Bob's Soundtrack
2008
Mailbag Version 3.0
Friday, November 21, 2008
While aimlessly noodling around on the net the other day, I realized that I had not taken a look at my blog’s comments for some time; almost a year in fact. Where does the time go? November last year, we were polishing the last few notes on Fortune’s Favour, arguing about the cover, wondering whether we should just forge ahead with another one right away, all that stuff. And now, here we are in the throes of the tour itself. Life in a band is a funny thing.
Anyway, on with the cute rejoinders, witty asides and pointed replies:
GBS deconstructed, via Rankin Street - My attempt to explain GBS’s arrangement models, via our days in the pubs, was in retrospect putting too much intellectual weight on a flimsy foundation. Even so, it was a popular entry. Dan’s comment that ‘Turn’ was our first grown-up album is interesting. I could agree, it was the first album where we really played together. On the other hand, the debut album, which we managed to create without the benefit of a (a) real producer, or (b) a clue, remains a bit of a benchmark. It was also amusing to hear from someone who saw the Rankin Street cable access TV shows. Just thinking about those makes me laugh. The results were so bad and embarrassing that at one point we contemplated a collective move to Toronto, in hopes of escaping the constant jibes.
Saddest Songs - A meandering essay about sad songs elicited many responses, most offering their own choice. The whole thing got rather depressing. I shan’t be doing that again!
St. Patrick’s Day - I was quite happy with this entry, I felt I actually managed to say what I actually wanted to say - if you have tried to write something for public view, perhaps you know what I mean. Everyone who replied agreed with me, however, which did not make for the most exciting debate in the comments section. So in the interest of stirring the pot, I have now decided that Planxty suck, the Pogues influenced nobody, and the world would be entirely better off with a few less fiddles. So there.
Supergrass and Morrissey - My return to 80s & 90s music, (again), was not as positively greeted as one might have hoped. It seems there is a great discomfort about one’s musical past. One group is thoroughly embarrassed, while the other wants to put on the hairspray and wallow in the nostalgia. As a member of GBS, one has to take a different view of such things. Having made albums, videos, toured and otherwise remained in the public musical eye for a decade and a half, to a huge chunk of the world we are nostalgia. Many a loogan Canadian college student who is now a respectable adult, with family and mortgage, enjoyed their first beers to a GBS soundtrack sometime in the mid-90s. It is rather hard for us to disavow our past, when we review it every night.
Silly Wizard et al - Not my most popular entry, but it struck a chord with a few people. Perhaps you needed to see Silly Wizard to really get it. The late fiddler Johnny Cunningham really was something else. I saw him play a solo show in Toronto, years after the band, and he was one of the funniest performers I have ever seen, anywhere. He probably played for 20 minutes in the two hours he was onstage, the rest of it was him talking nonsense. It was hilarious and engaging, and no one went away unsatisfied.
My Hardcore Memoir - The responses to this one were interesting - very few commented on the long piece about my hardcore years; instead everyone gravitated to a side anecdote about dressing as Jesus for a school masquerade day. I noticed recently that some kid in the US got into trouble for wearing the same costume. He got kicked out of school, made the national news, and is no doubt about to appear on a reality show for millions of dollars. For him, fame and fortune awaits. People just thought I was weird, and my Mom cried. Once again, I was ahead of my time.
Ireland & St. John’s - My favourite of anything I have ever done on this blog, an honest attempt to be funny, poignant, and still capture the aimlessness of a summer afternoon. And judging by the paucity of comments, I need to either (a) get a grip, or (b) post more often, before my readership departs altogether.
Lift - Obscure corners of folk music are a passion of mine, but do not seem to generate much interest among readers. Ah well, someone has to write about Joe Cooley. Disappointing to note, however, that the wonderful Youtube video I linked to has since disappeared. It can be found on an RTE archival DVD, which features many such clips. It is worth seeking.
New Music - I am both bemused and dismayed to discover that many people do not find the Brazilian Girls as funny as I do. Everyone on the bus thought they were hilarious. Perhaps, like most sports, Hooters, fart jokes, wrestling and Circuit City, it is a bit of a guy thing. I promise, my next entry will demonstrate the hitherto unnoticed influence of the View, Oprah, Fried Green Tomatoes and Margaret Atwood on our music.
Just kidding.
Overdue New Music
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Anyone who has read this blog knows that I am far from the king of new music. My tastes were decided early, and have hardly altered at all in the intervening years. It is not so much that I am attracted to any given genre, so much as I look for a few key elements: interesting melody, clever arrangements, a certain melancholic turn, and a healthy dose of passion.
Needless to say, most pop music these days, constructed as it is with ProTools and other studio wizardry, does not suffer from a surplus of passion. Melancholy is also well out of favour, (although with a depression looming, it may come back into style). Nonetheless, the odd tune does come along that manages to capture my imagination.
