Vacation Foundering

It’s that most sad of days – the Sunday at the end of vacation. Back to work tomorrow. There’s despair, moaning, gnashing of teeth, all kinds of pain in different muted runny colors. We had a brief taste of sun-kissed, whiskey-soaked joy, the bliss provided by the steady hum of the internal combustion engine. There was even a Driftwood Singers powow in the mountains of western NC (thanks DD and L). This is where we walked. This is where we swam, hunted danced and sang. And now it’s back to angst-ville. Even nature’s chipping in with a little pathetic fallaciousness, sending in the dark clouds, crazy winds and rumbling thunder. Ominous. Ominous.

The gentlemen from Fearns Brass Foundry have already covered all this. They’ve got the groaning taken care of. I got this comp: Hide & Seek: A Collection of British Blue-Eyed Soul 1964-1969 a while back, and I just didn’t pay enough attention. The first thing that comes to mind is Bobbie Gentry’s “Ode to Billy Joe,” with its mundane details and atmospheric sadness. Then it makes me think of Dylan’s response to that hit, “Clothesline Saga.” And then it gets me thinking of our man Joe South, my one degree of separation from everything. The singer is like the male Dusty Springfield, employing all manner of artful sighs and tuneful exhalations. I’m dying to know more about Fearns Brass Foundry – the name is a tip off that the band has workmanlike, high temperature powers of expressive transformation.

“Now I Taste the Tears” - Fearns Brass Foundry

Listen My Friend

I thought I might have reached the point in my life where Saddle Creek Records no longer meant much to me. But then I got a hold of the newest Neva Dinova record, You May Already Be Dreaming, their first on SC. It’s a good’n. Hitting all the ragged-glory sweet spots, evoking sandy buttes, high plains drifters, bug juice, tongue paint, mutations of Omaha. I saw these guys open for Ladyhawk in Northampton a while back. They were plagued by a caricature of a club-ass soundman, but they managed to rock the 6 or so folks in the crowd. Songs about death, weather systems, old cars. Saddle Creek is giving away what I consider to be the two best songs from the disc. Here they are:

“Clouds” - Neva Dinova

“Will the Ladies Send You Flowers When You Die?”- Neva Dinova

I’m the Taxonomy Man

Hey, look, a distillation of the Driftwood aesthetic, a meditation on liner notes in the new music issues of The Believer, an essay filled with multiple hyphenations, compound adjectives, agitated prose about agitated prose about music, high praise for Joe South, Sammi Smith and Screamin’ Jay Hawkins; it’s like that Borges story where the guy re-writes Don Quixote and it takes on a totally different meaning, only not really.

The Sisterhood of Stevie

Like David Attenborough stalking the lyrebird through a dense rain forest this video of Stevie Nicks swaying at the center of an impromptu, backstage Wild Heart feels so rare, raw. Stevie is at the height of her powers here, still at the start of a solo career, surrounded by a sisterhood, singing. Her magic is made material. The Three Graces in early eighties sun dresses: a make-up artist, a back up singer and Stevie.

My friend, Ace Black, who brought this gem to my attention, watched it again and again upon finding it. She says, "It was not unlike riding my rocking horse as a girl, physically mesmerized by the rhythm and full of a strange excitement." Indeed.

