Saturday Night Fish Fry

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[CONCEITS and VANITIES]

Who in the ever-lovin' fuck wrote the words to this thing?!?



I don't remember the single release in 1964, but stumbled across it while studying a 1967 Ron Riley WLS aircheck. He played it as an "oldie."

The lyrics would be disturbing if they were delivered in a serious manner (they're not) and if they weren't so goddam over the top. I haven't been able to hunt down the composer, but the words seem very much in the spirit of postwar R&B "chick abuse" tunes by entertainers such as Louis Jordan and Bull Moose Jackson. (They're not literally about abusing women, but portray the era's Battle Of The Sexes through the eyes of pseudo-macho, beleaguered rascals.)

The musical setting seems like a classic teen, American-Bandstand-style presentation, which puts an offbeat finish on the disc.

Over You, Paul Revere & the Raiders (1964, Columbia 4-43114), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.

Update: just noticed in the YouTube comments that the song is credited to Allen Toussaint and Allen Orange, which helps to explain the nature of the lyrics and the New Orleans flavor to the American-Bandstand-type chart. It says that Aaron Neville recorded it in 1960. Hilarious choice for the Raiders. Wouldn't be surprised if the responsible A&R man was fired over it.

One! Two! Three! FUCK!!!

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The first "conspiracy theory" I remember: that Paulie was really hollering That Word on the fourth beat of his count.



I think today we all can accept the fact that the lads were just too polite to even be thinking that in the studio. But it was a debated point back in Mr. Phillips' 5th grade class at Woodland School. I always leaned toward the "FUCK!!!" theory, but mostly out of wishful thinking. Deep inside, I knew he really said "FAH!!!"

Below is an alternate version. In his dramatis personae, so to speak, John is voiced to sound like The Poor Man's Ape Named Ape, meaning a very pale echo of Ronald Colman.



These delightfully wretched cartoons, produced by Al Brodax, came along in 1965 as Saturday morning diversions. If I remember accurately, viewing these cartoons provided my first experience with cognitive dissonance.

I Saw Her Standing There, The Beatles (1963, multifarious video provenances too crazy to attempt documenting), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes. Consider yourselves educated. Please discuss and provide noncommercial commentary.

Fish Fry Prayer Meeting

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I don't know enough about Nelson Mandela to write anything. I will someday read a history of his life and South Africa. Meanwhile, there is one thing I know: Mr. Mandela inspired the jazz composer Abdullah Ibrahim (known as Dollar Brand during the '60s and '70s) to record a really cool song. 



I had never heard this song until earlier this evening, at the end of Fresh Air on NPR. What an unexpectedly jaunty salute to a giant! One of the few world leaders of this era who will be remembered by history for something other than emptying the corporate spittoons on command. I hope Mr. Mandela had a chance to hear this recording and rollick to it, inside.

Mandela, Abdullah Ibrahim (2012, from the album "Water From An Ancient Well," Tip Toe [label catalog number not available at writing]), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.

Friday Night Fish Fry

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The song is "The Fever." If you're expecting a cover version of Peggy Lee, you're too damn old. Myself, I'm on the cusp.



I chose this version because of the bonus lead-in comedy from SCTV, which is my favorite sketch comedy show ever. It's hilarious seeing Dave Thomas and Catherine O'Hara bickering with a definitive air of comedy menace. I don't recall ever seeing a bad episode.

Anyway, stick around for Southside Johnny (music begins about 1:05). I didn't know this was a Springsteen composition until long after I'd heard Southside's rendition---first live at The Quiet Knight in Chicago around 1975. When I listen to Springsteen recordings from this era, so much of it sounds pretentious and melodramatic to my adult ears. Not Southside, though. If I had to choose between seeing one of the two performing today, I'd take Southside in a second.

Too lazy to document the provenance of this clip tonight, but as always it's embedded from YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.

Birthday Girl Fish Fry!

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Little Oscar, my favorite geezer lady, is having a birthday for a few more hours, so here's a treat for her from the days when "Doug Stephenson" roamed the earth and Columbia Record Club would send you five---FIVE!---free LPs as long as you'd buy one a month for the rest of your life or send it back within 7 days at your own expense.