The Decemberists come from the fertile Portland, Oregon scene, which has fostered thousands of quirky artists. Unlike their more punk rock oriented brethren, the Decemberists are not afraid of acoustic instruments like the accordion and bouzouki. They would have peaked my interest on that basis alone, but they have other attractions as well. Their songs often tell little stories, drawn from history and American culture, and are impressive in their many literary and other clever devices. Even more interesting to me, somehow they have allowed themselves to be influenced by folk music without becoming part of some faux country Americana thing. One of the great challenges of Great Big Sea has been to keep our music well grounded in traditional Newfoundland music, while at the same time avoiding the ‘Celtic’, ‘Country’, ‘Roots’, etc., labels the music business has been so eager to apply to us. Making folk music interesting is a challenge, but too many bands, (in my less than humble opinion), just slavishly imitate the best of some genre or another, and never really come to grips with integrating it into their own lives. We are not Irish, and therefore would feel ridiculous pretending to be ‘Celts’. Yet every day we see bands who have decided that they are now from the backwoods of Tennessee or wherever, and go charging in accordingly. The Decemberists are plainly doing their own thing, (whatever that is), and I admire them for it.
Check out ‘Yankee Bayonets’, from The Crane Wife album. Lead singer Colin Meloy duets with another Portland singer, Laura Veir, in a song that evokes old time American music, 1960s San Francisco hippiedom, civil war ballads and God knows what else. And does it all perfectly.
In the interests of full disclosure, the Halifax, Nova Scotia band Wintersleep has a relationship with GBS’s management office. That alone would probably not have peaked my interest, had I not stumbled across the song ‘Weighty Ghost’. The song is deceptively simple, a brief story about the sort of displacement one feels in the morning after the night before, when a glance in the mirror can provoke all sorts of uncomfortable questions. The songs is a small moment of brilliance, built around a one finger keyboard line that even I could manage, with a 70s style stomp groove, and the sort of chorus that used to come so easily to Paul Simon. Highly recommended.
This last song isn’t exactly new, but in the interest of prolonging adolescence as long as possible, it is highly recommended. At this stage of my life, there are not many songs that make me feel I am missing out on anything. Having spent half my life as some sort of quasi-rock star, I have probably had way more of my share of fun anyway. That said something about this song makes me want to run away to New York, move in with some Cuban guys on the Lower East Side, and stay up all night drinking Sangria and writing an absurdist opera. Download ‘***’ by the Brazilian Girls, and see if you don’t want to run away and join the circus.
Lift
Thursday, October 02, 2008
We were rehearsing a few instrumentals the other day, something we have not done for years. We went through a bunch of tunes, exploring various combinations and possibilities. Putting together a decent set of tunes can be challenging for us. Current traditional music ideals emphasize ensemble playing, and that does not really work in an environment where I am really the only instrumentalist. Also, these days, instrumentals have developed their own aesthetic. More often than not, they serve as a means of displaying the player’s skill and dexterity.
There are, however, other approaches.
I was never much a speed demon, anyway, when it comes to tunes. I came to them too late to ever play Irish tunes at the clip favoured right now. And the more stately English approach, which is a big part of Newfoundland music, is closer to my own background anyway. That said, GBS has recorded more instrumentals then people think - even a so-called ‘pop’ effort like Fortune’s Favour has lots of instrumental stuff, if you dig in a bit. Actual stand-alone instrumental sets are another thing. I learned to play unaccompanied, as was the case with most Newfoundland instrumentalists until quite recently. Although I never played much for dancers, I did spend a lot of time with those who did. And lesson one for dancers is the necessity of lift.
I have talked about ‘lift’ before in this blog. Simply put, it is the inclusion of a rhythmic quality in your playing which encourages dancers. With all of its physical pushing and pulling, the button accordion is well made for the task. Unfortunately, while easy to demonstrate, lift is hard to teach and harder to describe. In thinking about it, I went trolling to see if I could find an example which might illuminate just what the *** I am going on about. From the band’s repertoire, there are only a couple of times where I think I really nailed it. The reality is, percussion is bit of a lift killer. As soon as things get crowded instrumentally, one player cannot really change the pulse to suit an imaginary dancer. Nonetheless, check out Dancing With Mrs. White, from Up, or the Buffett Double (the second tune in the Tishialuk Girls set) from the Hard and the Easy. More so than on anything else, those two pieces really sound like there might have been a good step dancer in the room.
If you want some visual evidence of what ‘lift’ looks and sounds like, check out this clip of the late Joe Cooley, playing a set in a pub just weeks before he died. In Irish circles, Cooley is widely considered to have been the greatest accordionist ever. Not so much for his speed and complexity, but for his ability to give the tunes a unique effervescence, a strange and wonderful quality that lifted them onto another plane altogether. I concur.
Melancholy Deconstructed
Monday, August 18, 2008
I was never much for love songs. I have never really written any, or at least anything remotely conventional. Nonetheless, I am not completely immune. Although looking at the handful I repeatedly listen to, they all share one thing in common: a certain underlying tone of sadness, reflected in either the performance or the lyric, or in some subtle quality not easily described. Melancholy, which my dictionary describes as “inspiring a soft sadness” is probably the feeling I am seeking. These songs either contain it, or even better, inspire it.