Where You've Been

     My dear Wife gave me an ipod Nano for my birthday.  As many of you may know, it's a curious thing to select songs for said device.  I've discovered that ones I thought for sure I'd want on there, well, it turns out I really don't, and I don't know it until I'm out running, and the ABBA tune "Take A Chance On Me" comes on, fr'instance.  Not to slight the preternaturally blonde Scandinavian popsters--love 'em, been meaning to write about 'em--but do I really want that song on the ol' digital listening contraption?  No, I do not.  What I realized I do want more of is Dinosaur Jr, for some reason.  I first really, really got into J Mascis and pals back when I was attending (briefly) Hampshire College, up in Amherst, MA, which is J's hometown.  (I was talking to my therapist at the time about how much I liked the band--how does such a topic come up in therapy?  I don't know--and she said, "Oh, my sons were friends of his in high school."  How cool was that, at the time?  She was a lovely lady).  I saw them play a couple of times in Amherst.  At one of the shows, Murph broke a drumstick and the battered shard flew out into the crowd and landed in my hands somehow.  I still have it somewhere, I think.  I  saw J do an acoustic show at CBGB's later on when I was living in NYC and going to art school.  I remember looking over at one point and spying Matt Dillon in the crowd.  I always liked that guy.  I can't remember if it was around the same time or not, but I was once up in midtown--I don't know what I was doing exactly, maybe I had gone to a gallery or the Museum of Modern Art or something--and much to my surprise I spied J amid the bustling crowd.  Needless to say, he looked a little out of place.  He was wearing those big goofy glasses and a NASA baseball cap.  Perfect.  I didn't approach him, I just sort of slyly observed him for a few minutes, and he seemed to be taking in all the frenetic activity at his own pace, unperturbed.  I think he ended up going into the FAO Schwartz toy store, or maybe I just pictured him doing that as a private joke, I really can't recall.

     Dinosaur Jr was perfect music to go along with that college/art school period of my life.  Hell, I was miserable a lot of the time, and J's creaky voice, mopey lyrics and thunderous, nay, majestic guitar-playing provided solace of a sort.  I'm not one of those fans who say the early albums are the best (I remember hearing this idiot say that they weren't as good after they had to add the "Jr" for legal reasons!).  Green Mind is the one that really got me, and I also like Bug a whole lot.   I'll admit that I haven't listened to anything since Where You Been--and I'm guessing that not many people have listened to it either, so I figured I'd include a coupla tracks from it.  Cue up some sandblasting sonic power.

Out There--Dinosaur Jr

Get Me--Dinosaur Jr

Morning Wood

We have a special place in our hearts for all things wood here. Driftwood. Roy Wood. Ron Wood. Into the Woods. Wooden riffs. Wooden beats. Wooden Wand. Wooden Indians. Wooden ships on the water. And so, the Wood Brothers.

If I’m honest with myself, opening up to the Wood Brothers took some mental house-cleaning to overcome the vestigial quick-draw judgmental baggage, the instinctive, ingrained, dismissive reflex triggered by the Medeski, Martin and Wood connection, the Norah Jones effect, the artfully distressed textures, fear of the Epcot Center jukejoint exhibit factor (complete with fake outsider art paintings of old blues men, washboards and BBQ kitsch as decor), the redolent spiced-tea jam-band emanations, the made-for-Bonnaroo suspicions. But once I purified myself of bad thoughts, I was able to see the beauty of the Wood Brothers, and the ugliness in me (never difficult).

This is for Dewey Dell and Lefty. The title track from the Wood Brothers record always conjures the best old Bonnie Raitt and early Little Feat for me. And, just because all things seem connected, here’s a link to a great story about hunting wild hogs in Texas. And, speaking of wild hogs, here’s a link to A.O. Scott’s review of the Tim Allen/John Travolta movie Wild Hogs, from last year. One of the greatest take-down reviews I’ve ever read.

“Loaded” - The Wood Brothers

I’m Down, Indeed, Comrade, I’m Being Bombed

I give you “The Friendly Ranger at Clontarf Castle,” the first song on the first Thin Lizzy album. Here’s a challenge to all intercontinental drifters who pass here. Is there a better bean analogy in all of rock? All of music? Is there a better mock-hipster-heroic spoken-word intro? (Listen at 00:27 for what sounds like an Elmer Fuddism “the friendly wanger waits”). Also listen for the physically tricky image: “To walk down the street with my arms around your hips, side by side.” Listen for the pointillistic funk bass and pitter-patter drumming. But more than anything, listen for the earth-shaking made-for-the-drift-atron staggered QUADRUPLE-tracked guitar solo at the end!!

“The Friendly Ranger at Clontarf Castle” - Thin Lizzy

Sign Language: Shred Heads

As Frankie Lee said, today is our birthday. (Cue Beatles song). I guess this is probably true of people of all zodiacal persuasions, but I tend to know and be close to a lot of fellow geminis. Nutbags mostly. Here's to them, my former Scottish/Canadian boss (the ghost at the banquet), Assegai (fathering children, teaching English, studying Tai Chi, laying some Mande beats on the villagers in rural China), my niece (OCD'ing her way through college), baby Rosa (no signs of gemini characteristics as of yet) -- shredders all. Long may we shred.

