Not really on the listening list, but I thought this might be worth sharing. Yesterday I listened to the Velvet Underground's White Light/White Heat (from the Peel Slowly and See box set) and think I had a epiphany. The disc collects various outtakes recorded for the record. Listening to the instrumental tracks written around the same time like "Booker T," an extended groove perfect for go-go dancing, it struck me that the VU's second album is less an art rock "statement" than the work of an unrepentant dance band with an, let's say, unusual sense of humor. Yes, the epic nighttown vision of "Sister Ray" may indeed allude to the transgressive fiction of John Rechy and Hubert Selby: but I mostly hear a twisted novelty record: a risk-taking record to be sure, but a novelty record nonetheless.
So, according to the Faulk hypothesis, "The Gift" is the album's key song, not "Sister Ray." Dude sends himself through the mail in a large box to Girlfriend; Girlfriend, who is actually bored with Dude, hacks him to death when she tries to open up the package. Hapless Dude dies. Yuk Yuk. That's about it. And the VU know it. When you get tired of hearing John Cale recite the sad story (could that happen, given Cale's awesome Welsh accent?), just turn off one speaker and dance to the instrumental track in the other. That's the main thing.
(It makes sense that "Hey Mr. Rain," also from the WL/WH sessions, didn't make the final cut for the record; a genuine art rock statement thanks to Cale's stunning viola playing, it would have stood out like a sore thumb on WL/WH.)
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Susan Fast; Listening List #1
I'm reading Susan Fast's book on Led Zeppelin. Surprisingly, it's helped me think about Slade: another British rock band with a decidedly non-ironic, 'realist' aesthetic, characterized by "excessive uses of the body" on stage meant to suggest "emotional outpourings"(6). Neither group got a fair shake from rock critics in the 70s either, especially Zeppelin. Slade had a grudging respect from most rock critics for their great run of high energy singles, with titles spelled in midlands dialect.
There are of course are big differences between Slade and Zep; Zep's music is notably eclectic, a trait usually associated with bands that are critical favorites. Slade's musicianship is limited at best, especially compared to Zeppelin. Although the latter band was clearly informed by 60s psychedelia and counterculture ideals, they also seemed to prize the notion of the passionate virtuoso that was a legacy of nineteenth century Romanticism.
In fact, Zep are so eclectic that it gives Fast pause. She doesn't seem to know quite what to make of one strain of their eclecticism, their incorporation of Brit folk, although she deals at length and with insight on the Orientalism of "Kashmir." But I'm not quibbling: I'm very grateful to Fast for providing me with a vocabulary and methodology that allows me to think critically about less critically respected, more "popular," rock groups of the era.
While I'm getting my thoughts together on Slade, I thought I'd share my current listening list. My lists are inspired by chance songs I hear on the radio, and also by current reading.
For instance, I subscribe to "Rock's Back Pages," an online archive of rock criticism from the 1960s onward. It's led me to discover lesser known pieces by rock critics I admire, as well as turned me on to critics I didn't know much about. My current fave rave is Metal Mike Saunders, hailing from the great city of Austin. Like Lester Bangs, Saunders' early 70s pieces for Creem magazine hail the first wave of British metal bands. At the same time, Saunders has eclectic tastes that also includes what we would now call power pop: Zombies, pre-Tommy Who, Small Faces, and Badfinger. Saunders' bete noir is lethargy, which he hears in Humble Pie, late Cream, and Houses of the Holy. He's often screamingly funny, especially on Humble Pie, whom he regards as the kings of Rock Plod and Lethargy. Poor Steve Marriott!
Some of my links below came from reading Metal Mike's reviews yesterday; I bet you can guess which ones.
