudiced against it already, despite my initial enthusiasm.

Initial, brief enthusiasm. And then, I reflected on how many live albums the Rolling Stones have released, and how frequently, and how most of them performed like Brian Jones in a swimming pool. Floating face-down on the surface or listlessly skimming the bottom.

Only their first live album (not counting the questionable Got Live If You Want It!, which is pretty clearly a studio recording with dubbed-in audience sound effects), Get Your Ya-Ya's Out!, conveys the unpredictable, swaggering, messy Stones at their peak. Ya-Ya's was the sound of the still-dangerous band that made a string of albums as good as any in rock and roll, from Beggar's Banquet through Exile on Main St.

Since then, the six live sets they've released have mostly (with the exception of the refreshingly different Stripped) suffered from listlessness (Still Life, an ironically appropriate title), anemic set lists (No Security), or both (Flashpoint). And still, those qualities are preferable to the main deficiency of the last two, their slickness.

I'm no "back to mono" Luddite, contrary to my glowing review of the crudely recorded Battle of the Bands CD a while back. I wouldn't expect a 21st century Stones live album to sound as crude as one released in 1970. But the Stones I grew up rocking out to didn't fix their mistakes in post-production, or at least, didn't sound like they did.

And they sure didn't have a pop diva-du-jour onstage with them. It may be that, as I've read, Christina Aguilara acquits herself admirably on Shine A Light. It's possible that 1977's Love You Live would have been enhanced with a guest vocal from Olivia Newton-John, too. That would just make it a different kind of inferior Stones album.

Nothing would please me more than to walk out of the film amazed by the power and vitality of the Stones and their songs. I would just like to hear them play without a net, again. And give "Satisfaction" a well-earned rest.

Misty Vodka-Flavored Memories . . .

To my reader out there, I apologize if this wallow in the shallow, muddy puddle of my nostalgia is too personal, too generic, too stultifyingly dull even for the standards of this blog. I'll get this out of my system, soon. Until then, just enjoy the pictures and be assured we will return to our irregular, unscheduled program . . . sometime.

If you ever happen across an imaginatively-titled book called, Let the Good Times Roll by Larry Goshen, flip to page 114. (Be careful when ordering to specify the one subtitled "An Anthology of Indiana Music" or you may wind up with the one about "Prostitution and the U.S. Military in Asia.") There you'll see a photo that captures all the reasons we never made it, in a single image.
Three guys who look like they could be in CREEM or Trouser Press, one who looks like he's ready to audition for a Styx cover band, and a rock n' roll J.R. Ewing.
True to the image, three of us were essentially on the same page of sheet music, and the other two just went along. Until they didn't.

It still amuses me that we get a full half-page while David Lee Roth is relegated to one-third of page 115. In your face, DLR!

Our business card . . .
. . . is shockingly tasteful and direct for something I had a hand in.

Misty Water-Logged Memories . . .

If there is an upside to having water in your finished basement, which we have had essentially all year (beginning with our first, day-and-one-half power outage of '08, which kicked off the year for us at 2:30 a.m., New Year's Day), it may be that you come across forgotten treasures -- and "why-did-I-keep-that? junk -- as you're kicking your waterlogged keepsakes to the curb.

As if I needed a reminder of the capriciousness of Fate, I came across the receipt for the NAD 5120 "floppy arm" turntable I sold years ago, and do you think I could turn up the one for our refrigerator, which is still under warranty?

Some of the items spared by the ongoing water incursion were souvenirs from bygone bands, like this Polaroid from the first band I belonged to:

Too bad it's such a poor photo of the band's gear. For all the complaints about excessive volume, looking at these powerhouse amps makes me skeptical about them generating substantial sound pressure levels, you know?
That's a vintage Vox on the left, albeit a solid-state Berkeley II. Barely visible behind that amp is an RMI Explorer, the combo organ some consider an early synthesizer.
[I still own both pieces of gear, but the RMI was stored in the swimming po-- er, basement, when it started filling up.]

This being 1970 or so, and about 100 miles from Chicago, the band was called Rapid Transit (though, surprisingly, not Rapid Transit Authority) when I was asked to join them. The American flag/peace sign logo, on the bass drum head, indicates how the marketing department failed to effectively conceptualize for us.

Apart from the logo, what I remember most about Rapid Transit was that our version of "In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida" clocked in at a cool three minutes, thirty seconds. Including drum solo. Kind of makes me suspect that there weren't a lot of other solos going on.

Fortunately, rather than following the example of our namesake, and shortening it to Rapid, the group chose a new name that was at a least familiar concept to our youthful, rural listeners:

Considering that this was a band of high school students, not many "Clubs" availed themselves of the "heavy rock music" of AXE. The group's specialty became covering Alice Cooper, which might have made sense of the original tag line -- "AXE: Our rock and roll with chop you down!" -- had it not been long gone by that time.

Here, AXE is playing an outdoor event . . .



. . . using a (rented) Shure VocalMaster PA. Rented. As often as we used this rig, we probably could've owned it several times over. Karen Carpenter used to appear in ads for this PA, and see where it got her! (Meaning the gold records, not so much the anorexia.)

Another performance, this one in a high school gym . . .

. . . taken from the perspective of the guy who's preparing to dump a bucket of pig's blood on me. Apparently, just two spectators were able to withstand the onslaught of AXE's heavy rock music.

That blue box, precariously positioned on folding chairs, with a straw hat and a bunch of other junk on it, is a homemade Leslie cabinet. The rotating baffle was run with a sewing machine motor (a little noisy, yeah), speed controlled by rheostat. So, unlike an actual Leslie, this baby had infinite speed variation! Sweet!
Wish I still had it.

One of the few surviving recordings by this aggregation doesn't offer many clues to our set lists. It's largely taken up with numerous attempts at an "original" composition, "Fork In The Road," featuring progressively unmanageable guitar effects -- echo, wah-wah, slide -- and progressively deteriorating tuning, and me affecting some bizarre dialect, pronouncing "wheel" as "will" . . . perhaps in an effort to make the lyrics sound interesting.

Oh, and the tape includes a rendition of Jethro Tull's "Locomotive Breath." Because you just know that was huge with the high school sock-hoppers.

This card . . .

. . . raises soooo many questions:

Is that a color?
Who did that font design and where is he or she institutionalized?
What is a "Way*Star" (or, what does a star weigh)?
What, no polka?

Shame about the nausea-inducing biz card, because this was, sporadically, a great band. When I was invited to join on keys--as an afterthought, natch--one of the guitarists was an Alex Chilton-looking/Paul Westerberg-acting liability who proposed naming the band, Jumping Johnny and the God-Eaters.

Suddenly, Way*Star sounds positively bankable.

