A historical factoid, a rock and roll moment and usually a song all combine (if not collide) with my individual perspective and opinion at least once a day, sometimes more.
Thus spake Dee Dee Ramone about the sixth track of the first Ramones' album. As the song he wrote was entitled "Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue," he was, of course, speaking of the inexpensive, crude and terribly destructive method of copping a buzz by inhaling airplane model glue or similar products for the mind-twisting effects of the chemical toluene contained therein.
In the bizarre comic book world suggested by the Ramones' first three albums (and beyond, really, although their construct did not maintain its potency past the initial three LPs) the world is often divided into a visceral yin and yang of "don't wannas" and "wannas." On the first LP, "I Don't Wanna Go Down in the Basement" and "I Don't Wanna Walk Around with You" were balanced by "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend" and Dee Dee's absurdly minimalist (even by the new standards in rock and roll minimalism established by the Ramones in their debut) cheer for this type of illicit crunching of your consciousness.
I love the middle part following the count off all the way up to eight. Dee Dee must have instinctually sensed the song needed just a touch more to actually be considered a whole song. Here they are doing the same song in their shambolic and unpolished incarnation about two years before they put out their first lp. Note at the very beginning the rare sight of Johnny Ramone actually smiling.
And here's what three years of practice and touring can do.
Of the song, drummer Tommy would remark that it would become "known as the first positive song from the album." Odd that he seems to forget one of his own compositions from the album in making that statement.
If you're in the band (any band), you've no doubt heard that one and, hopefully, know it isn't true. Some drummers stick mainly to laying down the backbeat, keeping time and—except for occasional obligatory fills—eschew the frills. Some drummers are masters of texture as well as timing and seem to be able to almost coax melody itself from their kits.
Such was Mitch Mitchell who died on this day in 2008 at the age of 61. The last surviving member from the Jimi Hendrix Experience, Mitchell was in that league of rock and roll drummers (along with Keith Moon, for another example) who could push the percussion envelope to the point where drums almost assumed "lead" status in a song (think of Moon's drumming in "I Can See for Miles").
Much is made—and for good reason—of Hendrix's chops, but the other two guys (bassist Noel Redding along with Mitchell) were not mere potted plants backing his mastery.
Examples of Mitch Mitchell's jazz inspired drumming genius crowd the three official studio LPs in The Jimi Hendrix Experience's discography. A remembrance of Mitchell on National Public Radio the week he passed away pointed out how he follows Hendrix's guitar work nearly note for note on "The Wind Cries Mary."
On Axis Bold as Love, Mitchell gets out his brushes to seems to strive to get in touch with his inner Max Roach on "Up from the Skies."
And one of my favorite moments on Electric Ladyland are the fills in between the verses—and that bridge from verse to chorus—on "House Burning Down." Listen to two examples of what I'm talking about at approximately :51 and 1:15 in.
Hendrix would have seemed garishly out of place (and no doubt would have been bored to tears) had he played with an average rhythm section. And if rock and roll trios are to be as incredible as Hendrix, Mitchell and Redding were, you can't afford to have the bassist and drummer satisfied with simply being "a rhythm section." Each artist needs to be a Jedi of instrumental interplay, alternately supporting and contrapuntally challenging the musical concepts of the other.
So today on the dose we salute the musical legacy of Mitch Mitchell who to this day is easily one whole third of the reason the Jimi Hendrix Experience's three official studio released albums are so damned good.
And lay off the drummer jokes. Try this one instead (dedicated to my buddy Tom, a musician who almost without exception hates harmonicas):
Question: How can you tell there's a harmonica player at your door?
Answer: They forgot the key and don't know when to come in.
Greg Lake turns 63 today. He's probably best known as the "L" from ELP (That's Emerson, Lake and Palmer, as every school boy knows).
I sometimes wonder what ELP songs they'd actually play on so-called classic rock stations if it were not for those Lake wrote ("Lucky Man," "Still... You Turn me On," "In the Beginning" and—as soon as it's five minutes past Halloween—"I Believe in Father Christmas"). I think of his vocals as deep, sonorous and unwavering. His Wikepedia entry calls his vocals "soulful." That's like saying a cup of coffee has a "rich" flavor. Sounds good, but what exactly does it mean? If it means "conveying strong emotion," which seems logical enough, I think Lake's voice, while entirely up to the task of (and fitting for) most of the songs I've heard him sing, is about as "soulful" as a piece of unpainted lumber.