In no particular order:
Vin Scelsa's show reminded me how much I love the trance-like "Ladies of the Canyon":
Scelsa also played Dylan's version of "Barbara Allen" from Live at the Gaslight Cafe (1962), pairing it with Nico's cover of "These Days" (from Chelsea Girls, released Fall 1967, a few months after the Velvets' debut record), utilizing a very similar guitar picking pattern. You can hear the entirety of both Nick Drake and early Roy Harper in the Dylan cover. I can't find it to post, but I'm still looking. Here's Nico in the meanwhile:
Not really on the list, but how can I post a song from Chelsea Girls and leave out one of the most amazing recordings of all time from the same album:
Unreal. I think I found the Song I want to have played at my Funeral.
Just discovered this great, funky agit-blues from Eric Burdon and Jimmy Witherspoon. Thanks, Mike Marrone.
Metal Mike Saunders thinks the difference between Badfinger' second record, No Dice (1970) and Straight Up, can be chalked up to the same vices that distinguish the Beatles' Help! from Revolver: high seriousness, lack of energy, overt pretension. He could be right; certainly Straight Up was made under conditions--a rotating line up of producers (George Harrison, then Todd Rundgren), record company pressures--that would have made any group doubt themselves, let alone a band with a genius songwriter suffering from a tragic lack of self-esteem (Pete Ham, who would later commit suicide).
To my ears, though, the band sounds more certain and confident about their musicianship and songwriting on Straight Up than on No Dice: how can you argue with "Baby Blue," Metal Mike?
You decide; here's No Matter What, from No Dice.
Listen to those cavernous drums! Praise be to Todd, (aka God), for verily he knows how to get a great drum sound.
Vashti Bunyan gets on the play list, thanks to Rebecca.
And then there's this; the Heep at their oddest and loosest. I even hear a bit of Music Machine garage -psychedelia in this. Sadly, Heep became practically unlistenable for me after this, though I make an exception for the odd-man-out folk rock song, "The Wizard."
Picture this: you're sitting around the campfire in a forest, like you always do. Suddenly a little hobbit dude bums a cig (you still smoked in the 70s), asks for some wine from your hip flask, and discourses on universal love and brotherhood. Of course, they had me at "campfire." If you cannot resist a hobbit dude dreaming the hippie dream, mister, you're a better man than I.
There are of course are big differences between Slade and Zep; Zep's music is notably eclectic, a trait usually associated with bands that are critical favorites. Slade's musicianship is limited at best, especially compared to Zeppelin. Although the latter band was clearly informed by 60s psychedelia and counterculture ideals, they also seemed to prize the notion of the passionate virtuoso that was a legacy of nineteenth century Romanticism.
In fact, Zep are so eclectic that it gives Fast pause. She doesn't seem to know quite what to make of one strain of their eclecticism, their incorporation of Brit folk, although she deals at length and with insight on the Orientalism of "Kashmir." But I'm not quibbling: I'm very grateful to Fast for providing me with a vocabulary and methodology that allows me to think critically about less critically respected, more "popular," rock groups of the era.
While I'm getting my thoughts together on Slade, I thought I'd share my current listening list. My lists are inspired by chance songs I hear on the radio, and also by current reading.
For instance, I subscribe to "Rock's Back Pages," an online archive of rock criticism from the 1960s onward. It's led me to discover lesser known pieces by rock critics I admire, as well as turned me on to critics I didn't know much about. My current fave rave is Metal Mike Saunders, hailing from the great city of Austin. Like Lester Bangs, Saunders' early 70s pieces for Creem magazine hail the first wave of British metal bands. At the same time, Saunders has eclectic tastes that also includes what we would now call power pop: Zombies, pre-Tommy Who, Small Faces, and Badfinger. Saunders' bete noir is lethargy, which he hears in Humble Pie, late Cream, and Houses of the Holy. He's often screamingly funny, especially on Humble Pie, whom he regards as the kings of Rock Plod and Lethargy. Poor Steve Marriott!
Some of my links below came from reading Metal Mike's reviews yesterday; I bet you can guess which ones.