The original lead singer -- and I have to be careful here because, one day, he will be out of prison -- shares a name with a venerable Vegas performer, lending some humorous irony to him fronting a pretty darned heavy rock band (to paraphrase a business card I read once). Unfortunately for him, and to our benefit, he took a header into a bus with his motorcycle not long before our debut performance, and, though he recovered fully, he never returned to the band.

True to the haphazard nature that seems to characterize bands I've been in, Way*Star did a mix of eclectic covers and fairly varied originals by three of us. The covers ranged from "Back In New York City" and "Squonk" (Genesis) to "Slow Train" and "Big Fat Mama" (Status Quo) to "Just One Victory" (Utopia), and the originals represented those influences, plus Procol Harum.

Our brush with success came when we recorded four tunes at a studio owned by music professor and Henry Mancini orchestra drummer, Frank Gilfoy, engineered by the superlative Kirk Butler, concurrent with John Mellencamp recording at the same studio with the same engineer. He signed with MainMan and his Gilfoy tracks became half of his first album, Chestnut Street Incident, and now he's in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

We didn't sign with MainMan. The Hall of Fame still ain't called.
Still, our Gilfoy session was a great tape.

The drummer for Way*Star pulled a knife on me once. And that wasn't even the worst thing he did while I knew him. The last I knew, the rest of the band went to L.A. to "make it" while I stayed behind to finish school. They may very well be playing "Slow Train" or "Satin Street Strutter" tonight at the Whiskey.
So keep an eye out for that electric green business card.

In my next pulse-pounding, credulity-installment, a Sex Pistol poaches our band name, we appear to play at Stonehenge, I narrowly escape a beat-down by A Flock of Seagulls' road crew, and we all go home for a nice, long rest.

Coming soon!

More Time-Released Reviews

How did I ever find time to read so much, to take such extensive notes, and write such superficial reviews? The bigger mystery is why did I bother?
To answer the last one, they were commissioned, and never published.
I got interested in biographies while working on The Juicy Parts book for Jack Mingo. (Go ahead and look that one up; copies start at about $0.01 U.S., I imagine.)
While I didn't pursue authoring a second Juicy volume, per Jack's suggestion, I did find myself hooked on biographies, for several years. A lot of them were junk, and made no other pretenses; a number of them (those with the names Richard Ellman or Peter Guralnick on the spine) were entertaining, edifying, and well-written.
Unlike the following, a few of my "lost" book reviews, which deserved to remain that way:

Colonel Tom Parker: the Curious Life of Elvis Presley’s Eccentric Manager
by James L. Dickerson [AMG RATING: 8]
The greatest mystery surrounding Elvis Presley isn’t whether or not he actually died in 1977, but what was the nature of Elvis’ relationship with his secretive manager, the man known as Colonel Tom Parker. For one who was so often in the public eye, and whose decisions drove Elvis’ career—and so affected millions of Elvis’ fans—there are few definitively known facts about Parker. How did Parker convince Elvis to pay him a reported 50 percent commission? Why didn’t he let Elvis tour Europe? Was Parker a U.S. citizen? And who, exactly, was Colonel Parker?

Many of the facts and allegations about Parker have appeared elsewhere. James Dickerson brings to the subject a knowledge of Memphis history, organized crime, and the racial politics of America’s South. He speculates on some of the biggest mysteries surrounding Elvis and the Colonel, and supports several of his theories well. Elsewhere, conjecture on Parker’s ethnic heritage, for instance, goes nowhere. And at times, the normally reasonable Dickerson’s conjecture—such as suggesting that Parker failed his Army physical due to his “homosexual reaction” to other naked men—is both unsupported and ludicrous.

Dickerson is at his best when demonstrating how Parker’s “dark destructive … impulses” impeded Elvis’ career. The fact that the most tantalizing questions about Parker are probably unanswerable doesn’t make it any less exasperating when the author poses them. And when the author himself admits that a fact as basic as his subject’s true identity may never be known, it doesn’t augur well for a definitive biography. Dickerson does provide some interesting perspective; just don’t expect Colonel Tom Parker to dispel all the mysteries of an enigmatic subject.

Dancing With Demons: The Authorized Biography of Dusty Springfield
Penny Valentine and Vicki Wickham [AMG RATING: 6]
Some of the worst biographies are produced by friends, family members, and business associates who should know their subjects best. Whether due to inadequacies as writers or the desire to bend history to their interests, these insiders perpetrate some of the most incomprehensible biographies. Add Dancing With Demons—written by Dusty Springfield’s long-time friend, Penny Valentine, and long-term manager, Vicki Wickham—to the list of insider biographies that utterly fail to lend any sense of what made its subject exceptional. While the authors clearly care for their subject and her music, their attempts to interpret Dusty’s eccentricities, along with their hazy sense of chronology, are as much of a disservice to the singer’s legacy as a sleazy tell-all would have been.

Dusty Springfield was a remarkable stylist who crafted an achingly soulful vocal sound from her deep appreciation of rhythm and blues music, not that you could discern much about her talent from this book. The overwhelming impression of Dusty in Dancing With Demons is that she was famous primarily for being an eccentric “personality,” like Zsa Zsa Gabor or Anna Nicole Smith. Throughout Demons, Dusty’s musical accomplishments are overshadowed by accounts of her bizarre behavior and unconventional lifestyle. The authors trot out numerous accounts of Dusty throwing dinnerware and cutting herself before revealing that she was diagnosed as manic depressive. Many of these numbingly repetitive episodes serve no purpose other than to support the authors’ pop psychology analysis, that Dusty’s behavior was her way of dealing with “chaotic … psychic pain.”

Dusty’s contributions to pop music are incidental to the story the authors try to tell, which focuses far more extensively on her sexuality than on her accomplishments. It seems likely that anyone who would seek out a biography of Dusty Springfield would be more interested in reading about her singing a duet of “Mockingbird” with Jimi Hendrix (on her BBC TV show), for example, than with the names of the gay clubs she played late in her career. There are some revealing anecdotes, such as the encounter with Buddy Rich that gained her a reputation as a “difficult” performer, but far too few. Late in the book, there are brief references to her “fine” R&B record collection (which she sold to Graham Nash) and to her perfectionism in the studio. These tantalizing glimpses into the singer’s personal and professional life only make the reader more aware of the book’s shortcomings.

There are allegedly better books on Dusty Springfield out there, and it’s always possible that one of her confidants will pen a revealing biography doesn’t lose sight of why the singer is so revered. Dancing With Demons, though, despite an author named Valentine, is no love letter.

[Bonus JAG blab: I recently read a reference to this book, and author Penny Valentine, in an interview with Andrew Loog Oldham. As I recall (which is usually dimly), Oldham disparages the book, saying something like “at least Penny Valentine acknowledges being Dusty’s friend,” and suggesting the lack of objectivity that goes along with that. So if someone like Oldham, who was there, finds this account lacking, I’m not surprised it seems so deficient.
Just so you know where I stand on, you know, deficiencies.]

