Bob's Soundtrack
2008
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.