Whatever Gary Lewis album this was on, we heard the damn thing about five times a day for the entire summer of 1965 in heavy rotation with Jay & The Americans and Jan & Dean. Probably no one is more responsible for me taking up leaded gasoline for recreational use than Little Oscar and Gary Lewis' goddam Playboys!

I embedded this particular version of the selected tune, however, for reasons that have much to do with me and nothing to do with Little Oscar. See if you can guess what they are. Unfortunately, LO did not have any hot friends like the ones tearing it up above, with the possible exception of Terri W. who I was still slightly too young to "appreciate." But she and her bra-stuffing girlfriends were all nice girls, with no vices other than Pepsi. They were never a pain to be around. And that's about the nicest thing any kid can be expected to say about his big sister.

Happy Birthday, Little Oscar!

Little Miss Go-Go, Gary Lewis & the Playboys (1965, Liberty 55778 [45 rpm single; can't track down the album catalog number]), via YouTube, embedded with a claim of fair use because it's Little Oscar's birthday!!!

Editor's note: I read in the liner notes of my CD greatest hits collection that this recording was Take 27! Can you imagine that? I think Brian Wilson must have put together "Good Vibrations" in fewer takes than that.

Saturday Night Fish Fry

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I've always considered this a gorgeous pop song, with the mix and more economical edit of the original single being the superior version.



As a lad I responded little and thought even less about pop music lyrics. The main reason is that the words sounded largely unintelligible to my ears, and so I paid attention to vocals almost exclusively in terms of their musical characteristics.

About 10 years later, when my brain was fully developed and I could both understand the words and parse their meaning, I remember being shocked by just how sociopathic the lyrics of this tune really are. By this time in "rock and roll history" (i.e., 1966), there were plenty of really cold lyrics about boy/girl-type stuff, such as Under My Thumb and Norwegian Wood (although I didn't "get" those, either). But, for cryin' out loud, I Saw Her Again is not only pretty, but quite a sweet and jaunty little production. As I say, this tale of a man deliberately and remorselessly exploiting an unsuspecting woman is downright creepy.

Only tonight, when I as looking for a version to post here, I learned that the story behind the composition is even more twisted than I'd suspected. The following is an extract from the notes posted about this cut at YouTube:

Mamas & Papas leader, John Phillips revealed in an interview that the "I Saw Her Again" was composed after he learned that Michelle Phillips (John's wife and fellow group member) and Denny Doherty (also a group member) were having an affair while the group was on tour. He laughingly told Dick Bartley that he wrote the song "so Denny would have to sing it on stage every night and feel guilty".  

You may remember reading in recent years that Mr. Phillips is said to have been quite a piece of work, so his expressed mirth in the above text supports the squick factor of the whole production, as I experienced it when I first paid attention to the lyrics. And because of that (but not the whole drugging-his-daughter-for-incest thing, which allegedly occurred 13 years later), I enjoy this song now more than I ever did before. It's analogous to a principle used in formulating perfumes: every world-class scent includes a minuscule portion of a gut-wrenching odor such as vomit, urine-saturated rags, or rotting flesh. Maybe this is why some of our greatest artists are, in their personal lives, monsters. Or the converse may be true.

Also, for historical interest, go to the notes on YouTube to find out for once and for all whether the famous false start on the outchorus (at 2:15 in the video) was intentional or not. Hint: it was a production error---just what it sounds like---but producer Lou Adler thought it sounded awesome, so they kept it.  

I Saw Her Again, The Mamas & The Papas (1966, Dunhill 4031 [45 rpm single]), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.

Saturday Night Fish Fry

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A nice, nostalgic kettle of fish for you to fry:



This is the UK release of a brisk little ditty by a cheeky group of RAF personnel. The lyrics were toned down for the US market, supposedly, but the only difference I can detect here is the inclusion of a line about birth control... which would still be too controversial for the US pop charts here in good old 2013.

I noticed on the label that the tune was composed and produced by Jonathan King, who is best known (to me) for his 1965 wimp-rock ballad "Everyone's Gone To The Moon." Evidently, according to Wikipedia, Mr. King has had his hands in lots of projects over the years, ranging from work with Genesis, 10cc, the Bay City Rollers, a film called Vile Pervert: The Musical, and a 2001 conviction on charges of sexual assault of five teenage boys between 1983 and 1989.