Dream Lovers: The Magnificent Shattered Lives of Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee by Dodd Darin and Maxine Paetro [AMG Rating: 6]
Reading Dream Lovers feels like having a somewhat hysterical stranger tell you his life story. It is compelling, yet disturbing, in both content and the way it’s told. In this unusual tell-all, Dodd Darin makes numerous shameful revelations about his celebrity parents, Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee, and others in his family, not to shock readers, but ostensibly to sort out his own feelings about them. Darin is apologetic about airing the family’s secrets and faults, reflecting on how his parents would feel reading his disclosures. Ultimately, though, the principal “shattered life” Darin is concerned about is his own.

Darin takes an unsettlingly familiar tone with his readers, often leading to the unsettling sensation that he is speaking to close friends or dictating to his diary. While this personal approach may have been therapeutic for him, it makes for uncomfortable reading and a clumsy narrative flow. It doesn’t help that the story is often moved forward by reminiscences (indicated by long passages of italic text) from friends, family members, and professional associates of Darin and Dee. The harsh criticism of Bobby Darin from his sister, Vee, in particular, indicates that Dodd isn’t the only family member with conflicted feelings about the late singer.

Although the Dee-Darin marriage was brief, it is central to Dream Lovers. The characters and situations could have been drawn from the work of James M. Cain or Tennessee Williams. Bobby Cassotto Darin was raised never knowing his father’s identity, believing his mother was his sister, and always aware of a heart condition he thought would kill him by age 30. Sandra (Dee) Douvan was raised by a stifling, dysfunctional mother who may have willingly overlooked her husband’s sexual abuse of Sandra. The couple’s youth—he was 24, she was 16 when they married—and disastrous family backgrounds ensured drama and tragedy, and Dream Lovers delivers plenty of both.

While the Dee-Darin story is fascinating and obscure, the way it’s told will leave readers wondering if dragging such skeletons out of the closet is ever justified, no matter how therapeutic it may be for the author.

Dumb Angel: The Life and Music of Dennis Wilson by Adam Webb [AMG Rating = 6]
Despite good looks and a lifestyle that exemplified the Beach Boys’ image, Dennis Wilson was part of the group only at his mother’s insistence. He was a rudimentary drummer who played on only a few of the group’s records, and his vocal contributions were overshadowed by brother Brian’s soaring falsetto and cousin Mike Love's lead voice and front-man antics. And yet, it was Dennis’ emergence as a songwriter that helped the group craft some of its best work, like 1970’s Sunflower, an album critics have compared favorably to the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper's.

Adam Webb attempts to make a case for Dennis Wilson as the “Surf City Soul” of the Beach Boys, their initial inspiration and the champion of their integrity after Brian’s retreat from the band. Dumb Angel, however, is biographically sketchy and more enthusiastic than insightful in examining often transcendent music. Webb devotes too much space to material that has been better presented elsewhere—such as the lengthy chapter on Wilson’s relationship with Charles Manson—and making specious comparisons between Wilson’s music and that of Lou Reed and Big Star. (In fact, Alex Chilton’s name is dropped as often as Carl Wilson’s, Dennis’ brother and fellow Beach Boy.) Even Steven Gaines’ much maligned Heroes and Villains offers a better overview of Dennis Wilson’s life and career.

Webb’s statement that “Dennis Wilson had dreamt the Beach Boys into existence” is a nice sentiment, but one that overlooks the fact that Dennis was part of the band only as an afterthought. Good intentioned as Webb may be, his admiration for Wilson’s music doesn’t translate into a worthwhile addition to the Beach Boy’s history. Overall, Dumb Angel has the feel of liner notes barely expanded to book length.

Get Back: The Unauthorized Chronicle of the Beatles’ Let It Be Disaster by Doug Sulpy and Ray Schweighardt [AMG Rating: 7]
If the Beatles’ obvious disintegration in the film Let It Be seems depressing, consider what authors Sulpy and Schweighardt went through in researching this book: they listened to every available bit of tape from twenty days’ worth of recording done for the project.
The authors list and describe hundreds of attempts at rehearsing and recording material originally intended for a live performance, although many of the listed titles are either very brief (many running only a few seconds) or formless jams.

The overall picture of the band is discouraging and unflattering. Presumably because the book is not authorized by the Beatles, none of them (or anyone else) is directly quoted; the authors only describe what is said over the course of the sessions. As a result, what could have been a fascinating “fly on the wall” documentary often reads like a paraphrase of court transcripts. This drawback is likely to limit the book’s appeal to a wide audience.

Still, those familiar with the Beatles’ history may be interested to learn that the band was aware of their decline and that they weren’t disciplined or motivated enough to stop it. When Harrison cites manager Brian Epstein’s death as a turning point, McCartney points out the pessimism that has crept into the band since then, calling it a “chore” to be a Beatle by 1969. They marvel at how the same band that produced Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band could be so sloppy and unproductive just two years later. Also apparent is the extent to which Lennon has already opted out of the band, contributing few songs, generally letting Ono speak for him, and shrugging off the possibility that Harrison may permanently leave the band.

Despite the band’s hostility and disarray, there are lighter moments chronicled here, such as the discussion of cover versions of their material and the pleasure they take in playing old rock and roll. Verbatim quotes would be especially welcome in the segments where the Beatles are enjoying each other and their music. As it is, Get Back is more useful as a reference book than a documentary.

Happy [insert appropriate retail holiday]!

Many Americans will not be at work or school on February 18, due to something called "Presidents' Day." Back in my school days, we observed George Washington's birthday, although I don't recall that we had a day off school in observance.
(In those harsh and primitive times, of course, school holidays were few and far-between: a full day off for Christmas, early dismissal on Thanksgiving, after a special luncheon of turkey log and cranberry Jell-o with celery bits. That was it!)

It is tempting to beat the dead horse here about the prevalence of national holidays and the attendant opportunities for bargain shopping. And to sour grape about how unfair it is to those of us who will be going to work rather than to red tag sales.

Instead, let me suggest a new national holiday, Citizen's Day, when the president and Congress -- heck, let's just make it all elected and appointed officials -- work for us while we take the day off. Including, especially, those employed in retail.

George Washington's Birthday Mixtape . . . someone on the radio this morning was talking about Washington's favorite music, and mentioned something along the lines of Successful Campaign or Independence Cotillion or How Great O Thou Republic!
Anyone who's ever been asked to put together a "desert island" list of favorite music, books, or films, though, has to wonder if those aren't just the songs our first U.S. president felt that he had to cite as preferred or superior.