The Velvet Underground were one of those bands everyone claims to love, although like the Ramones, you would never know it from their sales. I am not much for the Lou Reed stuff, but I love the few songs they did with Nico. Nico was a German model, who’s life ebbed away at the hands of serious drug problems. Not really a singer, her presence in the band seemed to be more of an affectation than anything else. Still, her small contribution goes a long way towards softening Reed’s bitterness and cynicism. My favourite is ‘I’ll Be Your Mirror’, a small confection from their debut album. Everything is out of tune, and the whole song drags, but there is a poignant beauty in Nico’s delivery that makes the song wonderful. Whatever her technical limitations, you really believe her message, that love can make the inner person real. It’s a nice thought, and knowing Nico’s ultimate fate makes it bittersweet indeed.
The Stereophonics are probably too English for America, though they have a small and steadfast following here in the colonies. Like many Welsh bands, they are fond of Canadian heroes the Tragically Hip, which always goes down well here in the colonies. ‘Step On My Old Size Nines’ is typical of their softer side. It is the kind of song I wish I was capable of writing. Lead singer Kelly Jones takes a tiny moment, watching an old couple still very much in love dancing together, and spins a small poem of hope out of it. His world-weary tone should belie the message, but instead it enhances it. Jones’ throttled voice sounds like he just came off a massive bender, but unlike most of us on such mornings, it seems he has actually learned something. Confronting your own mortality is a common feature of such mornings, and the Stereophonics perfectly capture the melancholia that goes with it.
The late Kirsty MacColl is much loved by folk fans for her duet with Shane MacGowan on ‘Fairytale of New York’, but she wrote some beautiful songs as well. Her best, in my opinion, was ‘They Don’t Know’, a song made into a massive hit by comedian Tracey Ullman. Whoever produced Ullman’s track is a genius; the faux Motown sound perfectly captures the songs’ defiant call for independence. Still, when you listen to it a few hundred times, you discover that Ullman has found an odd tone for such a supposedly joyous song. He ebullient voice seems to hover somewhere between hope and despair. The lyrics are all about how she has found true love on the wrong side of the tracks. For a while you totally believe her. Then you start to wonder, just whom is the song addressed to, anyway? Then you realize how sad it really is. The song is not a declaration of independence in Ullman’s hands. Instead it turns into the sort of speech you might make to yourself in the mirror, when you are trying to convince yourself that the wrong course of action will somehow work out, despite the odds. And like all such speeches, the figure in the mirror clearly understands what you may not quite yet have grasped - that you are completely full of shit. A complex idea for a frothy song, but one that should make it live forever. At least for fans of melancholia, anyway.
Summer dreams & odd occurrences
Friday, August 01, 2008
I always dream more vividly in the summer. I do not know why. Unlike the winter, when life seems all too practical, there seems to be a little more mental space around here during the brief warm months. Thoughts come and go, and music drifts ever further away…melodies slip in and out of your brain, and it’s too hard to learn anything new. Better to just drift for a while. I was at dinner the other night, and the table violinist played a mazurka, a Polish tune adapted by Chopin. When I got home it stuck with me, 'til I had to get out of bed and play the only mazurka I know. Summer is like that.
Recently I found myself in Ireland, a place I have not been to for years. While I was there circumstances led me to Kilarney, a town I had been to a few times before, most recently with the band to shoot the ‘Lukey’ video with the Chieftains. That whole period feels a little like a serendipitous vision these days, when such frivolous ideas are miles away. Having decided at the last possible second to do the video, we arrived at the last minute, much the worse for wear, via several airplanes and taxis. After a lengthy piss-up, we spent a languorous day hanging about a restaurant, drinking and kind of acting, and then descended upon a small pub known only to Paddy Maloney for a monster session.
The session remains my most vivid, (although drunken), memory of that strange and magical weekend. The pub was a small and eccentric one, down an anonymous alley, with no real outside markings other than a tiny sign. The lounge appeared to double as a living room, and there seemed to be no bar as such, just a window from which drinks appeared on a semi-regular basis. Several of the Chieftains joined in the session, an unusual occurrence to say the least, and as the news spread, great players from the area appeared one by one until the music was mighty indeed. Closing time came and went, and the songs and tunes continued ‘til dawn. For some reason I remember the publican quite well, a dignified older gentleman named Mr. O’Brien, who calmly orchestrated that amazing party. Given a month in Kilarney, I doubt I would ever find the spot again. It did not appear on any websites, and the pub guides and locals alike were silent on the topic.
As it turned out, the van I rented a few weeks ago for the trip was massive, and driving on narrow Irish roads, (on the left, I might add), was stressful. Kilarney was very busy when we arrived, and after dropping my passengers off, I drove around for a good half-hour looking for a place to park. Up and down narrow roads, one-way streets and driveways, it was a nightmare. Driving in the British Islands requires a lot of attention. You are always conscious that if you lose focus for a second, your instincts will take over and you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of the road. After another half hour of pain, I was thoroughly fed up and about to give up and go home, when I spied a tiny ‘P’ (for parking) sign fixed high up a wall on a street that paralleled the main drag. I scratched both mirrors getting down the invisible laneway, and then spent a good 20 minutes inching my way into a space. It was so tight that I had to climb out the passenger door. Only our old tour manager Tony, a man of legendary driving skills, could possibly appreciate the mental effort I had gone through, so I decided to take a picture of the lane and parking job to send him. While fooling about with camera, trying to get a decent angle to demonstrate that ridiculously small parking lot, I noticed a small sign on the door, which I had now completely blocked with my obnoxious car.