It's Good News Week, Hedgehoppers Anonymous (1965, Decca F.12241), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.

Friday Night Fish Fry

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Tonight, for some reason, I feel like offering something violent for our entertainment. But not cheaply topical with respect to certain national news events of the week. So put this in your pipe and smoke it:



In case you can't understand the words, this performance is a medley of perspectives on nonapproved drugs---namely, bassist Mark Sandman's musings on his own daily drug experimentation upon himself sandwiching a succinct description of US war-on-drugs policy. I selected this specific video to show this oddly instrumented power trio in action. If you like the feel of it, find a higher-resolution version of this song on YouTube and play it back at earbleed level through your little earbuds. You really need to hear their studio performances on CD-grade recordings to hear what this combo is all about.

There are half a dozen reasons why this is one of my favorite bands of all time, but I won't use the present space to tell you why, and it doesn't matter anyway. I'll just say that I can't think of any other band that sounds so unusual and accessible at the same time.

Test Tube Baby/Shoot 'em Down, Morphine (live at Nightstage, Cambridge, MA, 26 May 1992 [recording provenance unknown] ), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.

Saturday Night Fish Fry

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On account of I miss hearing from Gurlitzer lately, here is some bait to lure herself out of her lair. I'm pretty sure she was in our party at the Roosevelt University Auditorium in Chicago in December 1971 to hear the boys "premier" (or so they said) this very song: Mother.



Listen to the intro by poor Terry Kath: he sounds like his brain has been toasted to the size and mental capability of a raisin. I think it's hilarious that he start's picking out the stock lullaby theme (go-to-sleep, go-to-sleep...) as he's talking, then dribbles off like he's got the somnambulas.

As an adult I became pretty critical of Chicago because I felt they squandered their talent. I stopped following them after their third album, from which this is, er, from. (Not counting Carnegie Hall, which was their fourth.) I feel that none of the members improved an iota, technically, after "Chicago Transit Authority." Knowing little about the band, biographically speaking, I would assume that they were a victims of their meteoric rise to fame and hip-capitalist management. I can almost hear it: You boys could be as big as The Beach Boys if you let us help you write some "relevant" lyrics and pick out some nice "threads". We can also make your hair look sexier while still being hip! Yeah---and you can have all the "pot" you want for free! So I feel the fellas became too famous, wealthy, and high for their own good, and ours too. Maybe that's unfair, but I felt that much of their second album was pretty much only going through motions dictated by some insidious devitalizing force. By the third, it all sounded canned and labeled to me. Their lyrics explored the safe perimeter of pseudo-profundity, and the ensemble horn arrangements mostly sounded like rote variations or fantasias on riffs from Ballet For A Girl In Buchannon.

No one in the band was a virtuoso... and I feel that's actually OK. After all, Chicago was just a rock band... of which some of us had unduly high expectations if we were suckered by the most-of-them-studied-music-at-college marketing. (There's not a thing wrong with a good street-quality jazz-rock band in my book, but I wanted Chicago to exceed the high points of the first album every time out.)
 
The Carnegie Hall album is full of distracted, mediocre moments. But this track is not one of them, despite Kath's soporific introductory ramble. The composition isn't much but isn't bad either---head-shop-type lyrics about man's inhumanity to Mother Nature, changing meters several times before a 5/8 section that is supposed to "resemble industry, and money-making, and pollution". But what a surprise to my cynical 21st century earbones! I'd forgotten. Everybody sounds like they really mean it on this cut, especially during the 5/8 jam! James Pankow starts it with some frantic trombone that may draw from bop chops he learned at college. And Walt Parazaider, bless his heart, really takes his chances on tenor. Maybe he's just running up and down arpeggios from his methods book, but he just gives it up and dives in. Hard to believe this is the same guy who struggled with improvising Dixie and Battle Hymn of The Republic on flute a little earlier in the program. Then Pankow comes back at the end with quite a sensitive elegy-type solo that even made me feel emotional when I reheard it for the first time after buying the Rhino reissue several months ago. The whole collection, even with its flaws, is like an under-appreciated friend.