What about the "guilty pleasures"? Shouldn't one's favorite works of art also be those that elicit pleasure? (Why must we be "guilty" if they are "pleasures"? Discuss.)

Think about it. Do you truly believe that every top rock music critic considers The Velvet Underground & Nico, Neutral Milk Hotel's In An Aeroplane Over the Sea, and Captain Beefheart's Trout Mask Replica to be indispensable castaway listening?
Maybe.
Had every critic who claimed to need Big Star's Third l.p. to live actually owned it, Alex Chilton wouldn't be playing Box Tops medleys at Holiday Inns these days; as it is, you could barely build a raft with the copies sold. Or so it seems to me.

There's certainly nothing wrong with having sophisticated tastes or preferences in popular arts that are unconventional, and you would not be the first to suggest that my skepticism is due to my inability to appreciate challenging art. Perhaps I can only appreciate junk culture and enjoy trying to bring others down to my level.

Still, I think that most pop music critics, if they were being honest, facing an existence of splitting coconuts and conversing with a volleyball, would choose top ten Motown over proto-fusion Miles Davis.

And I'd like to think George Washington cut loose to The Brandywine and Lord Howe's Jig once in a while.*

* All the song titles mentioned in connection with our first president, above, come
from George Washington: A Biography in Social Dance, by Kate Van Winkle Keller
and Charles Cyril Hendrickson, not from my imagination. No, it is not on my
desert island list.

Easy To Swallow C*pl*ts

It is appropriate to the Valentine's season that my thoughts turn to a long, somewhat tumultuous, mutually unsatisfying relationship.
All Music Guide and me.

Over ten years ago, I started writing short music reviews for AMG, but I was most attracted to the opportunity to review books when they announced that as a major initiative. Most of the music I've reviewed for them has been old (from the 70's, primarily) and lesser-known-to-obscure.

Since then, they've abandoned the book review initiative and have alienated a number of their long-time freelancers. "Work for hire" writers should certainly be realistic in their expectations in these professional relationships. Still, the blatant commodification and neglect ... as I said, it's appropriate for them to come to mind during the Val's Day season!

No idea how many of these old reviews are still on the AMG site. I see my stuff as often on commercial sites and music blogs as on their site.

My hope here is to counteract some of the lousy karma of the whole thing by raising your interest in some of these albums, and make an effort to hear them.

Mystic Moods Orchestra: Mystic Moods Country [1972] AMG Rating = 6
The Mystic Moods Orchestra’s concept of overlaying easy listening music with sound effects may have been inspired by a DJ’s prank, but this studio group built an entire, improbable career on that formula. Their atmospheric, low-impact renditions of make-out standards such as “Love Is Blue,” on albums with titles like Erogenous, were state-of-the-art seduction music of their day.

In a departure from their “stormy night” albums, the (misleadingly titled) Mystic Moods Country surveys an odd assortment of folk and protest-light songs from the late 60’s and early 70’s. The closest they come to an actual country song, in fact, is Joe South’s “Don’t It Make You Want To Go Home.” Other than that, the Orchestra applies its soft-focus approach to songs by, or closely associated with Bob Dylan, the Byrds, Donovan, Harry Nilsson—even Bobby Darin’s denim-wearing days are represented with “Simple Song of Freedom.”

And while Country uses plenty of the Mystic Moods’ signature sound effects, the effects on this album are often startling rather than soothing. On the opening track, “Elusive Butterfly of Love,” the frenzied crickets’ chirping sounds more panicked than amorous. Later, the croaking of bullfrogs shatters any prospect of romance. Despite the usual relaxed tempos and cushy arrangements, the choice of sound effects throughout the album almost comes across as self-parodic.

Mystic Moods music was a unique sub-genre of bachelor pad music. With Mystic Moods Country, the songs have all the sharp edges removed, in typical Mystic Moods Orchestra fashion, only with obtrusive animal noises added. A unique entry in the Mystic Moods’ catalog, it has to be one of the most misguided “romance” albums ever.

Procol Harum: Broken Barricades [1971] AMG Rating = 8
Building on the more guitar-oriented sound of the previous year’s release, Home, Broken Barricades is Procol Harum’s most mainstream rock album. Guitarist Robin Trower plays an unprecedented role in the album’s sound, his last with Procol before leaving to form his own band. He contributes nearly as many songs as does pianist Gary Brooker, including “Song For A Dreamer,” which foreshadows the contemplative Hendrix-influenced style so prominent on his solo albums, and his guitar often dominates the material he didn’t write; his work on the opening song, Brooker and Reed’s formidable “Simple Sister,” features interplay between electric guitar and orchestra as powerful as any in rock and roll.

Apart from that, most of the album finds the band augmented only by tasteful synthesizer work (as on the title track) or a blowzy horn section (“Playmate Of The Mouth”), if at all. Drummer B.J. Wilson is given plenty of room in the mix to showcase his solid, inventive drumming, contributing greatly to the album’s punchy sound. It was their best-sounding studio album to date, and showed each member of the band to their best advantage.

With its single-length songs and strong guitar presence, Broken Barricades could have been the blueprint for a new sound for the band. With Trower’s departure for a successful solo career, however, Procol Harum wound up falling back on the more ornate sound of their earlier albums. This would be Trower’s last recording with the band for another 20 years, until the reunion album, Prodigal Stranger (1991).

Flash Cadillac & The Continental Kids: Sons Of The Beaches [1975] AMG Rating = 8
For their third album, Flash Cadillac masterfully recreates the breezy California pop of the mid-60’s. Beach Boys comparisons are inevitable, especially given that they open the album with an expert cover of “Summer Means Fun,” originally recorded by Bruce Johnston, a Beach Boy himself, and sometimes Beach Boy producer, Terry Melcher. They also manage two satisfying Beach Boys homages with the original (Kris Moe) compositions that follow it, “Time Will Tell” and “It’s A Summer Night.” “It’s A Summer Night” may be the pinnacle of Flash Cadillac’s recording career, with outstanding vocal and instrumental work by the group, set against flawless 60’s production values.

Two tracks by Hondell Richard Burns--the oldie “Come On Let’s Go” and a new song, “Good Times, Rock & Roll”--fit into the program nicely. Another Moe original, “I Wish You’d Dance,” brings some sparkle to the album’s second side, but “It’s Hard (To Break The Ice)” is bland, and the closing “Rock and Roll Menace” is pointless and dull. With a few more top-quality tunes, this album could’ve been a 10. As it is, Sons Of The Beaches is a refreshing, well-executed evocation of a golden age of pop songwriting and record making.

(After more than two decades out of print, the Varese Sarabande label issued Sons... on CD, for the first time, in 2000. The CD adds two versions of the single, "Did You Boogie (With Your Baby)," the first featuring legendary d.j., Wolfman Jack; their sparkling cover of Roy Wood's "See My Baby Jive"; and that single's flipside, "Brown Water." Along with the informative liner notes, the crisp, clean remastering makes the CD a must for fans of well-executed, 60's style pop.)