"The Shredder Sequel" - Little Wings

The Title Of This Post Says It All

     As James Stockdale (H. Ross Perot's running mate) once asked during a debate, "Who am I?  Why am I here?"  Well, here's my answer.

Dirty White Boy--Foreigner

     And, since tomorrow is both Mr. Poncho's and mine's birthday,  I thought I'd share these tracks from the Gino Vanelli album The Gist of the Gemini.  Listening to them makes me feel like an alien visiting from another planet.  It's utterly baffling that this music was written, recorded, released, etc.  with straight faces all around.  I love the fact that he had the nerve to call a song "Carnal Question" and use the term "A post-war eunuch".  How does this happen, I ask you?  (The second side of the record has a bunch of songs grouped together under the title "The War Suite", of which "Carnal Question" is one.  Heavy stuff).  Vanelli was born in Montreal--I think the Canadian hypothesis is beginning to unravel.  A bona-fide head-shaker.

A New Fix For '76--Gino Vanelli

Carnal Question--Gino Vanelli

Cache in the Attic

While Lefty struggles with being the Chardonnay-swilling target demo for the Restoration Hardware masterminds, I'm still coming to terms with being an uprooted 20th century post-urban American mongrel (by Monsanto), a fig-plucker by blood, but one who likes to dabble in the simple feel-good pleasures of lachrymal pedal steel, corn-fed fog-horn white-man vocal melisma and anything that conjures work requiring knowledge of a grease gun. The truth is: we have no idea who we are anymore, if we ever did. It's not as if we don't like it this way.
I could live inside a teepee. I could die in Penthouse 35. Etc.

As promised, here are some more tracks from the John Anderson archives.

"Stop in the Road" - John Anderson

"San Antonio Rose" - John Anderson

"Don't Think Twice It's All Right"- John Anderson

White Wine Manifesto

A friend and I were joking on the subway platform the other morning that the Robert Plant & Alison Krauss album was probably market-tested and produced with a group of NPR yuppies having a dinner party in the studio to determine just the right mix. It's just that kind of album, a tastefully antiqued Crate & Barrel-quality production for the living room environment, featuring two tried-and-true legends of the upwardly mobile demographic. (I imagined producer T-Bone Burnett having one of those "smooth" knobs on the mixing board, like in episode #9 of Yacht Rock.) Fittingly, the best song on the album, "Killing the Blues," was used in a Target commercial, which I first heard during the Super Bowl. And yet, as difficult as it is to give myself over to the publicity and marketing cycle of a popular phenomenon aimed directly at me, I can't help myself: I am the target and the Plant-Krauss arrow has struck dead center. I love everything about the record, especially the Target tune. The slow, languid atmospherics and porcelain harmonies, the Al Gore earth tones Whole Foods production quality, the way it turns my living room into a soft, cottony, candle-lit hideaway far from the madness of workaday life. It's a really good album.

This might not seem like a big revelation, but for one whose musical world view was built on the defunct late-20th-Century indie-DIY-hippie-punk model of anti-capitalist "authenticity" and "integrity," it's been hard to accept my slow-but-sure devolution into the Dad Rock category. It's like waking up one day and realizing you've qualified for Medicare. I suppose the tipping point -- and I even hate that phrase, coming as it does from the Crate & Barrel intellectual of our time, Malcolm Gladwell -- was my acceptance of the simulacrum rock of Fleet Foxes and all the other Millennial-generation folk-rock precision re-creators. But whatever. You can't stop the future. So here I am, Professional NPR Yuppie Dad Rocker rocking my Plant-Krauss download from iTunes and just flowing into the 21st Century like a streaming video. I'm letting go. I celebrate myself. Hear my white wine glass clink!