Mother, Chicago (1971, from "At Carnegie Hall," CD reissue Rhino R2 76174), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.

Saturday Night Fish Fry

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This is very cute. Be sure to watch the post "performance" "interview" with Dick Clark.



It may be my modern sensibilities, but I think that Dick Clark is being a bit of a dick with the boys, at least unintentionally. It appears there's a partial language barrier to which Mr. Clark may not be sensitive. However, he does seem to try to provide some context after the fact by explaining that big-time entertainers (such as himself) don't know their own itineraries most of the time.

I notice that the group spells the word "premiere" the way I remember learning it. For a coupla decades I had assumed that I'd just learned an incorrect spelling of the word in my remedial elementary school education.

I post this song with respect to Senor Rodolpho Murga, who taught me how to make pozole last weekend. Tonight I tried my own batch solo. Tomorrow will tell how it came out.

Farmer John, The Premieres (1 August 1964, live lipsynced* performance on American Bandstand, ABC-TV), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.
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*The fellas should have at least put someone on stage holding a tenor sax to produce a better illusion.

Saturday Night Fish Fry!!!

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I don't think anybody plays the role of comical ultraviolent maniac like Louis Jordan.



I don't know about you, but to me this guy sounds scarier than any rap-chart "gangsta" I've ever heard. There's no preening here; he's a natural-born Method Actor. In the right time---meaning at least 15 years after his prime, unfortunately---I think Jordan might have been a very successful mainstream comic actor.

(Editor's note: not my fault, but I apologize for the crappy visuals that the poster attached to the front end of the video. At least he uploaded a masterpiece for us to enjoy, though.)

Dad Gum Ya Hide, Boy, Louis Jordan & His Tympany Five (1954, from "One Guy Named Louis: The Complete Aladdin Sessions"; CD reissue Capitol Jazz CDP 7 96804 2 [1992]), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.

Friday Night Fish Fry (!)

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Been awhile. Happy birthday, Frank! (21 December 1940).



This is the wider world's introduction to FZ and the Mothers of Invention. First tune---grand slam in every way, from attitude to lyrics to arrangement to teen beat. I wonder whether the US counterculture would have been different had Zappa's management and the Verve label had invested several-thousand bucks in strategic payola and disc jockey blowjobs to get this track on the AM radio in fall 1966 (and backed by "Trouble Every Day"). There's a lot on this album that sounds not unlike the Stones. But... fat chance. Have you ever heard lyrics like this on any commercial or NPR radio station?

You know the routine---jam in the earbuds and crank it up to where snot starts running down your upper lip. My first version of this tune and the album it's on was vinyl:

Hungry Freaks, Daddy, The Mothers of Invention (1966, from "Freak Out," Verve V6-5005-2X), embedded for noncommercial commentary, critical discussion, and educational purposes.

Saturday Night Fish Fry

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Not necessarily apropos to the nth degree, but, nevertheless, I am embedding this video in honor of the memory of Vaclav Havel, whose nonfiction writings I have just discovered and about whom I will have more to say later. For now let it suffice to say that the essay I am examining these days like an MRI scanner appears in a cheap edition printed on thirsty pulp paper that begs for marginalia to be inscribed by my genuine Fisher bullet Space Pen.



Now, as to the featured tune, and this particular performance of it, the following:

I've always loved it. My brain originally perceived it as being off-kilter in a way I couldn't explain. First, there's that George rhythm guitar riff that filled the radio like an anthem, but more closely resembled the random tones and percussive, lurching rhythms of a pinball machine to my delicate ears. Then, there's that part---repeatedly---that sounds like a ritardando-slash-meltdown, which is in all cases slapped aside by an abrupt return to the Harrison riff with Ringo bashing his tubs. And finally, there are the words: a song that has nothing to do with girls or whatever that other mysterious stuff was that they were singing about when I was in 7th grade (such as "Eleanor Rigby" and "Yellow Submarine"). This was just a song about a guy who wanted to write paperback books like the ones I used to like to smell at the drugstore news stand next to the comic book racks. (Like Dr No From Russia With Love, of which I could never get past the third page because it was too sexy---just kept reading the first three pages over and over.) So even then, in the back of my unsophisticated brain (infused with anti-knock leaded gas, as it was) I still found myself thinking, "huh?!?" It worked on me sort of like a zen koan.