[Stupid me. A few months ago, I started to get a huge spike in comments on my blog posts--anything over zero being huge--and thought maybe I was being read and should start posting to this blog more often. Turns out they were ALL spam, ads, and links to malware sites, attracted by my post titles that included words like "c*plets" . . . as I said, stupid me.]

Playing for Keeps: Battle of the Bands Live!

Rock and roll has been around long enough now to have developed its own traditions. ‎Some, we could do nicely without — drum solo, I’m looking at you! Several of the early ‎rock traditions that have disappeared over the years, though, are true losses and none ‎more so than the live album.

Of course, plenty of live concert recordings, audio and video, are released every year, ‎with increasingly-sophisticated enhancements like 7.1 (and counting) surround sound and ‎hi-def resolution. And while studio sweetening has long been a mainstay of live ‎recording, the out-of-tune bass on Steppenwolf Live and Morrison blowing out his throat ‎on the Doors’ Absolutely Live are the kinds of authentic concert moments that make live ‎rock and roll so exciting and unpredictable, and which would never make it onto a ‎contemporary live album.

Another rock and roll institution that has nearly disappeared is the battle of the bands. ‎Beginning about five minutes after the Beatles first appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, ‎kids started bugging their parents for electric guitars and drum kits. Soon after that, it was ‎common for even small communities to have several rock combos—with names like The ‎Dukes and The Elements of Time—competing for the few available gigs at area high ‎schools, church basements, and teen hangouts. This was the environment that led some ‎enterprising individual to invent an ingenious means of providing entertainment for the ‎kids, performance opportunities for the musicians, and some modest admission fees for the ‎promoters.

Battle of the Bands Live! (from the wonderful Collectables label) is as close as you can ‎come to reliving those band competitions that were fixtures of the local music scene ‎across America throughout the 60s and early 70s. Unlike Hollywood’s depiction of the ‎‎“typical” American high school rock n’ roll dance, this CD offers an unvarnished, vérité ‎version that’s as raw and immediate as the best documentary film.

Over the course of 22 tracks, The Outcasts, The Stingrays, and The Apollos blast through ‎short sets, comprised mainly of mid-60s rock standards. While the setting isn’t identified, ‎the recording is low-fi to the extreme, almost as if it was made using the bulky tape ‎recorder that ordinarily played the national anthem over the school PA each morning, and ‎the gray, plastic mic the principle used to read the daily announcements and lunch menu.

The lack of 21st century high-fidelity is what makes Battle of the Bands Live! so genuine; ‎short of building a time machine, this is as close as you will get to experiencing a classic ‎rock and roll throwdown. And the disc more than compensates for lousy sound with its ‎authenticity. In contrast to today’s freeze-dried, computer-assisted perfection in “live” ‎performances, the bands’ punky energy and exuberance are as refreshing as an ice-cold ‎glass of Bosco.

Like on their swaggering take on “Dirty Water” when The Apollos’ singer daringly ‎spouts off about how he “can take a shower with my baby and walk around”! The same ‎guy also takes some entertaining stabs at the lyrics on a three-song mini-set of Animals ‎covers—such as “sweatin’ ‘round, at my command” (“It’s My Life”) and something that ‎sounds like “don’t you know that no allow can always be natured” (“Don’t Let Me Be ‎Misunderstood”)—because, man, it’s a hassle to suss out the right words off the record! ‎And it wasn’t like you could look them up on the Internet.

There’s much more to the appeal of Battle than the lack of polish, of course. Looking at ‎the track list, you may wonder why, apart from the improvised lyrics and asides, you ‎would possibly want to hear yet another version of many of selections here. But The ‎Outcasts’ snappy take on “Louie Louie,” for instance, actually sounds fresh with the ‎addition of their vocal harmonies. Strong group vocals also rejuvenate worn-out ‎standards like “Little Latin Lupe Lu” and lend polish to The Stingrays’ “Eight Days a ‎Week.”

What may be most unexpected is (holy manzarek!) how often the combo organ players ‎get to the front of the mix for solos and fills. It’s been a long time since bands included ‎the distinctive sounds of Farfisa’s and Vox’s instead of a generic digital “keyboard,” and ‎the combo organ-grinding here is a welcome sound.

If anything, the degree of professionalism these three bands display is the only aspect which may not be truly representative of the typical battle of the bands. One band member ‎even refers to making a demo. At most of these “battles,” you would have had a better ‎chance of hearing Marty McFly on lead guitar than a band that had seen the inside of a ‎studio. Still, this disc provides a glimpse of the career path that wasn’t entirely ‎improbable back then, when a band could rise to regional prominence, get a recording ‎contract, and be professional musicians, at least for a while.

Most participants in these battles, however, never cut demos, never signed record deals, ‎and probably never realistically aspired to any glory much greater than besting the other ‎rec-room rockers they competed against. For them, a night like the one captured on Battle ‎of the Bands Live! was the stuff of local legend and lifelong bragging rights. Although ‎The Stingrays express the hope that “we can do something with” their original, “If She ‎Were Mine,” it was The Outcasts who later records a single (“I’m In Pittsburgh and It’s ‎Raining”) that has realized impressive longevity by appearing on garage-psych ‎anthologies such as the first Pebbles volume. Otherwise, it’s safe to assume that the ‎performances on this disc, which someone thought enough of to not only record, but also ‎to preserve all these years, were career high points.

Given the ongoing American Idol-ization of popular music, it is more important than ever ‎that upcoming young musicians get to hear what actual amateurs sound like performing ‎genuine rock and roll, without any sweetening, enhancement, or retakes. Imagine how ‎disillusioned the pioneering rockers of the 50’s and 60’s would have been if TV then had ‎been so saturated with the glossy airbrushed perfection of most of today’s “live” music ‎performances.

So, while it may seem ludicrous to hunt down a definitively low-fi CD of obscure cover ‎bands from forty years ago (or to read a few hundred words extolling its virtues), Battle ‎of the Bands Live! is nothing less than an artifact of a time, long past, when a group of ‎neighborhood kids with some talent had the chance to perform, and maybe even get a ‎shot at the Big Time.‎

Don't gob on me!

For the third time this summer, I've seen someone's posted an album on a blog or forum, accompanied by my AMG (All Music Guide) review of it. Well, glad someone's getting some use out of them. The latest, WASP by Shawn Cassidy.

Seeing as I have only a prerecorded cassette version of this, my guess is that I saw said tape in a cut-out bin and snatched it up, as I used to do. Either that or reading a CREEM review, one or the other, had to be my first exposure to this unlikely pairing of the teen idol and Todd Rundgren/Utopia.