"Killing the Blues" - Robert Plant & Alison Krauss

(Editor's Note: I found the above photo by Googling "intimate dinner party")

I, Claudius (I) : Reduce, Re-use (Roots)

Claudius Linton was a blind spot for me. Sometimes it seems like it’s all blind spots, really. I got a copy of this comp called Roots Master, and the man has clearly got the power. With a majestic name like Claudius Linton, it’s no surprise. Part Burning Spear, part Linton Kwesi Johnson, CL has got the soulful roots all wrapped up, the dub testifying, too. The band performs that expert sonic rollercoaster, with muskrat-like keyboard parts poking a head up here, a big underground bass line diving down and blowing your hair back, some exuberant morse-code hand-percussion sending messages of i-ree into the cosmos.
I have no idea what “Backra Massa” is about, but it’s definitely some DNA-level joy – soul sun pleasure. At our Driftwood Singers communal family barbecue this past weekend, I came armed with music to go one-for-one in an anticipated cosmic drift-atron late-night music duel with Lefty, but the fatigue set in, the bone tiredness won out. So I didn’t get to unload the amo. My powder stayed dry. But speaking of arms, the thing I love about “Reduce the Arms Race” – aside from the “you ain’t goin’ nowhere" commitment of the stoned-anemic groove – is the aim-low implication of the verb “reduce” in the refrain; from that word alone, I feel like James Wood would be able to unpack all kinds of biblical portents and historical, imperial, cultural nuggets.
I’m not unpacking no portents.

“Backra Mass”- Claudius Linton


“Reduce the Arms Race”- Claudius Linton

Quasi-Errand Into the Quasi-Wilderness

Armed with child-friendly insect-repellent wipes, ample fizzy water, manageable stacks of moldy vinyl, a portable turntable, an impressive array of grilled meats, and small-batch bourbon, a quorum of the northeast chapter of the Driftwood Singers family met in bucolic Pound Ridge, New York, for what has now become our semi-annual errand into the semi-wilderness, a quasi-utopian shindig involving naked toddlers caked in mud, the strumming of acoustic guitars, DNA replication, and wild-eyed speculation about ill-informed land buys in the Northeast Kingdom. Needless to say, we pondered the genius of artists like Robert Palmer, J.Geils, Freddy Fender, Fleetwood Mac, Karl Blau and Thin Lizzy.

I had promised to share a few tracks from a cache of John Anderson records that I’d purchased back in the winter in a lucky strike at a Goodwill in Middletown. Here’s one. Early in his career, Anderson had a baby face, but his voice was oak-aged, double-smoked and love-damaged. All American.

There’s always more.

“Arms of a Fool” - John Anderson

Our Song

     I discovered this tune by accident tonight.  Written by Glen Campbell collaborator Jimmy Webb ("Wichita Lineman", "By The Time I Get To Phoenix", etc.)--perfect, right?  I think it's got the requisite combination of dissonance, misplaced fanfare, shaky-voiced singing, and questionable lyric choices to make it a good theme song. 

 

     Wild and free

     Like you and I

     Like driftwood blown back to the sea

Driftwood--Jimmy Webb

Civilizing Influences

I was in Paris a week ago. It seems ridiculous now, as it did before we went. The older of my two older brothers and I went to spend four days with our other brother, the oldest, and his family, who have been living there for the past year (academics, years off, Canadians). The goal was to eat, drink and walk, basically. We weren’t even set on going to the Louvre. We started off pretty strong, heading to the neighborhood market, buying a big hunk of pork for roasting, some figs, five or six different kinds of really unbelievably stinky cheese [the French-speaking brother told the cheese dude (who, by the way, was wearing a beret) that he wanted some “flavorful” cheeses, which evidently is Gallic code for gross], we had some pear cider from Brittany, and there were pates of rabbit and duck, plus some ultra-thin cured meats, and a sausage called andouillette that really was cloacal. Bottles and bottles of wine. Righteous coffee. Croissants and fruit tarts in the mornings. Later there was foie gras, blood sausage, escargot, more rabbit, steak tartar. It was ugly. It was good that we were only there for four days, because with the U.S. dollar sucking so noisily, the fiscal pain would have risen to levels comparable to the self-inflicted spiritual and intestinal pain.

Here’s what I learned: the French are serious about politeness. They’re so polite that they’ll be really rude to tell you how impolite you are. It’s intense. Don’t fuck around with bonjour and pardon without the proper title affixed to it.

