The Sleepy Jackson

The Sleepy Jackson is the illegitimate, Aussie brainchild of Luke Steele. Years in the making, the 2003 debut album Lovers contains songs from a few EPs that were recorded with a revolving cast of musicians. Through it all, Steele was able to develop and maintain the breathing spirit that lives in his music. Densely layered with multi-instrumental parts and more "na-na-nas" and "ooh-wahs" than a doo-wop sock hop, the tunes combine ingredients from several genres to present an aurally appetizing slice of sonic beauty. Country twang, power chords and sweeping strings with electro flourishes (not to mention the pop melodies that recall Pet Sounds-era Beach Boys) combine to form a blithely winsome, yet lovelorn symphony. Luke Steele’s been called the Australian Brian Wilson, high praise and a compliment to which he is oh so deserving.

LISTEN TO THIS DAY, DON'T YOU KNOW, COME TO THIS, MINISKIRT

SHUFFLE

The Animals, “When I Was Young”
I always get the cool chill when Eric Burdon proclaims, with all the streetwise austerity of a teenage thug, “I smoked my first cigarette at ten,” in this 1967 ode to lost youth. The guitar phrase that follows every uttering of the title line calls to mind a shuddering mod, pulling up the collar of his jacket to shield himself from the cold.

The Black Lips, “Everybody’s Doin' It”
The riff on this one swings like a watch on a chain. It’s so hypnotic that it makes me want to follow blindly and do whatever I’m told, zombie-style. The fact that the lyrics more or less offer the same coercive advice only reinforces the feeling.

The Yardbirds, “I’m Not Talking”
Jeff Beck looses blistering solo after blistering solo, assaulting ears with his electric blues on this start-and-stop sissy-killer. The best one is the second one, right after Keith Relf shouts “don’t call me, baby I’ll call you.”

The Who, “Girl’s Eyes”
A lighthearted ditty that tells the tale of an obsessive fan that “knows all the charts” and is at the show, “eyes aglow/very front row.” I think it was just a quick throwaway track that the band didn’t spend much time on. My favorite part is when they sing “don’t throw sticks at her.” I really like this period of the Who’s career; they seem experimental and focused entirely on making music that they enjoyed. Consequently, it sounds fun and natural, the band unconcerned with pleasing the legions of fans that would fill stadiums in its later years.

The Rolling Stones, “Jigsaw Puzzle”
The boogie-woogie piano carries this song. Nicky Hopkins is probably playing it while Jagger goes on about girls, gangsters and grandmas. Seriously though, what the hell is a “mentholated sandwich?” He also sings a little bit about a band but there’s nothing concrete enough to indicate that it’s autobiographical, except maybe the part about the ‘damaged guitar player,’ a possible reference to Brian Jones, who was well on his way down (and out) around this time.

Thin Lizzy, “Jailbreak”
Just a plain bad riff, man. Dude had a bitchin moustache too.

Los Hombres, “Let It Out (Let It All Hang Out)”
Like a Bob Dylan song with a thicker, shuffling backbeat and a more danceable melody, this track’s got some kooky lyrics. Dude just rambles about random stuff. Dylan’s music usually went somewhere though; this song is just wacky words over music that doesn’t go anywhere. “No parkin’ by the sewer sign/hot dog, my razor’s broke/water drippin’ up the spout/but I don’t care, let it all hang out.” Still a cool song. I’m a sucker for hand claps. “Saw a man walkin’ upside down/my TV’s on the blink/made Galileo look like a boy scout/sorry ‘bout that, let it all hang out.”

in the yellow no. 2

Giant Pacific Octopus, Enteroctopus dofleini

Spoon: seeking out the taciturn?

I saw Spoon play last night at McMenamins Edgefield, an outdoor venue. The band’s sound is a fairly plain, unadorned one, lacking ultra-complex melodies and varied instrumentation, and I wondered how it would translate from the recordings to a live setting where a fickle audience could quickly get bored without overt stimulation. So praise is due to their sound man, a 30-something guy the band called Hot Pocket who helped pull together the electric piano, drums, bass, and the multitude of guitar and vocal effects into a cohesive, well-balanced mix. He did, however, have a little trouble with the horn section, denying it the punch it deserved on the few songs that featured it.