Hearing it again, I'm still unsure whether Todd was trying to humiliate SC with the idiosyncratic Todd-isms like the chipmunk voice and novelty synth sounds, or if it was Rundgren's sincere attempt to make Shawn sound hip. When the production gimmicks don't overwhelm him, this album shows that Cassidy could've been a viable rocker in the 80's. Apart from those dated Todd-touches, the album has aged well . . . it still rocks!

I am more convinced that ever, though, that it's Rundgren himself -- rather than him making SC sound uncannily like him -- on the title track. C'mon, listen to the way he says: "Looking for somebody to gob on? Well, don't gob on me!"

Until it's issued on CD, if ever, you'll have to blog-crawl to find WASP, which I recommend you do. It's gob-worthy!

Crimp a carrot with the Cowsills

"Crimp a carrot" has something to do with Susan Dey's overbite . . . was it one of Bonaduce's lines on The Partridge Family?

More importantly, does Susan Cowsill have the requisite orthodonture for crimping?

Doesn't matter, nor does the fact that I just realized that the person who inspired Laurie Partridge has the same first name as the actress who played her! What next? We'll discover that Bud Cowsill's real name was Reuben?
One of the liberating aspects of the 21st century (perhaps the only proof that irony is actually dead?) is that the ascendancy of The Nerd has had numerous spin-off benefits. Such as that formerly-leprously dorky music is now officially OK!
Unlike some other acts I could mention (*cough* The Osmonds *cough*), though, I never hid my Cowsills torch under a bushel basket. Their records were not among those I tossed under the couch when company came a'callin.'
And among those non-tossed Cowsills albums, their live one is a particular favorite.

In what strikes me as a bit of duh-speak, the CD liner notes for The Cowsills in Concert is like a microcosm of what made sixties' rock and roll unique.

Although the Cowsills inspired the Partridge Family, the actual family band's story was about as believable as Danny Bonaduce actually playing those Joe Osborn bass parts. In 1965, there was nothing unusual about a bunch of guys getting a band together to play frat parties. What could be more far-out, though, than a rock band made up of five brothers, their sister, and their mother? And Dad retiring from the Navy to manage the band!

Rock and roll was supposed to be about rebellion, about rejecting the older generation's "plastic trip," not cutting loose on some Cream jams with your mom. And certainly not about the very embodiment of the Establishment—Bud Cowsill, a retired military man—calling the shots on your career.

But what could be more representative of this most egalitarian era of rock than a bunch of kids who go from playing Beatles and Everly Brothers songs at school dances, to multiple gold records and immortality on TV Land?

The Concert album is certainly a product of its time. In those days, a major act like the Cowsills could put out an album of cover songs—the same set list as every garage bands in America—without it seeming too much like a contractual fulfillment. Or a joke.

Just how close the Cowsills still were to their rec-room/frat-party band roots, even with a couple of hits under their big wide belts, is evident in their set list.
Their versions of the Left Banke’s “Walk Away Renee,” the Mamas and Papas’ “Monday, Monday,” and the Beatles’ “Paperback Writer” are all credible, with vocal harmonies that rival the originals. Even the complexity of “Good Vibrations” doesn’t trip them up, although the lyrics seem to. Some of the lead vocal performances are especially choice, like John’s “high lonesome” sound on “Act Naturally” and Barry’s “Please Mr. Postman” sounding almost like Larry Collins tearing up “Whistle Bait.”

They don't hit every one outta the park, of course. Their take on “Reach Out, I’ll Be There” proves they were no Funk Brothers, and Mitch Ryder probably owes them an ass-kicking for what they do to his Detroit medley.
Nothing like faux-vaudeville to bring things to a grinding halt, and Susan's spotlight song, “Hello Hello,” truly grinds. (Sorry, Susan. On the OTOH, get her solo work, the Continental Drifters, and the Twilley albums she sings on. All terrif.)
And while “Sunshine of Your Love” isn't an embarrassment, it does demonstrate that poor John was no Ginger Baker.

For fan-pandering (or just baiting), MGM slapped the studio version of “Hair”—the Cowsill's biggest-ever hit—onto the l.p. It doesn't sound terribly out of place, with an extremely basic arrangement that sounds similar to the rest of the album. If Concert was a studio-produced cheat, there are no strings, no horns, no theremin (or tannerin, even) to give it away.

On the Cowsill.com site, Bob explains that the album was recorded on two nights in Cleveland, and cops to "some vocal augmentation" and says they "rounded out the rough edges," but never allowed that it was not, substantially, the document of a live performance.)
Three years after this album was recorded, I saw them perform. “Mini-Mom” Barb and Bill had left the band, they'd been dumped by MGM Records, and they were playing a county fair. For all that, they brought their “A” show — they could play. Whether or not the playing on Concert is all Cowsills—and it likely was not—it could have been. They were a legitimate rock and roll band.

The Cowsills in Concert is a souvenir of an age when a big-time act could release an album of covers like this without being ironic about it, and when anyone could get a record deal, have a hit, and be a rock star. Even a wholesome-looking group of kids. And their mom.

The Razor & Tie CD adds the four studio tracks that were known as "The Milk E.P.," which was apparently a highly desirable collector's item. It's a nice little set of psychedelic-lite and Merseybeatley ballads, along with the breezy, “The Fun Song,” that sounds like it could have come off the Beach Boys' Friends album.
Four more reasons you should own this CD!

[This column appeared in slightly different form, with some mistakes, on blogcritics.org.]

Addendumb: After posting this last night, I heard "Indian Lake" on the radio this morning! Which prompts me to recommend that Cowsills neophytes start their listening with the greatest hits disc, rather than the concert one. Because the only hit on the concert one is the one I dislike!

The House of Cash parks here

I just got back from vacation and is my credit card sore!

Rather than my hoped-for Route 66 trip, or even just the hoped-for culmination at Saltair, and maybe re-enact some scenes from Carnival of Souls, we had to scale waaaaay back on our vacation plans, once again, due to the J-O-B.
So instead of visiting a haunted pavilion full of dancing ghosts, we spent a day at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum. Which, come to think of it, has some haunting sights of its own.
The one that stuck in my mind from our first visit to the RnR HOF, over ten years ago, was the one artifact I could barely stand to look at again, a piece of wreckage from Otis Redding's plane. There is an eloquent, moving point to be made about how emblematic that scrap of aluminum, with "Otis" in cool script, by someone with a talent for that. All I will say is that I accidently saw a photo of this wreckage on the RnR HOF site and choked up.
But although many of those represented have gone on to the great gig in the sky, the RnR HOF is not a grim place. Despite the admission price coming in around a hundred bucks for a family of four, which is a little grim. (And although I refer to it as the Hall of Fame, the HOF is secondary to the museum, in my IMO.)
There is so much to see that carping about the price to see it seems petty, even for me. And it is "eyes only," as photography is prohibited, which is my only other beef.
When I start to recommend visiting the HOF, it's difficult to say "if only to see" and chose a reasonable number of things to mention. For starters, there's:

• don't-miss exhibits on the Beach Boys, Doors, and Clash
• the 1963-or-so 'Vette Roy Orbison drove during the Mystery Girl sessions
• John CIppolina's mutant guitar amp
• stage costumes (and a "keytar" Moog!) from soul acts like the Isleys
• a history of the Warped Tour
• Hendrix wardrobe items: unlike so much of the Munchkin-scale clothing there,
  Jimi's clothes look life-sized, and like real clothes, albeit stuff that only a thoroughly
  unique, self-assured rock deity could wear!