‘O’Brien’s Pub’. I was floored. What were the chances? Instantly I recognized the dusty window, the faded ‘Jameson’s’ sign... In spite of all odds, I had found myself back at that magical place. Instantly I went into a nostalgic reverie, recalling the pints, the conversations, the wonder songs, the incredible cast of characters, the mighty tunes I had experienced there. I abandoned all plans for the night, imagining with pleasure the delights that awaited me inside that secret door. Or might have, perhaps, if only Mr. O’Brien had seen fit to open for business that day.
These summer reveries can easily lead to a certain unrealistic outlook. Like Ireland, St. John’s has a way of suddenly bringing you back to earth, turning reality inside out, as if you had just found your glasses, and brought everything back into focus. A brief experience the other day brought this home to me very vividly.
St. John’s should be a busker’s paradise: lots of pedestrians, a healthy population of jolly drunks, and a universal appreciation for music of any kind. Alas, it is often not the case. On a recent stroll along Water St., I noted three classic examples. The first was one of our regulars, a guy who plays guitar and sings songs of all genres, strumming away outside in all weather. I usually give him a buck, even though despite his wide repertoire, he only knows one tune. When I passed the other day he was bawling out ‘Sweet Child of Mine’ by Guns and Roses, a tune rarely heard from buskers - particularly sung to a melody that sounded like a cross between ‘You’re Cheaten Heart’ and ‘Brown Eyed Girl’. A half a block later a rather deranged looking chap was playing accordion in a doorway. ‘Playing’ may be a bit generous - with great enthusiasm he was squeezing it in and out like a child, playing the same two notes over and over. The restaurateur next door was lurking in his own doorway, looking at the accordionist venomously. No doubt the novelty of those two notes had quickly worn off. I gave the player a buck too, but I felt like offering him a few lessons. The winner of this trio was a hundred feet away. A healthy looking youth, (by busker standards), he was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, banging away for all he was worth on an upside down Newfoundland salt beef bucket - the kind recycled locally for picking berries and whatnot. I stood and watched for a second - I actually thought it was some kind of Newfoundland satire. A passing tradesman, with whom I am loosely acquainted, smashed my reverie. Like me, he stopped and watched for a second, astonished at the racket. He bent over the kid, and stared at him for a second, as one might when happening upon some strange object on the sidewalk, and then shook his head vigorously.
“Jesus Christ, what the *** are you doing,” he roared at the hapless youngster. “That’s a fucking beef bucket for Christ’s sake.”
His tone was a bit sharp, but it was hard not to agree. I kept the last of my change for the meter.
Black Flag
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
A little while ago, I was in a CD store in Toronto when I heard a Black Flag song. This is a band I have neither heard of nor thought about for years, though like Minor Threat, who I wrote about some time ago, they were a huge influence on me. Not, mind you, that I ever saw them, nor heard a song of theirs on the radio, nor even had a decent idea what they looked like. All I knew about punk came from late night CBC radio shows, and third hand magazines from Los Angles and London. Hardcore punk was a difficult and obscure faith in my youth, a faith that offered few rewards and many hardships.
I kind of wonder now how I ended up in the small punk scene that thrived in St. John’s during the 80s. Where I lived, I was pretty much a one-man fan club. Lots of guys liked heavy music, but AC/DC was more their cup of tea, with Motorhead for the extremists. Being a terminal rebel helped me chose my course, as did deciding quite early on that I was not going to succumb to the inertia of high school life. In retrospect, I took a pretty decent shot at being the school freak. I once spent two years growing my hair a good two feet, in an era where pretty much everyone else had short layers, in the process earning myself a fairly grim reputation. During one school Halloween dress-up day, I turned up dressed as Jesus, with my clobber including a robe, bare feet, and a crown of thorns made up of some branches I broke off an alder on the way to school. Amazingly, there was no trouble. In retrospect, I think my teachers just felt sorry for the sad lunatic. It is not a well-known fact, but Sean and I went to the same high school at the same time, although we never spoke one word to each other. Nonetheless, many years later he mentioned that even he remembered the Jesus costume. Oh dear.
Having a rudimentary grasp of the guitar, and owning a small amp, I decided to start a band, which I bullied my new recruits into calling the Reckoning. Glen Collins was the lead guitar player; he is a serious jazz guy now. The drummer was Todd Baker, who for some reason we called Junior, (though no one else did). Todd had no interest in punk whatsoever, but was very laid back, and kind of played drums. For true irony, our first gig featured Barry Canning singing lead. Like Todd, he had no interest whatsoever in playing in a punk band, but he was the only guy we knew at the age of 15 or whatever it was who had the balls to sing lead. Also, he had just registered at our school, and had nothing to lose by associating with our shitty little band. Though Barry and I have crossed paths continually over the years, that was the only time we have ever played together.
