Saturday, July 7, 2012

The Who - Quadrophenia


Quadrophenia (MCA2-10004) 
Released 1973


I Am The Sea
The Real Me
Quadrophenia
Cut My Hair
The Punk Meets The Godfather
I'm One
The Dirty Jobs
Helpless Dancer
Is It In My Head
I've Had Enough
5:15
Sea And Sand
Drowned
Bell Boy
Doctor Jimmy
The Rock
Love, Reign O'er Me



The album would have been a disaster if any other music idiom, say like covers or typical 60s music, had been used.  People forget that the whole point of Quadrophenia, written in `71 and `72, is that it's a look back, a retrospective.  And to arrive at where you were at, you need a vehicle.  Pete Townshend's choice of music to journey in that vehicle was spectacular. (Irish Jack Lyons)

It was the summer when I used to listen to it a lot.  And all these years later, it's still the summer when it sounds best.  Townshend or Daltery or one of them (or both of them) and various rock crits used to complain about the mix, that it was muddy.  I never thought it was muddy.  

It was oceanic.

From the waves crashing against the rocks, heard as it fades in and between cuts every now and then, right to the end with Moonie's percussion collection clattering against the studio floor and walls, as the rain sounds.  You can get lost in it.

From that opening, that stormy sea, waves crashing, wind howling, and you can hear voices in the tumult, snatches of song, before you hear Roger snarl(entreat) "Can you see the real me?" and the band crashes in, Entwistle playing the most amazing bass, still to this day, soloing behind the slashing chords, driving.  Teenage angst personified as our hero rails against parents, shrinks, and preachers, none of whom can understand his inner turmoil.  

At the time I was heavily into Quad I was also heavily into punk rock.  And while it was obvious that this was very different from the crash-and-bash of Black Flag or The Sex Pistols, you could hear it was really the same thing, arted-up sometimes, with its operatic and theatrical choruses, yet even something like "The Punk Meets The Godfather", told the same tale.  Told it with honesty and truth, just as surely as the young and the artless headbangers did.  Perhaps even told it better, for PT was a better writer than Rollins or Ginn ever were.

Roger once said he didn't see how American kids could possibly relate to the film version of Quad.  Film critic Danny Peary was sharper.  He didn't see how American kids possibly couldn'tYou didn't need to know jack about mods or London in the 60's to understand the tale.  Frustration, hormones, love requited or unrequited.  Getting stoned.  Staying out too late.  Pissing off your parents and other authority figures.  "Why do I have to be different to them/Just to earn the respect of a dancehall friend?" "Why should I care if I got to cut my hair?"  "Every year is the same, and I feel it again ... I'm a loser" ... "I see her dance across the ballroom ... I am the face, she has to know me" ... "How come the girls come on oh so cool, but when ya meet `em, every one's a fool?" ... "Can you see the real me?"

It's been a long time since I was a teenager.  The turmoil and rage and confusion are (mostly) gone.  But I remember them perfectly, vividly.  Sometimes I miss them.  Sometimes I laugh about them.  The things that seemed important.  As an "adult" I sneered at those things.  In middle age I see them a bit differently.  The things might not have been so important.  The feelings were. And when I listen to Quad, which is rarely, I recall them ... so vividly, in fact, you could almost say I experience them, all over again.  I can still get lost in it.

Quad, to me, though, most of all, will always be an ocean.  A great, dark, grey swelling ocean that stretches as far as the eye can see in all directions.  A roiling sea, all in mid-60's black-and-white, like some lost film of the era ... maybe The Damned or The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner.  And I can put on the music and for a while, I am in the sea, I am the sea, rolling and roaring, into infinity.


Saturday, June 9, 2012

The Velvet Underground - White Light/White Heat


White Light/White Heat  (Verve V-5046 (mono), V6-5046 (stereo))
Released 1968


White Light/White Heat
The Gift
Lady Godiva's Operation
Here She Comes Now
I Heard Her Call My Name
Sister Ray


And so at the height of the "Summer Of Love" we stayed in NYC and recorded "White Light/White Heat", an orgasm of our own. (Sterling Morrison)

The Velvets, as Clinton Heylin has pointed out, could do many things very well.  One of them was to unleash a full-scale sonic assault of rock`n'roll noise.  If the first album mapped the territory, their second delved deeper into one aspect of their complex musical persona.  The loud one.

When I first heard WL/WH, I was prepared.  Or so I thought.  I knew the first album.  I knew "European Son."  I knew WL/WH was considered the height, the pinnacle of aggressive, noisy, confrontational rock`n'roll.  It was a legend. 

When I first heard WL/WH, I was not prepared.  I was not prepared for the hazy, feverish miasma of the sound, for the sheer propulsion and groove of it.  Like all their albums, WL/WH's secret weapon is that it is great rock`n'roll.  It has a good beat, and you can dance to it.  The later remixes have helped bring some of that groove towards the front, but nothing will ever erase that haze.  

Oceans of ink and electrons have been spent rehashing the album's debauched themes: hard drugs, obsession, lust, botched operations/sex changes/mutilations, non-orgasmic girls, dead ex-lovers calling your name, and Burroughs-ian orgy ending the whole thing in a 17-minute barrage of pure adrenalin. a hundred, a thousand, a million punk bands are said to have taken their inspiration from it.  But if so, they never understood what made it tick.  After all these years, they never unlocked its secrets, which go way beyond ding-dong sucking and two-chord assaults.  After all these years, it has lost none of its relentless, hypnotic power, its overwhelming rush. Like a roller-coaster ride, you climb on with trepidation, knowing what's coming, afraid, not wanting it to end. As you get off, you're glad you did it.  Glad it's over.