The whole thing about French people making out in parks is true. They do.
Same with baguettes. Everybody’s got one.
They like to smoke, more proud about it than we are.
They know how to dress.
The food, as is the case in Spain and Italy, is just about 45 times better than what we have here, just on average, across the board.

The reason everyone loves Paris so much is that it’s basically taken the idea of civilization and
perfected it. The public transit system works, and even bozos from another country can use it with ease. There’s culture everywhere. History and art in your face all the time. We heard a street musician nailing the Bach solo cello suites at this courtyard, with those tunnels of leafy canopies and long shady walkways lining a sunny square. Saw a guy singing in a sort of counter tenor style; he was posed with this 18th century-looking velvet hat, with his hands behind his back, turned rigidly to one side, singing some castrato-sounding aria with accompaniment on a boom box. Made me want to go eat some more blood sausage.

And there’s no time here, but seeing the dizzying profusion of religious imagery at the Louvre made me wonder all over again if maybe the majority of human energy from the last 2000 years in the West has been devoted to fetishizing sado-masochism, dressed up admirably as spirituality. With tourists relentlessly snapping pictures of themselves in front of old masters, you have to think about the insatiable hunger for frozen glimpses.

The French have it better. And the return to the manic tumor-inducing bustle of the banana bin that is the work week was traumatic. I thought all my hair might just fall out in clumps. Or else patches of it would turn bright white like in a Crash Test Dummies song. Or maybe I’d just start choking on bile.

As is always the case, I had to try and recover from my gout-packing vacation by taking the opposite approach for a bit. Going all ascetic, monk-like, miserably deprived. I made lentils and roasted vegetables. It was short-lived.

The other day, as my heart-rate climbed and climbed as I got closer to the work place, this song came on the iPod. It’s one of many great Ray Davies songs glorifying the idea of chucking it all and saying “thanks, but no thanks” to civilization. This is from Lola/Powerman, which Wes Anderson mined wisely for the soundtrack to the Darjeeling Express (a movie that in some ways resembled my three-bros trip to France). If someone hasn’t already written a post-colonial senior thesis on “Apeman” -- with its Caribbean borrowings, its now-offensive equation of voodoo with primate living – well, it’s time to get on it.

“Apeman” - the Kinks

Not a Puritan

     I love the fact that this guy shares his name with the celebrated theologian.  Do they have anything in common?  Let's see.  Jonathan Edwards the preacher/theologian was born in Connecticut;  Jonathan Edwards the singer/songwriter was born in Minnesota.  Jonathan Edwards the preacher/theologian formulated a metaphysical system that was designed to challenge Aristotelianism; Jonathan Edwards the singer/songwriter formulated a country/folk/rock sound that was popular in the early '70s.  Hmm, I guess not.

      This is yet another disc culled from the motherlode (so to speak) I wrote about in a previous post (here it is, if'n you hain't read it yet).   I seem to remember hearing this song a long time ago, when I was a kid, but I never knew who sang it until I found this record.  It has a nice 'n cozy sort of homespun feel to it, and yes, there are times when you just kinda feel like you'd like to do what he's singing about.  It doesn't seek to challenge Aristotelianism or anything, but it's still a worthwhile pursuit, in my book.  (I like how he says "put" instead of "get" a good buzz on.  We could quibble over the semantics for hours).  The harmonica part may be annoying to some, but all in all it's an enjoyable little ditty.

     Jonathan Edwards the preacher/theologian died from complications following a smallpox inoculation.  Jonathan Edwards the singer/songwriter is still alive & performing, as far as I know.

Shanty--Jonathan Edwards

Contact, Pt. 3: Lady Marmalade In Space

     First of all, is it not just so awesome that people dressed up like this, in the name of...something..., back in the Seventies?  Yes, yes it is, thank you.  

     This tasty bit o' space funk is from the same LaBelle album (Nightbirds) that gave us "Lady Marmalade", and you can hear it.  But in this tune they're not warbling about some hooker on the streets of New Orleans.  Oh no.  They're singing about children.  Space children.  (This was one of the records from the lesbian treasure trove of which I wrote previously).  

     Boom.  Genius.