But on one of the best songs from King Crimson's debut album, In the Court of the Crimson King, Lake's voice, admittedly with the help of mucho distortion, takes on a surpisingly different shade becoming at once squelched yet powerfully angry. If you're a progressive rock fan and find yourself in an argument with someone who thinks all prog rock sounds pussified, this would be the tune to whip out of your back pocket to end that debate.
In addition to singing and playing bass for King Crimson's first LP, Robert Fripp convinced Lake to sing on the second LP, In the Wake of Poseidon, even though he was well underway with forming ELP by then. Many happy returns to Mr. Lake. All is forgiven for that Asia crap.
Hard to say why some Brit bands that really started to break in the early to mid-sixties—such as the Stones, the Who and to a lesser extent (at least in terms of widespread popularity and overall recognition) the Yardbirds and the Kinks—captured the imagination of so many of us in the States while some of their contemporaries aren't even given also-ran status on today's classic rock stations.*
But such is the fate of the Pretty Things (their earliest incarnation as Little Boy Blue and Blue Boys actually included Mick and Keith until Brian Jones recruited them away for his project). Vocalist Phil May joined forces with Dick Taylor (who earlier had played bass with the nascent Stones) and thus was born the Pretty Things. No cuddly, clean-cut Liverpudlians they, with Taylor now on lead guitar and May singing and blowing harmonica, they were a bluesy, rudely noisy, deliberately provocative looking, acting and sounding quintent of London boys (early press on the band included May's boast of having longer hair of any other Brit rocker of the day). They never had a single that did anything in the USA, although two of their first three were in the UK top twenty. Most people are far more familiar with those ("Rosalyn" and "Don't Bring Me Down") from David Bowie's tribute to music from this era on his '73 LP Pin Ups.
If you're not familiar with the Pretty Things, they're well worth a listen. Their eponymous debut features a dozen competent if simple songs, mostly covers of blues standards with a few of the groups earliest attempts at composition (the most fully formed example probably being Dick Taylor's "Honey I Need"). Their early sound really gels on their second LP, Get the Picture, released in '65. Ten of the 18 tracks on the expanded and remastered CD version are original compositions and all of the tracks easily stand with the early Stones' or Who's material as a no fop zone of straight from the hip rock and roll with treatments of R&B covers like "Come See Me"
or the alternately sly and manic "Can't Stand the Pain" written by May, Taylor and session drummer Bobby Graham.
Following the transitional and ill-fated '67 LP Emotions and roster changes that left only May and Taylor from the original line-up, the Pretty Things released one of the late sixties forgotten—and many have said "first"—concept albums, S.F. Sorrow.
Evolving into a psychedelic style that often sounds like Ray Davies meets early Pink Floyd, the album is based on a short story May had written and follows the narrative arc of one Sebastian F. Sorrow from his arrival in the world with the song "S.F. Sorrow is Born"
all the way to "Old Man Going" (performed here by the 21st century version of the band, featuring May and Taylor and with a David Gilmour cameo), the song showing Sorrow near death's door where he's empty, angry and—
in the album's coda—"Loneliest Person"—bleakly disappointed and alone.
After S.F. Sorrow, the Pretty Things released Parachute in 1970. Although the tracks run an interesting range of songwriting from the wispy "The Letter"
to the muscular "Rain," founding member Dick Taylor had left and the absence of his expressive guitar playing is sorely missed.
The Pretty Things soldiered on through the last three decades of the 20th century in different variations revolving around May and, later, Taylor, too. They gig to this day and still go largely ignored here in the states. Phil May celebrates his birthday today, turning 66 years old.
*Please note that I've omitted the Beatles from this list because even though the Stones are often characterized as the yang to their yin, I think it seems fair, if only for reasons of sheer popularity and commercial success, to put the fab four in a class of their own.
It's Ramones Monday and we turn our attention to the fifth track on the first album. Chainsaw is one of the rare Johnny Ramone compositions found in the band's oeuvre. Lyrically this is a frustrated if not confused boy-meets-girl scenario superimposed over allusions to the '74 classic slasher horror movie, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (brilliantly phrased by Joey as "mass-uh-KREE"), the song opens with the whir of a genuine circular saw and—true to theme—buzzes through its duration (three seconds shy of two minutes) with just as much speed as a saw of the circular or chain variety.
Johnny is typically painted as the Ramone with more drive and will than imagination and, for me, those colors come through in this song. If I had a need to say this album had a weak link, I think I'd pick this tune. But, you know, I have no such need.
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