That was it for gigs for years after that. We never had the gear or the chops to play the hits of the day. Eventually, I talked the other guys into turning the Reckoning into a hardcore punk band. I knew that the local punk bands were doing all ages shows, and it looked like something we could actually play, with our limited skills, equipment, and fake IDs. I had a few hardcore records I had ordered through the mail. Around the same time I met Pat Janes on a bus stop, (another man whose career has often crossed mine), and he made me a mix- tape from his collection. From that one cassette, and my three compilations, the Reckoning learned a dozen songs. These included Black Flag’s ‘Police Story’, an absolutely furious thrasher, DOA’s full-on ‘Fucked Up Ronnie’, and the Exploited’s ‘Army Life’, a classic oi sing-along. The line-up had shrunk to me, Glen and Todd. I sang lead and played bass, largely because no one else had turned up capable of doing either.
The Reckoning gig I recall the best was at the Grad House, sometime in the mid-80s. Ourselves, Tough Justice and the Riot and someone else shared a four band bill. We were considered fairly novel, as all the other punks (except Pat) lived downtown. The show did about $150 on the door, which was a fortune. Unfortunately, someone looking for leverage for his crowd surfing put a foot through the pool table, and after the PA bill came in, the show was severely in the hole. That minor problem aside, I remember being delighted with our performance. Our one original, (’Brian Peckford’, - chorus: Brian Peckford, Brian Peckford, Brian Peckford: go to hell!) had gone over so well we did it twice. Later that night, Glen’s dad made the long drive in from Sesame Park and picked us up while everyone else was arguing over who was supposed to pay for the pool table and the PA. As no one knew how to get hold of us, and we lived in the comparative Siberia of Kilbride, we got away without paying up.
Glen and Todd got fed up after that, but I forged on ahead. Many false starts later, I had a band with Lewellyn Thomas and Roger Price called Section 17. This was 1989, I think. We spent weeks writing songs and rehearsing for an all ages Halloween show at the Club 301. After the gig, the other guy in the band, whose name I have forgotten, quit, so we had nowhere to rehearse, and that was that. And thus ended the band, and my punk career. I gave up altogether after that. I sold Clark Hancock my giant sized 250 watt Traynor amp, and started playing fiddle.
Regardless, I still love Black Flag. Henry Rollins is a bit too post-modern for my taste these days, but as a teenager, he burned like a comet. DOA have utterly refused to grow up, and more power to them. The Exploited are waaay beyond politically incorrect, but their sing-along bellow still crops up in my writing. And should a request for the Circle Jerks ‘Live Fast, Die Young’ make its way from a dark and rowdy audience some night, I will be ready.
I have not forgotten the words.
Johnny Cunningham & Silly Wizard
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Thanks to John Wiles and OZ FM’s old ‘Jigs & Reels’ radio show, I heard dozens of great folk bands while I was still in elementary school. The 70s were a bit of dead end for traditional music, at least commercially, but before things fell apart a number of classic bands arose. These acts formed the core of John’s traditional music show, in the days when good Newfoundland albums could still be numbered at less than a dozen. Unfortunately, many of these bands are pretty much forgotten now, at least by the casual North American folk fan.
Silly Wizard were Scots who came out of the 70s revival, when folk music suddenly gained professional legs. They made a series of great albums, but were also known for stirring and unusual live shows. The band was blessed with some unique characters. Lead singer Andy M. Stewart had a slippery voice, all soft edges and emotion, and he was unafraid to sing in his thick dialect. The Cunningham brothers played fiddle and accordion, and were able to do it with a speed and dexterity that still sounds a bit inhuman. All their albums are good, but check out ‘Donald MacGillvary’ from the album So Many Partings, recorded in 1979. Although it sounds a bit thin on your average MP3, the quality of the singing and playing come through. For a band that almost entirely avoided electricity, at least in its hay-day, it’s powerful stuff.
As you go further back into the 70s, and even earlier, folk music tends to separate itself into hippie/non hippie. The hippies certainly embraced the old-fashioned vibe and earthy instruments associated with the genre, but those of a more psychedelic bent often added some serious weirdness to the recipe. The members of Led Zeppelin, among others, often point to the Incredible String Band as a huge inspiration. They were another of the gems John dug up. While the String Band played real traditional music in some of their incarnations, they were more partial to a hippie vision full of fairies, highwaymen and an imagined version of medieval England that any reader of Donaldson, Pratchett et al would readily recognize. Check out ‘Cousin Caterpillar’, and discover what happened when drugs and music studios first came together. I cannot imagine what this sort of thing this sounded like live. Their appearance at the Woodstock concert was apparently so shambolic that their tunes made neither the movie nor the album. On the other hand, in those days the lineup also included a singer named Licorice McKechnie. That alone deserves some bonus points.
I have spoken before about my love of Steeleye Span. They were a staple of John’s shows, though I did not realize it until years later. The Span has gone through so many incarnations that they often sound like a completely different band from record to record. Their most interesting blend of hippie weirdness and genuine traditional chops probably can be found on ‘Below The Salt’. The album has a few sensible moments, but eventually gives in altogether to the patchouli. ‘King Henry’ is a tale of monsters and such that changes tempo a few times, includes a full violin mini-symphony, and generally sets the benchmark for this sort of thing. You just do not hear 8:00 minute songs anymore about kings and witches - or rather, not by bands that are taking the whole thing utterly seriously. Pity.