Saturday, May 19, 2012

(#1) .. Howlin' Wolf - Howlin' Wolf / Moanin' in the Moonlight

Howlin' Wolf   (Chess LP 1469)
Recorded 1959-1962
Released Jan. 1962


Shake for Me
The Red Rooster
You'll Be Mine
Who's Been Talkin'
Wang Dang Doodle
Little Baby
Spoonful
Going Down Slow
Down in the Bottom
Back Door Man
Howlin' for My Baby
Tell Me





Moanin' in the Moonlight   (Chess LP 1434)
Recorded 1951-1959
Released 1959


Moanin' at Midnight
How Many More Years
Smokestack Lightnin'
Baby How Long
No Place to Go
All Night Boogie
Evil
I'm Leavin' You
Moanin' for My Baby
I Asked for Water (She Gave Me Gasoline)
Forty-Four
Somebody in My Home


Mississippi terror, Chicago Back Door Man, the late Chester Burnett rode the blues like a man breaking a mustang; the blues never gave an inch, but the Wolf was never thrown.  The purest rock in blues dress -- this album, with the famous rocking chair on the cover, inspired a generation... (Greil Marcus)

You can call me a cheat, choosing a tie, and a blues artist, no less, for the top spot.  But Marcus was right - this is, undeniably, blues.  But any listen will tell you, it's also "the purest rock," all pounding drums and slashing, stabbing guitars courtesy of Hubert Sumlin (all of the "rocking chair" album) and Willie Johnson (most of Moanin'), punctuated at times by blasting harmonica, usually from himself, who's harp playing was as overpowering.  And then, of course, Wolf's voice - howling, rasping, moaning, groaning, snarling, smirking.  Larger than life in the recording studio and on magnetic tape as he was in the flesh.  You can hear the inspiration all the way from the early Stones and Yardbirds records (covered his songs), The Who (Roger learned to snarl from him), Them, down through The Stooges, Capt. Beefheart, The Gun Club, Tom Waits and on out to the The White Stripes.

Plus it's my list.

"Rocking Chair" is the masterpiece.  If you've never heard Wolf, this is the place to start.  From the rattling kick-off, "Shake For Me," where Wolf extols the virtues of a gal who "shakes like Jello" through his sly sexual boasts ("Little Red Rooster," "Back Door Man," both done well by the Stones and Doors, respectfully, but nonetheless Wolf, who understood Dixon's lyrics better than Mick or Jim, dealt the definitive), Wolf philosophizes about  life ("Going Down Slow" - "I have had my fun, if I never get well no more" and the stone classic "Spoonful," which could be coffee, tea, diamonds, gold, your sweetest love - but men have cried, lied, and died about it), pledges his undying love ("You go to work, I'll hold the money" he tells his sweetie in "Little Baby"), but loses her ("Howlin' For My Baby") and blames only himself  ("I'm the causin' of it!" all he rasps over and over as "Who's Been Talkin'" fades), but still has time to run from jealous husbands/lovers ("Down In The Bottom" - "bring me my running shoes!" he shouts as he flees)  and throws a party ("Wang Dang Doodle," one of Willie Dixon's greatest songs - I'd still like to know who Peggy and Caroline Dime are, not to mention Kudzu-Crawlin' Red and Abyssinian Ned).   But it ends with a classic stab of Wolf's favorite topic - paranoia.  "Tell me," he shouts "what in the world can be wrong?"  There are no answers forthcoming, but the Wolf knows one thing for sure:  "trouble is knocking" he shouts over and over, as the disk, and the story, come to an end.

I made a mistake the first time I listened to Moanin' in the Moonlight.  It was a summer night.  One of those summer marked by an unbearable heat wave that gives way to cool, cool evening.  And you keep all the windows open, even though the air is chilly now.  And bugs bat against the window screens.  And you leave the lights off.  Aaah, this Howlin' Wolf album I just bought'll be perfect.

I never knew a record could be scary before.

Wolf opens it with a distorted hum (or moan, or ululation, or whatever you want to call it) that sounds like it's echoing out a crypt ("an eerie wordless vocal -- a sound effect for a graveyard scene in a Hollywood scare flick" as Ted Gioia put it).  Then tears into some harp that presages Van Morrison's harmonica flip-out on "Mystic Eyes" about 15 years later.  "Somedody knockin' on my door!" he shouts.  Who's knocking?  Who's calling.  Wolf never shares.  Maybe he doesn't know.  But it can only be one thing: trouble.

Moanin' mixes Wolf's storming Chicago sides with bouncier, jump-blues-ish cuts from his days in Memphis, but the emphasis is all on dread and doom.  Lovers are cruel: "How many more years" he shouts, "am I gonna have to let you dog me around?" ("How Many More Years").  And they cheat: "you better watch your happy home" he warns in "Evil."  He harks back to his oldest roots with Tommy Johnson's "I Asked For Water (She Gave Me Gasoline)" (which only tells us wimmens aren't to be trusted) and Rooselvelt Sykes' "Fourty-Four" (which turns Sykes' piano moaner into a roadhouse stomp).  Running doesn't help; Wolf's own "Smokestack Lightnin'," one of the greatest of all train songs, and a signature tune of Wolf's, evokes hopping a ride on the rails.  All rolling down to "Somebody In My Home," with it's evocations of cheating, intruders, and uninvited visitors, an homage to paranoia and terror that sums up the Wolf nicely.

Bitter, angry, frightened, hurt, joyful in the face of inevitable disaster.  That was the Wolf. This was him at his finest.