About 25 years ago the concert from which this clip was extracted was issued by some obscure Italian label which, if memory serves, could get away with selling this bootleg recording at that time due to European copyright laws pertaining to live performances. I enjoyed the rawness of it, and for the first time I heard that the little "meltdown" segments were actually an ear-ptical illusion: when played live, Ringo kept the rhythm audible in the background to keep the lads together. In the studio recording, though, it just seems as if the band holds together via ESP.

Unlike some people, I'm not fazed by all the technical flaws of this recording. It is a document from early days, when the stars set up their own equipment on tour and they probably had no way of hearing themselves in their puny stage monitors over the screeching crowd and arena reverberations. But it does present Paul (fighting with his wobbly mic much of the time) phrasing the melody less "up-and-down" than on the single. It's too bad we don't have some high-quality relaxed, live performances from this era of their careers.

Paperback Writer, The Beatles (live, 2 July 1966, Budokan Hall, Tokyo, provenance of recording unknown), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Saturday Night Fish Fry (After Hours)

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Here's an unpublished (so to speak) set of Beatles tunes performed live by Frank Zappa and his ill-fated "best band you never heard in your life," from a 1988 concert in Helsinki.



I reckon Sir Paul will authorize commercial release of these recordings by the Zappa Family Trust about the time he officially designates Heather Mills as the Fifth Beatle.

Two things stand out to me in this clip: the quaint topicality of the lyrics and the technical acumen of both the musicians and the engineers in echoing the studio-type feel of the original Beatles recordings.

At this point in Frank's life, he was preoccupied by (among many other things) how TV evangelism had infused US politics with a sinister overtone, and so he was delighted when preachers like Jim Bakker and Jimmy Swaggart were publicly exposed as sexual "perverts" and moral hypocrites, and he gleefully used it as "material." Most of the lyrics here focus on Swaggart, whose sex scandal broke into the news during the band's 1988 tour. But these were the waning days of the second Reagan administration, with the Iran-Contra affair and other Republican outrages having broken the windshield of our little democracy flivver and flattened three of its tires while the President drifted into senility. So we hear Zappa's mocking references to such one-hit wonders as National Security Advisor Admiral Poindexter and Attorney General Ed Meese. I think Zappa's parody lyrics are at their best when they remain vulgar and playful, as opposed to the more coarsely obscene texts for which he became infamous (in the Clean World, at least). In these pieces he veers over into the "obscene" lane, but arguably expresses no greater magnitude of depravity than Swaggart guiltily preached on any given day in his ministry. And all these lyrics are based on True Facts---set to the music of the Fab Four!

As one commenter on this video said (but for a different implied reason than I would give, and with which I disagree), the Beatles could not have performed most of these songs live with anywhere near the fidelity that FZ and his band accomplish in this performance. That's partially explained by the level of sophistication that synthesizer technology had reached by the end of his career, but much more so by Zappa's almost-supernatural ears and almost-peerless skills as an arranger. The musicians must also be credited for their technical skills, but as herded and over-rehearsed by FZ and---worse---a junior musician whom he put in charge of drilling the band on a daily basis as his own health began to emerge as a debilitating problem. Because of his stature, Zappa could get away with rehearsal schedules that could fairly be called abusive, but his second-tier foreman couldn't command the same obedience. So Zappa's musicians revolted and the band fell apart halfway through the world tour. (Strangely, Wikipedia doesn't have any account of this major milestone in Zappa's career---the end of it as a performing musician, to be exact---so I can't link to it.)

This video presents the same 12-piece band documented live on Broadway the Hard Way, The Best Band You Never Heard In Your Life, and Make A Jazz Noise Here, which Zappa issued to help him recover from a financial loss of about half a million dollars (in an era when that probably meant twice as much as it does today). Broadway is the most broadly (hurhurhurrrr) appealing, but bristles with Reagan-era political topicality that isn't universal enough to have aged well. The others have a few high points, but come across as thrown-together filler tour tapes. The Beatles suite played here is much more entertaining and respectful of the source material than the pointlessly condescending covers of "Purple Haze" and "Stairway To Heaven" that show up on Best Band.