Britpop revisted
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
I have written before about the rampant Anglophilia that
infected much of my youth. For a large quotient of the music community, it has
continued unabated; note the how often serious musos read heavy British music
journals like ‘Q’ & ‘Mojo’, while they have nothing but contempt for North
American rags like ‘Blender’ and ‘Chart’.
Still, you have to hand it to the British; their bands have
a real flair for pop songs. We have lots of good bands in Canada, but anyone
looking for pop froth will find it heavy going amongst the likes of Billy
Talent and Finger 11. The grey streets of England seem to produce a yearning
for escapism that Canadians just don’t seem capable of. Even Canadian ‘pop’
bands like the New Pornographers or Stars are a bit too realistic for those who
love Britpop.
I was living in Barrie when Britpop, that early 90’s burst
of English power pop, burst on the scene. I still have a soft spot for Barrie.
Even though I was a massive square peg there, people were nice to me. Friendly,
yes, ‘cool, definitely not. Swinging London it wasn’t. I spent an inordinate
amount of time talking to the owner of the local used record store, drinking
coffee with various artists, and walking around the Victorian streets,
listening to the first portable CD player I ever owned. ‘I Should Coco’,
Supergrass’s debut came out around this time, and I listened to it a thousand
times. Nothing stuck better than ‘Alright’. Never a hit in North America, it has been used for dozens of
advertisements. Go download it, and marvel that anyone could have ever been
that young and happy.
Super Furry Animals come from the same era as the Britpop
stars Oasis and Blur, but genre wise they live in their own little world.
Self-consciously psychedelic, (whatever that means), their music is dense,
complex and full of noises and solos. The band is unbelievably prolific,
recording dozens of singles and B-sides, including a number in Welsh, their
native tongue. The only North American equivalent I can think of is the Flaming
Lips. They certainly share a refined sense of the visual, a loyalty to living
in the middle of nowhere, and a certain oddness that verges on disturbing. They
also share a complete indifference to commercialism that has (ironically)
garnered them both huge worldwide cult followings. ‘The Man Don’t Give A ***’
was one of the Furry’s bigger hits, and is reasonably representative of their
unique approach to making music. I am fonder of ‘(Drawing) Rings Around The
World’, which is about as close as they get to a pure pop sound. It takes a bit
of listening - the song is absolutely drenched in feedback and other found
noises, but there is brilliance in there somewhere.
The Smiths are not really Britpop, coming from an altogether
darker era, but they are the epitome of the sort of British pop band that are
waaaayyyy to English for North American tastes. Lead singer Morrissey still has
a huge cult following, and co-writer Johnny Marr has recently been reborn as an
American rock star in Modest Mouse. The Smiths’ songs are pretty unique in the
pop canon. Morrissey wrote weird little short stories, which despite bothering
little with rhyme or meter, he was somehow able to turn into very effective
lyrics. A truly shit adolescence gave him grist for a million songs, and in Marr
he found a guitarist capable of translating it all into something listenable. Every
depressed gay teenager has a favourite Smiths song, and despite being neither
of those, I absolutely love ‘This Charming Man’. A rather sordid tale of a
brief liaison, Morrissey’s croons the story like a bathroom opera singer, every
note dripping his faux melancholy. The chorus, or what passes for one, contains
one of the best pop lyrics ever:
“I’d go out tonight, but I haven’t got a stitch to wear…”
Cracking stuff, I say, old chap and all.
St. Patrick's Day through a pint darkly
Friday, March 07, 2008
Over the years, we have tried to walk a bit of a fine line
when it comes to the whole ‘are you Celtic?’ thing. It is a question that has
died down a bit, but it still comes up, particularly in America. Early on in
our career we decided that we were going to focus as much as we could on
Newfoundland songs and instrumentals. It made sense - we were already immersed
in that tradition, and there was a goldmine of unrecorded material out there.
Plus, it made us unique. Most other traditional acts around here (and truth to
be told, everywhere) are drawn to the vast body of well-recorded and
well-arranged Irish music. Researching older songs that do not already have
choruses and hooks is a lot harder, and often a lot riskier - sometimes old
songs are obscure for a reason. Irish songs work just as well, or better, and
are a lot easier. In Newfoundland these days, most younger artists do not even
make the distinction between Irish and Newfoundland material, something that alternately
surprises and depresses me.
That said, Irish music is a broad strain in the Newfoundland
tradition. It is particularly prevalent in St. John’s, which has seen a
continual influx of Irish players over the years. Like a lot of things, the
nuances are just part of us. For example, I would consider my accordion playing
about as ‘Newfoundland’ as you could get. I hardly own one Irish accordion
record, nor do I use Irish ornaments in my playing, nor do I play any
identifiable Irish tunes, really. Even so, I once played for Seamus Connolly, a
famous fiddler and professor at Boston College, and an expert on Irish music.
He was intrigued by my playing, which he felt was a blurry version of a rural
Waterford style. And my repertoire includes many tunes originally popularized
in Newfoundland by the McNulty family, Boston Irishmen who were stars here in
the 1950s. (Much of the rest is sped-up English Morris dances, but that is
another essay).