In no particular order:
Vin Scelsa's show reminded me how much I love the trance-like "Ladies of the Canyon":
Scelsa also played Dylan's version of "Barbara Allen" from Live at the Gaslight Cafe (1962), pairing it with Nico's cover of "These Days" (from Chelsea Girls, released Fall 1967, a few months after the Velvets' debut record), utilizing a very similar guitar picking pattern. You can hear the entirety of both Nick Drake and early Roy Harper in the Dylan cover. I can't find it to post, but I'm still looking. Here's Nico in the meanwhile:
Not really on the list, but how can I post a song from Chelsea Girls and leave out one of the most amazing recordings of all time from the same album:
Unreal. I think I found the Song I want to have played at my Funeral.
Just discovered this great, funky agit-blues from Eric Burdon and Jimmy Witherspoon. Thanks, Mike Marrone.
Metal Mike Saunders thinks the difference between Badfinger' second record, No Dice (1970) and Straight Up, can be chalked up to the same vices that distinguish the Beatles' Help! from Revolver: high seriousness, lack of energy, overt pretension. He could be right; certainly Straight Up was made under conditions--a rotating line up of producers (George Harrison, then Todd Rundgren), record company pressures--that would have made any group doubt themselves, let alone a band with a genius songwriter suffering from a tragic lack of self-esteem (Pete Ham, who would later commit suicide).
To my ears, though, the band sounds more certain and confident about their musicianship and songwriting on Straight Up than on No Dice: how can you argue with "Baby Blue," Metal Mike?
You decide; here's No Matter What, from No Dice.
From Straight Up:
Listen to those cavernous drums! Praise be to Todd, (aka God), for verily he knows how to get a great drum sound.
Vashti Bunyan gets on the play list, thanks to Rebecca.
And then there's this; the Heep at their oddest and loosest. I even hear a bit of Music Machine garage -psychedelia in this. Sadly, Heep became practically unlistenable for me after this, though I make an exception for the odd-man-out folk rock song, "The Wizard."
Picture this: you're sitting around the campfire in a forest, like you always do. Suddenly a little hobbit dude bums a cig (you still smoked in the 70s), asks for some wine from your hip flask, and discourses on universal love and brotherhood. Of course, they had me at "campfire." If you cannot resist a hobbit dude dreaming the hippie dream, mister, you're a better man than I.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Rock and music hall in 1970s Britain
Finally back at work on an essay on music hall in British rock music in the 1970s. The idea came to me when I was completing the BRM project. There were countless rock artists who adapted or alluded to music hall style in the decade, from Bowie and the Sex Pistols, to Kevin Coyne, Ian Dury, and the Sensational Alex Harvey Band. There was far more to the story than I had room for in the book.
The new essay traces the rise of the rock/music hall sub-genre; in various ways, the bands that appropriated music hall style were searching for a way to signify their discontent with art rock, or with 60s counterculture. It took a bit of work to limit my focus, since there are so many bands that fit in the genre. My primary focus will be on three groups: Slade, the Moodies, and Sham 69. These bands suggest the diversity of the genre, as well as a shared critique of rock's new aspirations to art.
I originally planned to include Ian Dury in the essay, but the more I learned about him, the more I regarded him as an exceptional case. It's true that Dury's debt to music hall performers like Max Wall and the raunchy Max Miller is obvious enough. It's also the case that Dury conceived of himself more as a popular entertainer in the music hall tradition than as a "rock star." Yet unlike the bands I discuss, Dury and the Blockheads have a mostly uncontentious relation to 60s rock icons or the counterculture. Moreover, Dury's self-conception and star image as a master of the vernacular, a quintessentially British wordsmith, doesn't quite fit with the story I'm trying to tell. I didn't think I could tell the story of Slade, etc. and do justice to Dury's complex case.