Britt Daniel, the singer/guitarist/songwriter, was great. He was in complete command of his voice, going from gritty and grainy to soft and fragile and inflecting perfectly on “Black Like Me” and “Eddie’s Ragga.” Too, his guitar playing was representative of the remarkably controlled chaos that lay in wait below the surface of their groove-based sound. While many of the tunes are built around abruptly chopped staccato chords in the vein of Beatles songs like “Penny Lane” and “Getting Better,” his short bursts of spazzed-out soloing breathed new life into them and added an extra dimension, most notably on “Don't Make Me a Target” (which, by the way, he turned into a passionate rocker by breaking into note-cluster fisticuffs with the rhythm section). Daniel’s herky-jerky body language was strangely compelling as well, and reflected the disjointed noises reeling from his guitar. Hot Pocket had the bass dialed and, along with the occasional shaking of tambourines and maracas, it anchored the songs onto an accessible, head-bobbing groove. Plenty of folks were grooving too. Families came out with their 2.5 children in tow, high school kids hopped around and crowd-surfed, scenesters took it all in while sipping their microbrews, and old drunk people bump-and-grinded to some freaky rhythm that only they could hear.

“The Ghost of You Lingers” highlighted the show. The drummer took a break, as did the bass player, and the two pianos onstage were both pounded simultaneously, producing a haunting sense of urgency. Cranking up the reverb on his vocal, Daniel put the guitar away and aided in the creation of a spiritual and ethereal mood that silenced and hypnotized the audience into rapt awe. Accented by blasts of rough static that thundered through the crowd, the song was unlike anything they played all night. The static was awesomely effective live, heavier and infused with more bass than on the record. Like an earthquake, it started at your feet and traveled upward through your torso before exploding in and out of your domepiece. Daniel added to the ambience every now and then by stomping an echo pedal and letting his voice dwell and waver in the cooling summer air, marking what finally felt like a fitting start to the season.

NOTES:

They covered the Rolling Stones' "Rocks Off" in the encore and it seemed like only a few people in the audience really got into it. The fact that Daniel flubbed the words and mixed up some verses might have had something to do with it.

Conspicuously absent from the set was “The Way We Get By,” a piano-driven fan favorite. I overheard some grousing at the end of the show about its exclusion and someone said that ever since the song was featured on television’s “The OC,” the band had stopped playing it.

Winslow Homer

Winslow Homer was one of the preeminent figures in American art. Selt taught, he first gained notoriety for his work in commercial printmaking and illustration in the mid-19th century. He later took up watercolor, one of my favorite mediums, and produced pieces that depicted some characteristically American scenes. I find the works with a 'man vs nature' theme especially appealing. The first is "the Woodcutter" and the second is "the Fog Warning."

"The life I have chosen gives me my full hours of enjoyment for the balance of my life. The Sun will not rise, or set, without my notice, and thanks." -Winslow Homer

OTIS

Otis Redding possessed a voice that could melt hearts and inspire deep thought as easily as it could impel listeners to leap out of their seats and "Shake." Watching clips of him at the Monterey Pop Festival in 1967 singing "I’ve Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now)" is, contrary to the song’s message, like watching a tormented man exorcising bad mojo demons. He clenches his eyes shut and staggers around as if he were cast in a funky R&B trance. Howling like an animal with its leg caught in a trap, Otis digs deep and pours all he can into the performance, leaving a quart of sweat on the stage in an apparent effort to free himself from the duress of an overwhelming love. Similarly, on "Pain In My Heart," Otis attacks the lyrics with the gusto of a manic painter. He colors them blue ("she’s treating me cold") before splashing them with red when he pleads "come back, come back, come back." While he can be smooth and in control, he’s also capable of completely losing himself in the song. "Try a Little Tenderness" is a good example. He sputters and scats, nearly choking on his saliva in the pursuit of home-fried, deep south soul splendor. Backed by the crack Stax house band (otherwise known as Booker T. and the MGs) led by Steve Cropper, Otis and company stew a puissant brew, at once exhilarating and unbound, at other times sharp and stirring. Died young--plane crash. LISTEN TO OTIS BLUE and TELL THE TRUTH

Elvis Presley

Is Elvis really the king? I don’t think so. He happened to be at the right place at the right time and had the right moves to snow white kids across the country. With little talent and a gimmicky dance and singing style, he sold black music as his own. To be sure, there was some country-bluegrass in there but it also had that bop, that R&B swing that had been blowing out of juke joints down south for years. I’m not an authority but I’ll give him partial credit for combining the two styles and popularizing the result. The title of “King of Rock and Roll” however, is undeserved. I don’t blame Elvis though.

Just because I’m not a fan of the guy doesn’t mean I don’t respect him and his contribution to music. In fact, I really like old, bloated Elvis. He was kinda fat and dopey, sweating it out onstage, which is sad considering how fit and virile he was before. But if you check out some of those performances on Youtube, you can see how hard he’s working and how much he’s feeling the tunes. It’s oddly inspiring to see and hear him labor through “Unchained Melody” like he’s on the verge of tears with one foot in the grave.