Furthermore, the last decade has not been a golden age for
Irish music, which adds to my general ambivalence about our suppressed
Celticness. There are lots of good bands, and great players, but the
well-arranged song has largely been supplanted by lightening fast jigs and
reels. If they sing at all, younger bands often do so unaccompanied: one chap
lilting away with his eyes closed, while everyone else looks at the stage,
trying to be suitably solemn. That is a bit of an anathema to Great Big Sea -
hearty songs and spirited group singing are our meat and drink. Therefore, if I
was to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, (in some fashion other than a gig), than I
would listen to some music from the late 60s and early 70s, when the ballad
singers spawned by the Clancy brothers met the first generation of modern
players. And all sorts of amazing things came forth.
Good luck finding any CDs by the Johnstons in a record
store. This is one gem that ITunes rescued from obscurity, and I am grateful
for it. The band peaked in the early 1970s, when folk legends-to-be Paul Brady
and Mick Maloney joined a band fronted by the two Johnston sisters. They all
sang close harmonies, and Brady and Maloney found complex and intriguing hooks,
all while maintaining a very light feel, a bit like the Association meets the
Clancy’s. The records sound old-fashioned now, from an audio point of view, but
there is a freshness and spirit to the singing that is rare in modern Irish
music. Check out their version of ‘The Spanish Lady’. This rather enigmatic song
has become sadder and sadder over the years, but there is nothing but joy in
the Johnstons’ version.
After the Johnstons, Brady himself later joined Planxty, the
band every critic agrees was the greatest of the era. The four original
members - piper Liam Og Flynn, bouzouki genius Donal Lunny, mandolinist and
singer Andy Irvine and guitarist and singer Christy Moore - single-handedly
reinvented the way Irish music was arranged, sung and performed. Their blend of
songs and instrumentals was unique, years ahead of its time, and in Moore and
Irvine they had singers who were capable of anything. Lunny was not the first
to play Celtic bouzouki, but he invented the melodic rhythmic style that every
one of us uses today. Irvine mostly played mandolin in the band, and he and
Lunny created a weaving harmonic style, which with Og Flynn’s virtuoso piping
was a killer combination. Later additions like Brady and Johnny Moynihan just
added to the mystique. Every pub band in the world owes a debt to Planxty, and
their hooks and ideas have become fodder for hundreds of albums. ‘The Raggle
Taggle Gypsy’ is the song most critics point to as evidence of their
brilliance, but I prefer ‘The Little Drummer’. Moore’s crisp baritone punches
every note, while the rest of the players create a melodic setting which would
be the envy of any fancy pop band. Case in point - the song itself has no
chorus, and repeats itself a half dozen times. In the hand of a lesser bunch it
would be dull and repetitive. In Planxty’s version, you do not even notice.
Instead you are just sad that the song, and the band, ever has to end.
Luke Kelly has been dead for decades now, but as ballad
singer, he has yet to be surpassed. A gnarly looking character, he was one of
the leaders of the Dubliners, a band who wrote the book on gnarly. He might
have looked like an out of work dustman, but his voice was something else -
strong, clear and as rich as a good pint. The Dubliners often played all over
each other, but live Kelly was left alone, to sing his songs with little
accompaniment. He loved songs about the travails of workingmen, and ‘Tramps and
Hawkers’ is one of the best. A superb live version is available everywhere, on
a dozen different Dubliners compilations. Go buy it, and revel in the passion
the man was capable of bringing to a simple lyric. Few singers in any genre would have the courage to deliver
this song as simply as Kelly, and yet you believe every word. The song ends
almost in a whisper, with this poignant traveler lyric:
And if the weather treats me right, I’m happy every day.
Whether in Ireland, or across the ocean, words we can all
live by.
90's Nostalgia
Monday, February 25, 2008
I was watching hotel TV the other night, the sort of shit
you never watch at home. In fact, other than the Premier league, I
hardly watch anything at home. Hotels are a different matter. Everyone watches
too much TV on the road. Anyway, I was watching one of those Time infomercials,
where they sell these huge song collections. This one, surprisingly, was for
90’s songs.
“90’s songs!” I thought, “*** me, we are supposed to be an
object of nostalgic already?”
Maybe I even said it out loud. Hotels are like that.
Anyway, I did not succumb to ordering the lot, but it did spur me to download a few songs
from the era that caught my attention for the second time around.
Weezer were a weird band then, and by all accounts remain
well left of center, but ‘Buddy Holly’ is a piece of genius. The only reason I
even heard the song when it came out is because the video was included on the
first computer I ever bought. I guess I didn’t listen to the radio that much in
the early 90s. I was too poor for cable, in fact the first time I ever saw
MuchMusic was after our ‘Run Runaway’ video came out, when I felt compelled to
subscribe. Not to digress into my ‘St. John’s was a backwater’ thing again, but
Cable TV round here came with 24 channels then, which was an anaesthetizing 23 more than I got with rabbit ears
At any rate, I have been reunited with a dandy. ‘Buddy Holly’s lyrics are
clever in a way few attain. Satire does not usually lend itself to pop music,
but Rivers Cuomo pulls it off. The
guitars are so boneheaded anyone with 4 strings could play them, but it still has the happy bubblegum feel the Ramones
always tried for and never really nailed. Cuomo can really sing - even when he
is comparing his girlfriend to Mary Tyler Moore there is a bit of an edge, an
edge that tells you that this guy quite possibly does not have both oars in the
water. Better still, according to wikipedia, he pissed off at the height of
his fame to do an English degree. I would argue with his timing, but as a
fellow devotee of the obscure and arcane, I can certainly sympathize.