(P.S. Read, or re-read, Contact Parts 1 & 2 if you must).

Space Children--LaBelle

Midden Mind: the White Dub Workflow

If there were a Mt. Rushmore of Driftwood-ism, if would be adorned with the faces of Percy Sledge, Bread, the Bee Gees, Buffy St. Marie, and the youngest member of the pantheon would be our man Karl Blau – multi-instrumentalist, wielder of sewing machines, chameleon-like sideman, white dub pioneer, hijiki hipster and he-who-communes-with-the-corral. Blau is the Augustus Pablo of the Pacific Northwest. I just stumbled on these three downloads from Blau’s new record, AM (the songs were inspired by the poems of A.A. Milne). “Stream” could be filed next to your Beefheart, Polvo, Jim O’Rourke and any other melt-guitar visionary. “Spring Morning” is so completely excavated, like a sonic archeological site. You find tantalizing shards, inscrutable bone and burnt something-or-others from the midden mind. All of these songs have the new animism, the spirit worship. This music has a different, porridge-like, sub-aquatic viscosity.

“Spring Morning” - Karl Blau
“Lake King’s Daughter” - Karl Blau
“Stream” - Karl Blau

Carolina Dreamin'

     My in-laws live in a smallish town in South Carolina, and  every few months or so the missus and I go down there for a visit.  There isn't really very much to do, which is kind of nice, but when we feel like venturing forth we'll sometimes go downtown to check out the thrift stores and see if there's anything worth spending a few bucks on.  There's one store in particular that's run by a crazy cat lady, and although it can be a somewhat disgusting experience to go in there--you risk being exposed to foul cat smells, dust balls, decaying book matter, etc.--there are usually a few good records to be found, which makes it worthwhile.  (The last time we were in there, the lady tried to foist some stale holiday cookies on us, but we were somehow able to escape unharmed).  So this post is really about a bunch of music that doesn't have much in common except for where it was found.

     One record I scored there is this Ornette Coleman disc from 1976 called Body Meta.  (I was reminded of it whilst reading a post of Mr. Poncho's that mentioned the recent New Yorker article about him).  I don't think this one is considered to be on par with some of his 

other LPs, but I've been enjoying the out-thereness of it lately.  I like listening to the guitar--there's some nice distorted playing, and there's actually what you'd call a riff happening in this tune.  The record has a gatefold sleeve with some psychedelic-looking artwork and minimal text (the cover is by one Chief Z. K. Oloruntoba).   (I think there was supposed to be a booklet, but it's missing).  The players include Bern Nix and Charlie Ellerbee on guitar, Jamaaladeen Tacuma on bass, and drummer Roland Shannon Jackson.

Home Grown--Ornette Coleman

     I don't know about you, but it's hard for me to resist buying a record with the title How About Uke?  So that's what I did.  The playing is fine, not much more than just pretty, but it's a neat little curiosity, especially for those of us who are fans of the ukulele.  From "free jazz" to "square jazz" in one easy step.

Tangerine--Lyle Ritz

     Isn't this just one of the greatest songs?  Ever?  (From the 1975 Capricorn LP Struttin' My Stuff, which includes the tunes "Slick Titty Boom" and "I Love The Life I Lead").

Fooled Around and Fell In Love--Elvin Bishop

     Finally, to the Mamas and the Papas.  The record is called If You Can Believe Your Eyes And Ears, and it includes "Monday, Monday", "California Dreamin'" and "Go Where You Wanna Go".  Good songs, but we've heard all of them enough times, haven't we?  Here's something else from it, written by John Phillips.  If you know what I mean.

Straight Shooter--The Mamas and the Papas

"Where Do You Go (My Lovely)"

So Dewey Dell got obsessed with this song by Peter Sarstedt recently (and then got me obsessed, natch). It graces the soundtrack of the Wes Anderson short film "Hotel Chevalier" that preceded "The Darjeeling Limited." We had to do some Google research on Sarstedt (one-hit wonder, #1 on UK Top 40, 1969) and even strummed out the song on guitar (easy: C, Am, F, G, repeat). But this video takes the cake. Again, the power of the mustache can't be overstated, especially if a French accent is coming out from underneath it.