I finally saw the Ian Dury biopic, Sex and Drugs and Rock and Roll (2010), and thought I would blog a bit about it here: but it left me cold. There are some good performances, but overall, it tries a bit too hard. Too bad: an important part of the story of UK punk is the contribution made by artists who were fellow travelers in the movement but not really 'punks' themselves: Elvis Costello, Graham Parker, Lene Lovich, John Cooper Clarke; hell, nearly the entire roster of the Stiff record label. Like Dury, most of these artists were still rooted in the music of the 1960s, but managed to be credible to the punks as well. This movie didn't tell that story. Nor did it have any insights into Dury's performance style or musical taste; it just take these things for granted. If you want to see a surreal rock bio-pic, you're still better off watching 24 Hour Party People again (2004, dir. Michael Winterbottom). Here's my favorite scene:
Music hall rock has something to do with the sea change that transformed British society, at the start of very bleak decade. 70s Britain was marked by social unrest: worker's strikes, government declared states of emergency, IRA bombings, rampant inflation, massive unemployment. The situation in British rock was similarly divisive.
The new, though not necessarily younger, bands like Slade and T.Rex were polarizing, pitting a younger rock audience against their older brother's and sister. At stake seemed to be the future of rock: was it music for students (read: intellectual), or was it for the kids?
(As Bill Inglot notes, was there EVER a greater example of the album cover as mission statement?)
It was perhaps inevitable given the spirit of contention that marked the times that Marc Bolan and Slade came to symbolize a backlash against the 60s, even if Bolan himself was a product of that decade if there ever was one.
The new, though not necessarily younger, bands like Slade and T.Rex were polarizing, pitting a younger rock audience against their older brother's and sister. At stake seemed to be the future of rock: was it music for students (read: intellectual), or was it for the kids?
(As Bill Inglot notes, was there EVER a greater example of the album cover as mission statement?)
It was perhaps inevitable given the spirit of contention that marked the times that Marc Bolan and Slade came to symbolize a backlash against the 60s, even if Bolan himself was a product of that decade if there ever was one.
I plan to treat Slade, Sham 69, and the Moodies in
separate sections of the essay. I also want to share my writing process as I go along,on this blog; please stay tuned!
Slade and the Who
Here are more notes toward the 70s rock and music hall paper; I argue that 70s British rock groups appropriated music hall style as a symbolic protest against the hegemony of 60s art rock as well as counterculture politics.
The first section of the paper is on Slade, who I regard as the forerunner of the music hall revival in early 70s British rock. Although Slade was clearly in the same hard rock tradition as the Who, there were crucial differences. There were few pretensions to art in Slade's music; unlike Pete Townshend, the Who's chief songwriter, none of the members seemed to be on a spiritual quest. Slade didn't truck in counterculture posturing either; in fact, they gained their initial notoriety in the English press by dressing as skinheads, the mortal enemy of hippie.
Part of the essay will focus on the image of the band constructed by the British rock press. Slade's popularity with teens came to signify a broader, generational divide in the British rock audience. Mick Farren's review of the Stones' Exile on Main Street (in the underground paper It) is typical; Farren interprets the success of bands like Slade and T. Rex as evidence that the Stones had lost a hold on younger audiences, going as far as attribute the bleak, depressive mood of the record to the Stones' own awareness of their obsolescence.
The controversy about Slade was a new version of the old art versus entertainment debate. More specifically, it pit the new intellectual approach to rock against less cerebral modes of fandom. Slade quickly came to represent the popular/populist rejection of the experimental trend in British rock that emerged in the late 1960s, with its aspiration to art. The revolt against rock modernism was also the rejection of the bourgeois values enshrined at the heart of the music: the belief in the intrinsic value of musical virtuosity, in rock music as intellectually improving. It's not surprising then, that the representation of Slade in the music press was filtered through class.
Nick Logan's 1972 interview with Pete Townshend provides a snapshot of the self-questioning that Slade's success provoked among the rock intelligentsia. The quotes below are from a reprint of the essay in a special issue of Uncut magazine.
The interview is remarkable for several reasons, not the least of which is Townshend's lucid view of the role that fantasies of classless slumming played in his early songwriting. "You hear skinheads saying, 'There we all were, marching down the King's Road--it was the most incredible sight you've ever seen': but I recall the same feeling.... What was so great was the unanimity of it, the way I could blend in and be one of them. There was no class thing." At the same time, Townshend has a clear view of how class divides rock musicians from their audience. When Logan asks Townshend if he wants to "reach and speak to those people again...[just] as Slade, arguably, do now," the songwriter's response is unambiguous: "I never ever spoke to them. I like to think I entertained and spoke for them at that time." He adds,"I am a student, all my friends are students or ex-students....its much easier for me to write songs and speak for students than working-class teenagers."