Len is the quintessential one-hit wonder act. They have just
one hit to their credit, but it is so good their subsequent fall into obscurity
is almost prosaic. 1999’s ‘If You Steal My Sunshine’ is blessed with a killer
hook, largely sampled from the Andrea True Connection. Lead vocals were shared
by Marc Costanzo and his sister Sharon, and somehow perfectly capture the sort
of hangover that follows a break-up and subsequent nights of self-destruction. Marc recites the vocal in a husky rap,
sounding as if he is already well into his second pack of smokes, while his
sister is as cheery and chirpy as the Easter bunny. Without even trying, they pretty
much captured the pattern for every decent break-up - one side is wallowing in
despair, while the other prances off in a cloud of relief.
I vaguely recall a video, which appeared to be shot for
nothing in Daytona Beach, with the band & buddiea cavorting around video arcades, fooling
about with scooters and whatnot. I remember it made me a bit jealous. We were bunging
around the USA for most of that year, stuffed back in the van for weeks on end, with all it’s
dubious comforts. There was not much cavorting of any kind for us. Len
looked like they were having the time of their lives. With the benefit of
hindsight, I hope they did.
Sad, Sadder & Saddest
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
There was very artistic movie making the rounds a couple of
years ago, aptly shot in Winnipeg, about a contest for the saddest music in the
world. The movie itself was heavy going, and no matter now worthy, I did not make
it to the end. Nonetheless, the concept itself was quite intriguing.
Of course, everyone has an immediate contender - generally
some song that they associate with a sad time of their life; i.e. the favourite
song of a couple now split, or the hymn played at a friend’s funeral. Fair
enough, we all have these, but what really interests me are those songs that
stand up for themselves, songs that carry their own heavy bag of ennui along
with the verses and chorus. Admittedly, this is a topic I have addressed
before, but one to which I am strangely drawn…particularly during the dreary
winter weather to which we here at the end of the world have been afflicted.
I heard the Doors’ Riders of the Storm the other day on the
radio, a song that I find profoundly depressing. There is something really
pathetic about Morrison’s delivery - his booze-ravaged voice barely rises above
a whisper as he recites the aimless lyrics. It’s as if he could hardly be
bothered to interrupt his headlong plunge into a bottle long enough to actually
sing. Even the guitar solo is sad, all drawn out minor chords and dark modes, a
lament just waiting for the wake to start.
The Dream Syndicate was another Los Angeles band, albeit
from a decade later, one who had a very minor hit with a song called Tell Me
When It’s Over. A break-up song, it’s given its true sad weight by the singer.
He can barely handle the melody, wobbling all over the place, moaning and
heaving and sighing the words out. It ends up sounding like the sort of painful
and desperate message you hear the recently dumped leaving on someone’s cell
phone, all misplaced rage and cringing self-pity. It is as agonizing as your
own adolescent poems, without so much as a shred of hope. The music consists of
a grinding, descending riff, distorted in a cheap and unpleasant fashion,
played over and over again until you hate it. Genius, really, in a depressing
kind of way.
My all-time favourite in the sad & sadder category is a
cut from Sweden’s Cardigans. Although they are known in the USA for a handful
of cheery singles, in Europe their later catalogue is as gloomy as it gets.
Long Gone Before Daylight is the kind of album that you hear once, and then buy
a copy for everyone you know. The stand-out song And Then You Kissed Me… is an agonizing
cry for help. Nina Persson’s voice is beautiful, but with a fierce edge, as if
it could fall apart, (and her with it), any second now. The chords and melody
are perfect, so pretty you don’t even realize right away what Perrson is
singing:
“…blue, blue, black and blue
red blood sticks like glue
true love is cruel, love,
sweet love, tasty blood…
and then you hit me,
right in the heart…
love makes you wake up sore,
with fists that are ready for more”
And you know she means every word. Her weary tone of
resignation about the self-destructing violence, of her relationship, whether
physical or emotional, is about as sad as you can get.
Recently, a friend asked me which GBS song is the saddest.
It is an interesting question. All the break-up songs (My Apology, Buying Time,
How Did We Get From Saying I Love You…, Time Brings, etc.) are kind of sad when
you knew the people involved. Fisherman’s Lament is pretty sad too, especially
for those who lived through that era in Newfoundland, when for a while it looked
like we were pretty much done here. If you want to get into context, then the
whole cannon starts to look a bit iffy. Really, when you get right down to it,
nothing is particularly cheery about dead horses, tidal waves, and being a
simpleton with a shitty little green boat. It just all comes done to how you
look at it.