Speaking of looking real, not that I'm a deep thinker, but the concepts of "reality" and image are impossible to ignore at the HOF. Like, I know Prince is not a towering human being, but is Bowie also five-foot-nothin'? As his costumes would make him appear? How about George Clinton? Was Freddy Mercury Billy Barty-sized?
So much of the stage-wear also looks so chintzy. Take a close-up gander at Jagger's Voodoo Lounge togs, with little plastic-looking gris-gris dangling at random off it, like something I'd rig up for Halloween.
Some of the gear-- such as the ass-ugly ZZ Top "terminator" guitars -- was clearly not designed to stand up to close examination.
I can only imagine how those who have never played in a rock and roll band (is there anyone left who hasn't?) must react to some of the instruments on display.

According to the HOF site, Johnny Cash's bus closes for the season, October 1, so y'all hustle on up!

The Warmth of the Sum- Sum- Summertime

A new Beach Boys compilation? It must be summer!

This is one of those things I started writing several times, and alluded to the last time I did manage a post here, two weeks ago. (Two weeks!?) My initial reaction to the new Beach Boys comp, The Warmth of the Sun, was cynical (as evidenced by my tag line, in italics up there).

But it seems like it was just the other day that I bought the previous one hits comp, (Sounds of Summer), and that was followed, like, a week later by the hits as selected by Brian Wilson. Of course, they weren't that recent, nor in that order; the BW classics selection was released in 2002, the "very best" the next year. But that was only three years after two volumes of hits.

As someone commented to me, elsewhere, when I made this same point, what matter is whether or not the new CD is any good on its own merits. And it is. It's similar to some BB mixes I've made, myself. And it's wonderful to see them back on the charts. I only wish it were for something new, and not something many of us have, many times over.

The following review of the CD appeared, in somewhat different form, on Blogcritics [blogcritics.org].

-----------------------------------

In all that's been said and written about this year's fortieth anniversary of 1967's Summer of Love, not much of it has mentioned the Beach Boys. Perennial bridesmaids to Capitol Record's top act, "America's Band" seemed poised in '67 to take their rightful place alongside the Beatles in being embraced as the most innovative and influential acts in pop music.

Then, in all-too-typical Beach Boys' tradition, they were scuttled by a series of bad decisions and unfortunate circumstances. The band backed out of the headlining spot at the Monterey Pop Festival that June — fearing they'd been seen as "too square" by the hip, new youth culture — and they failed to complete and release Smile, meant to be the band's ultimate artistic expression. As many superior records as they made subsequently, what the Beach Boys accomplished after the summer of 1967, compared to their potential, has been something like what Smiley Smile was, compared to what Smile could have been.

(The completed Smile released by Brian Wilson a couple years ago is fantastic, not to mention, miraculous. It's not the same record as the original would've been, however, and we'll never know how its completion and release in 1967 might have changed things for the band.)

The twin setbacks of '67 have also been compounded by one of the most confusing catalogs in rock and roll, especially since the advent of CDs. A simple suggestion that Good Vibrations is a good starting point* in an essential Beach Boys collection begs the question of where to start. Well, do you mean the box set, greatest hits volume one, or volume two? Given that the Beach Boys are artists who coined a signature catch phrase, Capitol has been unable to slap it on a ridiculous number of products through the years.

So it was refreshing to see this summer's new Beach Boys compilation, The Warmth of the Sun, with title and content that seem to signal a welcome new approach to the band's Capitol recordings. Intended as a companion to the 2003 greatest hits CD, The Sounds of Summer, Warmth is a 27-track sampler of singles and album tracks that provide ample evidence of the band's versatility.

Some of their most breath-taking melodies and harmonies were heard in songs that never saw radio play; including "Kiss Me Baby" and the original version of "Forever." Both tracks are included here, and should bring them new respect. Cherry-picking the best tracks from the uneven Surf's Up album — representing some of the finest songwriting by Brian Wilson, Carl Wilson, and Bruce Johnston — may help place "Til I Die," "Feel Flows," and "Disney Girls" among the Beach Boys' finest moments. Even the more-familiar tracks, such as "All Summer Long" and "Wendy," are spruced up with new stereo mixes that make them sound fresh.

The hook for this collection is that the band members themselves selected the tracks; the only possible explanation for the order of them on the CD is that they sequenced it, too. Some of the transitions — from a hardly-essential cover of "Why Do Fools Fall In Love" to the sublime "Surf's Up," for instance — are as startling as a plunge into the ocean in winter.

There is also the question of who this eclectic batch of songs was intended to appeal to. Longtime fans will already have every track (albeit with a few getting upgraded mixes here), while casual listeners won't see many smash hits to reel them in. Warmth of the Sun is essential only to supplement the previous hits disc or to partially replace some of the old collections.

And so, while this is a splendid CD on its own merits, unless it is a step toward upgrading and simplifying the Beach Boys catalog, it can become just another random repackaging of songs that have been compiled to death. Hopefully, Warmth of the Sun is a sign that Capitol is finally giving the Beach Boys the treatment they deserve.

[The whole Warmth of the Sun experience is even more enjoyable alongside a terrific podcast series posted on beachboyswarmth.blogspot.com, featuring interviews with all the surviving Beach Boys, minus David Marks. Brian Wilson sounds animated, lucid, and more expansive than seems possible; Mike Love is surprisingly gracious and honest; and Bruce Johnson's impression of his boss is hysterical. A wonderful companion to the CD.]

* Addendumb: Recently I had occasion to return to the Good Vibrations box set, while putting together a Beach Boys/Brian Wilson "indoctrination kit" for a friend. It had been years since I'd played the box set versions of that music, and boy, do those discs sound atrocious. Like, shockingly bad. Flat, dull, muffled-- any of the labels for lousy CDs apply here.

So, how 'bout it, Capitol? Isn't it time that, rather than another hits set or arbitrarily-assembled collection, you release a decent-sounding Beach Boys box set?

. . . there's nothing Bright about it . . .