Although Townshend demonstrates his deep insight into the class dynamics of British rock, he also reinforces some class prejudices at the same time, hinting that Slade and their audience are a bit "thick," compared to the middle class that Townshend writes for. Although he likes Slade and regards them as a "group in the Who tradition" (interestingly, he also places the Faces and Marc Bolan in the same tradition while complaining that Bolan willfully obscures his pedigree), Townshend can't resist adding that Slade are "not so clever, much simpler, less complicated. They are four Rogers, if you like--there isn't an intellectual in Slade."
Four Rogers! Ouch. Townshend's remark recalls Lester Bangs' similar comment on Slade: "They're just like the Beatles, if they were all Ringo." Unlike Townshend, Bangs defiantly positions along himself with Slade on the populist side of the art/entertainment divide, at the same time doing a bit of slumming himself. To be a group of all Ringos or Rogers is not-so-subtle code for being "mere" entertainment in a rock world where having art pretensions is both recognized and rewarded.
Although Townshend demonstrates his deep insight into the class dynamics of British rock, he also reinforces some class prejudices at the same time, hinting that Slade and their audience are a bit "thick," compared to the middle class that Townshend writes for. Although he likes Slade and regards them as a "group in the Who tradition" (interestingly, he also places the Faces and Marc Bolan in the same tradition while complaining that Bolan willfully obscures his pedigree), Townshend can't resist adding that Slade are "not so clever, much simpler, less complicated. They are four Rogers, if you like--there isn't an intellectual in Slade."
Four Rogers! Ouch. Townshend's remark recalls Lester Bangs' similar comment on Slade: "They're just like the Beatles, if they were all Ringo." Unlike Townshend, Bangs defiantly positions along himself with Slade on the populist side of the art/entertainment divide, at the same time doing a bit of slumming himself. To be a group of all Ringos or Rogers is not-so-subtle code for being "mere" entertainment in a rock world where having art pretensions is both recognized and rewarded.
Long Postscript. The Logan interview captures Townshend in a rare moment of self-esteem: "the good thing I'm going through at the moment is a kind of renaissance in songwriting, which is a strange process. Suddenly, I found myself writing songs as if they could have been written in 1965."
Well, not quite. In the 60s, Townshend was preoccupied with Mod kids; nearly (only?) a decade later, he's more interested in the idea of youth subculture (he's just beginning to conceive of Quadrophenia, a concept album about Mod), counterculture, and the struggle against authority. Songs like "The Relay" and "Let's See Action" are highly encoded representations of counterculture insurgency, about a shadowy revolutionary underground that has slipped the yoke of "Control." As the idea of youth revolution becomes more unreal, Townshend's image of insurgent youth also becomes more abstract, encrypted. (I just ordered Richie Unterberger's new book on the early 70s Who; I'm worried that he will confirm my suspicion that Townshend's idea in Lifehouse of a tribal youth underground living outside of the grid was lifted from Philip Jose Farmer's reactionary anti-Welfare State allegory, "Riders of the Purple Wage" (1967). I really hope I'm wrong).
"The Relay" has likely been forgotten even by Who fans, but it remains one of my favorites, if only because of the wonderful interplay between Moon and Townshend on the track. Moon does his usual job of holding down the beat without keeping time; sadly, he took the secret of how he did such feats with him to the grave. Townshend's guitar playing here ingeniously combines rhythm and lead, just as he did on the Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again." The results aren't as quite as spectacular, or grandiose, as that: but it's pretty close.
Back to Slade: their links to music hall tradition are more evident in performance, in their highly interactive live shows, than on record. Luckily, there's some great footage of early Slade live on YouTube: more about this in my next post.
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