I think FZ really believed that this lineup was in fact his best band ever. From a technical standpoint, that would be his call to make. But as a fan, I've never gotten much enjoyment from his '80s ensembles. They achieved their precision and impressive responsiveness to Zappa's extemporaneous direction through the maestro's extreme exercise of control and, as I say, over-rehearsal to the point of sounding brittle underneath it all. Nevertheless, this particular segment sounds more relaxed and human than I've come to expect from Zappa's latter-day aggregations.

What do you think? Does this music do anything for you?

Beatles Suite, Frank Zappa and band (1988, live in Helsinki, Finland, provenance of recording unknown), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Editor's note: as Fifty50 readers who have taken Music Appreciation will observe, this music isn't actually a medley, but a regular sequence of songs with each having a segue into the next.

Saturday Night Fish Fry

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This is a Chicago furniture store jingle as released on a promotional 7 in. vinyl single in 1970.



My general memory from the late 1950s into the 1970s is that music for broadcast commercials and radio jingles was based either on styles that were mainstream when the ad agency guys were in school---half a generation out of date to a teenager or young adult---or else an agency's smarmy exploitation version of youth-oriented music. The good people at Ember Furniture seem to have farmed out their work to a very smooth soul operator named Sidney Barnes. I have a version of this on CD---an anthology on the Numero Group reissue label. Numero's releases cover a wide spectrum, from interesting, fully listenable minor-league recordings by regional soul (and other styles of) groups to sides that sound like they came from a 1960s and '70s parallel pop music universe. And I guess that's actually the case: there is only so much room on national charts at any one time, and it tends to be allotted according to mystical protocols involving transfers of materiel and sexual favors.

Meanwhile, here in the 21st century, I'd certainly poke into a furniture store that commissioned a commercial jingle like "The Ember Song." As if (as annoying teenage girls used to say).

The Ember Song, Sidney Barnes (1970, available on "Eccentric Soul: The Nickel & Penny Labels" [2011], Numero Group N039), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.  

Friday Night Fish Fry

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Not in Lent yet, but we're having fish on Friday anyway, so there!



First things first: this is one that needs to be listened with earbuds jammed brainstem-deep and cranked.

One of the reviews on the YouTube page refers to Chicago Transit Authority as one of the best-engineered albums of its times, and I agree. I first borrowed this album from Larry K. as a high school sophomore and listened to it on one of those tube-driven phonographs like the gradeschool AV department had, where the left stereo speaker is built into the lid over the turntable. This cut, the first on the "CTA" album, floored me with its brassy ensemble riff, percolating bass, and swells of Hammond organ. I'd always enjoyed horn-heavy arrangements, like The Buckinghams often used, but this was the first rock band I'd ever heard built around the core voices of big band instrumentation. I listened the shit out of it until I had to give it back, but soon scrounged $4.95 (it was a double album, you know) to get my own copy at Zayre.

Within a few months I'd bartered something (probably some Playboys I had stolen from Doug Pearson's garage) for a Heathcraft phono amp, and by means now forgotten cobbled together a more powerful record player. This was the first album I played on the Heathcraft, and again I was not disappointed in the results---more presence and excellent-quality bass response; a nice improvement over the bare phonograph. CTA also was the first album I played on the old man's Kenwood rig in the family room, pushing out 100 (peak) watts! And so over the years, Chicago Transit Authority---and "Introduction" in particular---became my reference song for every new stereo component upgrade. The other night I discovered that I've had my nifty B&W speakers bi-amped improperly for 3 years or more, with right bass and left treble coming from the left side, and the converse coming from the right. So I fixed it, and tonight I cranked "Introduction" to 60 (because 11 isn't high enough).

To me there's a certain poignancy to this fantastic chart and performance because I think it's the best thing Chicago ever did. One might say I think everything after this track was downhill for Chicago, even though most of the cuts on this album are at least in the same league as "Introduction." (Actually, I think "Questions 67 and 68 is its equal.) The most impressive thing to me has always been how many changes the band walks the listener though so easily. In fact, it's brilliant, and they show off every single thing they can do, except for Terry Kath's Hendrix-type guitar neck-wringing (which comes later on the same album). The tragic flaw of Chicago, though, is that they kept coming back to the same well for years and years thereafter. Horn ensembles based on minor variations of Jim Pankow's signature trombone arpeggio; no more trumpet solos of note from Lee Loughnane as far as I can recall; and no tenor solos ever, to my knowledge, from Walt Parazaider. Maybe the fellows tried to extend themselves later, but if so I lost interest long before then. After hearing Hot Rats in 1969 and upon being disappointed by Chicago 2 in 1970, Frank Zappa soon became my jazz-rock pied piper.