To the disappointment of my vast readership, I won't have time for my usual two-thousand-word drool today. Only for a few hundred.
To my disappointment (and this is essentially saying the same thing as the beginning of that first sentence, sadly), they won't be about my planned topic.

I do have to comment, however, on the accusation by a couple former Rubinoos that Avril Lavigne plagiarized her song, "Girlfriend," from their 1979 one, "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend." Unlike most of these kinds of accusations, I've actually heard of the accusers. And after hearing clips of both songs (via TMZ.com), I say the 'noos have a slam-dunk.

Avril's song isn't similar, or derivative. It IS that other song!

Back in the 1970s, I read that some calculations based on all possible variables indicated then that there were only a few thousand original songs that hadn't yet been written. I guess the key to a semblance of originality nowadays would have to start with avoiding the identical rhythm, progression, and most of the lyrical hook of an existing song.

Now if Avril wants to do something truly edgy and nervy, she'll plagiarize George Harrison's "This Song."

This Ain't the Summer of Love

This Ain't the Summer of Love by Blue Oyster Cult rocks me to my soul, and has never been more appropriate than it is right now.
Just sayin' . . .

Blue Oyster Cult is one of a very few bands I saw in concert, back in The Day (and when I want to feel geologically ancient, I remind myself this was in THE LAST CENTURY!), that I would go see again. Or could, for that matter.
There's been sooooo much written and said about 1967 and that year's music, I couldn't help thinking how much popular music has stagnated since then.
For an idea of how monumental and pivotal 1967 was, in pop music alone, take a look at the Summer of Love issue of Rolling Stone and its list of "40 Essential Albums" from that year.
Debuts from Procol Harum, Moby Grape, and the Doors (who managed two album releases that year). The best studio albums by Cream and the Who; some of the best music produced by Buffalo Springfield, the Kinks, the Moody Blues, and Pink Floyd. The Byrds album from that year is not their finest--they were without Gene Clark, the best singer and songwriter ever in the band. But it's the Byrds! How inferior can it be?
Definitive soul music from James Brown, Otis Redding and Carla Thomas, and the under-appreciated Howard Tate. Six sides--that is, the majority--of the essential Jimi Hendrix studio recordings.
An album by Love that belongs up with the best of the decade. Two U.S. albums from the Stones, a couple (of highly variable quality) from the Beach Boys, two of Jefferson Airplane's best.
And 1967 was the last year the Beatles released more than one album. Just think about Sgt. Pepper's and Magical Mystery Tour both issued, fresh and new, within one year.

The stars have not aligned such since, and likely never will. I realize any comparison of ANY year since, with the unique circumstances of the mid-60s that led to the singular achievements in rock and pop, would be ludicrous.
And it would just sound reverse-ageist for me to try to make a case for that 40-year-old music being better than what's new today, not that those arguments ever convince anyone, anyway.

Not only does new popular music suffer by comparison, as I indicated above, not many acts I'm interested in are touring. Or can.
I don't have to go further that the B's to list a lot of bands I'd love to see (or see again) in concert, for whom reunions are just not gonna happen: Badfinger, The Band, Beach Boys, Beatles, Big Star, Byrds . . .

Well, this started out being some of my "thoughts" about Monterey and the Beach Boys. A few hundred words later, and I've meandered totally off point.
So, moron this later.

What Spinal Tap is to drummers . . .‎

Someone I know was mentioning that he’d miss the July 7 Live Earth “Concerts for a Climate in Crisis” because we’d be playing then, ourselves (although at a significantly lower-profile event). It’s safe to say that this guy is dismissive of—even derisive toward—the notion of “climate in crisis.” Although he was keenly tuned into the Live 8 concerts, I doubt he could tell you what cause they supported. Lacking an act that interests him as Pink Floyd’s reunion did, he was utterly disinterested in Live Earth.

Until, that is, I mentioned to him that Spinal Tap would be playing. So now maybe he’ll TiVo the UK segment so I can see the 21^st century Tap and bask in the metal goodness of their new anthem, “Warmer Than Hell.”

The short film, at http://liveearth.msn.com/le/video, certainly stays true to the Spinal Tap spirit, down to Marty DeBergi’s participation. I’ll be on the edge of my drum throne to see if their bad luck streak with percussionists still holds.

That kind of rotten luck seems almost inevitable when it comes to drummers, (although losing one to spontaneous human combustion seems exceptional). Our band’s gone through them like a hair band runs through Aqua Net. We’re currently on our fifth drummer in the past couple of years. Which helps explain why this weekend will be our first gig since last December.

Acquiring and keeping a decent drummer is such a frustrating enterprise, it’s enough to make me understand what led to the development of the drum machine. What they lack in personality, they more than make up in reliability. There’s no question that you’ll find your drum machine where you left it last, and that it will be ready to work when the rest of the band shows up. And the chicks don’t ever want to go home with the drum machine.

Given this apparent shortage, it seems especially unfair and wasteful when a band has what seems to be an excess of drummers and doesn’t make full use of them.

Take the Grateful Dead, for years, one of the best-known of the double-drummer bands. Lately I was listening to Workingman’s Dead and American Beauty for the first time in years, and was struck by just how little they used drums: “New Speedway Boogie” (handclaps only?), “High Time” and “Brokedown Palace” (no drums at all). “Uncle John’s Band,” “Friend of the Devil,” “Candy Man,” featured brushes or very light drum work.

Granted, these are the only two studio albums of theirs that I own, so maybe they aren’t typical. And maybe they retained two drummers for their live work, which was the Dead’s bread and butter. Still, it seems odd for a band with such deep apparent folk influence and jazz aspirations to incorporate the twin drummers.

The money for that second drummer might’ve been better spent on some backup singers. Even considering the 1970 SoCal atmosphere from which the albums sprang, the harmony vocals are often shaky, sometimes downright shrieky.

Or they could have—and should have—invested some of that second drummer’s salary toward insurance for their keyboard players. What Spinal Tap is to drummers, the Dead were to keys players. For 30 years, the band replaced this perennial musical fifth wheel position roughly every decade. First was “Pigpen” (d. 1973, liver failure), then Keith Godchaux (d. 1980, car wreck), and Brent Mydland (d. 1990, drug misadventure).

The one that bothers me the most is Vince Welnick, who died in 2006, in a particularly horrific suicide. Not only the utterly preventable way he died, but Welnick’s work on my favorite Tubes albums makes his death the most tragic to me.

As a piano player myself, and on behalf of anyone they might tap for a reunion tour, I urge the Grateful Dead to forget about filling that position. Get someone in to blast some saxophone or slap around a tambourine. Just give the keyboards a break.

Oh, and the next person who uses the phrase, “long, strange trip,” or any derivative of same, in connection with the Grateful Dead should have to play keys for them.