CHUCK BERRY IS THE KING OF ROCK AND ROLL.

in the yellow

Great White Shark, Carcharodon carcharias

a can of worms

There exists an argument, one that can often be substantiated with proven examples, that says that a musical artist’s first releases are far superior to his later releases. An artist’s pure and true intentions are more evident early in his career, before the trappings of fame, fortune and expectations are thrust upon him. Conversely, it’s also been argued that some artists are able to thrive later in their career and improve on their songcraft with the previously unavailable resources now afforded them and the veneration of an adoring fan base.

What’s great about this debate is that there is no answer, it will never end. Ever. Not only is it based in subjectivity and the individual opinions that come with it, but the contentions would be patently weak, fraught with examples that could go either way, depending on who was making the case and how dedicated they were to its and their righteousness.

I’m thinking that this idea could be worked up into a really interesting essay or maybe even a book that only seriously discerning music nerds would read. Alas, I’m too unfocused to flesh it out myself and to unsure to stick with an opinion or view (even if it is mine). Maybe David Fricke or Lester Bangs (RIP) could do it, Chuck Klosterman--anyone but Rob Sheffield.

The Velvet Underground: Loaded

Consider the Velvet Underground’s fourth album. Loaded, from 1970, is probably my favorite piece of their work. One of the initial groups to embody the sound of NYC’s filthy underbelly, the band’s first came out in 1967 and was a lesson in originality that set the experimental tone that would come to characterize them while also establishing them as purveyors of their own brand of cool-aid. Their second album contained more of the same as well as an extended art-rock freakout in the form of “Sister Ray” and their third album found them significantly calmer and even lighthearted, evidenced by songs like “Candy Says,” “Pale Blue Eyes” and “After Hours.” But forgoing the path on which they originally set out, the band begrudgingly took the road less traveled by appeasing their record label with an album ‘loaded’ with hits. For the record, none of the singles really charted that high, nor did the album itself. But Loaded has so many good songs, possibly, though not likely, due to Lou Reed’s decreased control over the band (he actually quit shortly before the record was released). The material though, is totally rad, like they’re comfortable in their own skin, doing what feels good, free and easy. “Sweet Jane” is arguably the greatest rock and roll song ever, a life lesson on personal differences with a plain, unpretentious riff played throughout and an undeniable, swaggering groove. The album’s songs alternate between super soft and slow harmonious ruminations like “I Found a Reason” and hoedown hootenannies like “Lonesome Cowboy Bill” and “Head Held High.” My favorite track, the last one, "Oh! Sweet Nuthin,'" starts off innocent enough. Sterling Morrison lackadaisically picks and sustains some comforting notes as drummer Moe Tucker settles into a mellow groove with bassist Doug Yule. “Say a word for Jimmy Brown” sings someone (Reed I think), “he ain’t got nothin’ at all.” Slowly picking up speed, like an overloaded subway train, the vocals grow increasingly agonized. The guitars follow suit, as do Yule and Tucker, building and building in wanton glee before culminating in a no-holds-barred noise attack. The song then ends as it began, returning to the calm safety from whence it came as “sweet, sweet nothin’” is gently sung in a resigned tone. There’s a reason why Moe Tucker plays harder and heavier on this tune than any other I’ve heard from them and that is because it’s not Moe Tucker. I learned that she was pregnant during the recording sessions for the album and while credited, was temporarily replaced by Yule, his brother and/or the recording engineer. So that’s that.

BE COOL: BLOW PINK SMOKE UP FROM THE UNDERGROUND

Nico

Contrary to popular belief, I don’t limit myself to glowing reviews of magnificent music. It just so happens that I write about what I like; I laud the goods and disregard the rest. But the other day, I bought this magazine that came with a free Bowie tribute CD. I don’t know what I was expecting but obviously, none of the tribute tracks stood up to the originals. I guess it reaffirmed my reverence for the man, the myth, the legend: David Bowie. Anyway, Nico (of Andy Warhol’s Factory and the Velvet Underground fame) sings “heroes” on the disc. Some tribute—Nico sounds bloated and high as a kite as she bellows lazily through eight-and-a-half gut-wrenching minutes of fuzzy guitar, sloppy bass and admittedly jubilant saxophone solos. You can almost hear her fading in and out of her drug-induced stupor as she realizes that the tape’s still rolling and musters the energy to get a few more words out. It’s so bad that it’s funny. However, her health and her habit at this point in her life were no laughing matter. She later died of a cerebral hemorrhage after falling off her bike and hitting her head.

LISTEN TO HER SING "FEMME FATALE" AND "I'LL BE YOUR MIRROR"