There was some material I liked on Chicago 2 (the "25 or 6 to 4" album), but it didn't compare to CTA. Plus, even to my immature ears, I thought the sound was abominable. The bass had no presence and the horns sounded like they were recorded off a transistor radio somewhere in the next studio. The lyrics were even more contrived than before (lyrics were always their weak point, in my opinion), and the vocals seemed self-conscious and even awkward. By the release of Chicago 3, it sounded to me like the band was just going through the motions. Nevertheless, I was lucky enough to see that original lineup at Soldier Field in Chicago, summer 1970, and they opened their set with this song. The sound was abysmal (due to Soldier Field "acoustics," not record producer malpractice this time), but I appreciated the thought and felt the presence.

Introduction, Chicago (1969, from Chicago Transit Authority, Columbia CS-9809), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Saturday Night Fish Fry

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Brother's bought new glasses/Shaped like Leon Trotsky's
They look very nice on the mantlepiece/Next to the royal family



This is the single version of the opening track from one of a small handful of discs from the '80s that I really like (i.e., Confessions Of A Pop Group by Style Council). I'm afraid if I told you how I first became aware of Style Council, other than the radio, I'd have to slit your throat from ear to ear in order to silence you about it.

I'm surprised how cheezy the video is. I would have expected a high-concept, arty treatment. But then my mind is too literal ever to be an artist. (I'm more of a craftsman.)

Inspired by this post by Our Man In London, who seems slightly disoriented by Meryl Streep's touching performance portraying a sociopathic, now-demented former prime minister. Every time I listen to this track I myself am a bit disoriented by how much rage infects the synth-y, breezy pop performance. Excellent way to get one's "message" into the dance clubs. This one deserves to be heard through headphones, cranked high.

Life At A Top People's Health Farm, The Style Council (1988, from "The Singular Adventures Of The Style Council," Polydor 837 896-2), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Friday Night Fish Fry!

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Because we haven't had one in so long! And because I get to choose which night the Fish Fry happens, versus the Prayer Meeting. So here:



I haven't played anything "horny" for Gurlitzer for a spell, so here's one she will remember fondly from the days of "Boom-Chuck-Chuck." (No, assholes, that's not at all what you might think it means. Thank you for your attention in this matter.)

To my teenage earbones, this studio single version of "The Letter" by Joe Cocker was much more exciting than the later recording captured on the Mad Dogs And Englishmen live album. It's fresher, not yet played to death on the road, and the horn solos are more lively. I was  not originally a fan of this song as recorded in 1967 by the Box Tops. Today I would call that one "overproduced," and Alex Chilton delivers the melody line straight up-and-down, rhythmwise, which doesn't interest me.

But the arrangement heard here---by Leon Russell, I presume---struck me as rhythmically off-kilter in a novel way. It begins with some hammering on the piano, sounding like a hungover warmup exercise, then joined by drums reminiscent of (but not exactly like) the stereotypical "Indian" tom-tom figure BOOM boom boom boom BOOM boom boom boom, which itself is very straight up-and-down. But I was and still am fascinated how Cocker joins this ape ensemble with his lummox vocals, threading his melody through that piledriving rhythm environment like a drunk driver who thinks he's going to escape the police cruisers by madly weaving through the bollards lining Wall Street. And he does! (This time.) You can somehow tell it's the same song the Box Tops recorded, but not very.

The Letter, Joe Cocker and the Shelter People (1970, monaural 45 rpm single A&M 1174), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

Editor's note: I hadn't heard the studio single for years because my highly unique local corporate oldies channel plays only the live version. But I just received it in the mail yesterday as a bonus track on the "deluxe" CD. Haven't even heard it in hi-fi yet, but will before the night is over.

New Year's Eve

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When Betty Boop sold herself to some 1%-ass mogul in the mid-1930s, possibly Hearst, her life was made for her, henceforth-wise. It looks like she lives in a scale model of Xanadu, in a neighborhood where every mansion even has its own rooster!



This Fleischer Brothers short subject portrays the morning after Betty's birthday party. But I am exercising blogger's license to state that her birthday happens to be 31 December, because first, I'm going for a holiday theme; and second, it's as likely as her having been born on any other day of the year except 29 February. (However, on momentary reflection, I'm thinking she might actually have been conceived on New Year's Eve. That's not a problem, though, since cartoon characters have a virtually instantaneous gestation period.)

Had this cartoon portrayed her 1933 party, it is likely that she would not have awakened alone---there would have been at least one animal in bed with her, and very possibly a spooky clown, too. But this event occurred after 1 July 1934, so our heroine slept alone. Hollywood's golden age of censorship depressed her enough that she put on some weight below the neck and lost some above. Plus most of her spunk (heh heh). Back in 1933, pre-Code, Betty went mano a mano fearlessly with gorillas, skeletons, hungry cannibals, and ogres; but in 1937, she is daunted by the mess her degenerate guests made of her crib. "I'm tired of cleaning things/But I'm tied to my apron strings," she complains. The plutocrat pig Hearst did this to you, baby---run for the hills, Betty! Burn the place to the ground! Call Bimbo and tell him to meet you back at St. James Infirmary!

Too late. Grampy's here. Well, at least he drives a bitchen roadster with four spare tires (just in case!), no doubt one of his original designs. Whatever flows through Grampy's veins, it seems much more effective than a 10% solution of the type Sherlock Holmes employed. Judging by Grampy's reaction to mainlining it at about 4:30, I'd guess a cocktail of mescaline, absinthe, and espresso... on Sunday morning, a few minutes after sunrise!

I think Dave Fleischer might have been trying to sneak something past the Code office at the very end, where Betty sucks down Grampy's thick, foamy head. How about you?

Happy New Year, "gangstas"!

House Cleaning Blues, Betty Boop and Grampy (1937, A Betty Boop Cartoon; Dave Fleischer, Director; Eli Brucker and David Tendlar, Animators; Fleischer Studios), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.

What Child Is This? or whatever

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Gurlitzer, consider yourself jak sie masz-ed! Let's call this one a Christmas carol for the minister's daughter. I suppose it's at least as much a Christmas song as "The Anacreontic Song" is a national anthem.



I don't know much about music theory, but I'd bet that Jimmy Smith and other monsters of the Hammond organ probably play 10-part harmony from time to time, at least for punctuation or other purposes intended to excite the startle reaction in the listener. What do you think, Gurlitzer---have you ever read a part that calls for all ten digits to hit a different tone in the chromatic scale at the same time?

During the 1950s and 1960s, there was this practice in the jazz recording industry of putting a really "white," lame song on an otherwise straight-ahead album. A classic example is John Coltrane's 1961 rendition of "My Favorite Things" from the 1959 Rodgers and Hammerstein Broadway production "The Sound of Music." Although there's nothing necessarily wrong with any such given performance (although Sinatra's rendition of "Forget Domani" is certainly wretched), the choice of material always seems dicey to me. I'm guessing it was a way for the label to get the Little Lady of the house listening to bop (or whatever), just like they put "Stairway" on Led Zeppelin IV or "Layla" on Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs so the hippie chicks would listen to their "old man's" vinyl.

Any-hoo, "Greensleeves" seems to me like a weird choice for Jimmy Smith, maybe even weirder than a show tune would have. But he plays all the shit out of this traditional melody, along with trio-mate Kenny Burrell's guitar. I especially like the little two-chord vamp that begins the cut and recurs throughout. More generally, I'm a big fan of this Hammond/guitar/drum power trio format, and there's a lot of it on tape. (Buy it on CD or vinyl so "The Cloud" can't take it away from your computer without a warrant or habeas corpus, which seems to be on the horizon.)

So put that in your pipe and smoke it, lady!

Greensleeves, Jimmy Smith (1965, from "Organ Grinder Swing," Verve CD reissue 314 543 831-2 [2000]) via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical commentary and educational purposes.