We Can Be Weirdos: VU Alumnae

Nico

John Cale

The Time of Your Life vs. No Time At All:

Having recently retired, I veer between two contradictory ideas:

1. I now have all the time in the world, so I will get every Bob Dylan bootleg like my friend Nutboy recommends.
2. I am nearer to the end of my life and time is thus limited. Therefore I must be unrelentingly focused on the best of everything, not in every weird byway.

While my default approach is number one, lately I've been opting for number two.

WYHIWYG vs. WTFITS

Most pop records are pretty straightforward. In the olden days, there was a thing called "airplay", which was needed if a record was to become popular. Thus artists, "encouraged" by the record companies, would try to not scare off DJs, whose motto was "what you don't play can't hurt you". The song had to be short, sweet, and catchy right out of the gate. Thus, the end product tends to be what you expect. They hold no secrets and offer no mysteries. And it's good, even great, sometimes. You get what you pay for. Or, to put it another way, What You Hear Is What You Get (WYHIWYG).

Then there are records that, when you put them on, an unprepared listener is likely to say "What the fuck is this shit?" Call it the WTFITS (pronounced what fits?) Test. I'm not talking about records like Ruby Vroom or Second Edition whose first impressions are quite daunting, but that eventually pull you in. I'm talking about the ones that - after dozens of listens over the course of, ahem, decades - still make you shake your head.

I will never know who the WTFITS GOATs are, but I am aware of some real contenders. In Pop Music there's Pere Ubu and Captain Beefheart. Scratching the surface of Jazz reveals Cecil Taylor and Ornette Coleman. And out there in Classical Music, there's Steely Dan fave Cathy Berberian. And if there are Country and Western weirdos I don't want to know about them. I don't need Deliverance vibes.

In this series about, well, weirdos, I will try to limit myself to new purchases. Of course, my mind wanders, and now that I mention Pere Ubu I ask myself why I have not gotten anything else by them since Dub Housing in the early eighties? Oh, because that record scored highest-ever (in the Jaybee Universe anyway) WTFITS score with a 10 outta 10. Even Trout Mask Replica (9.5) can't match that. And my one listen to Metal Machine Music reveals it to be only a 9.0, as you get the joke rather early in the proceedings.

My reaction to such music can be perverse. Sonic Youth, for instance, has enticed me to buy at least six albums while not fully satisfying me on any of them. How did they do that? Is it like having an argument with someone and you keep going back hoping to come out on top of the conversation. 

This might explain why, after getting two rather mystifying Ornette Coleman albums I'm tempted to put this on my Christmas list.

But deep, deep (deep) down I realize the really really real reason is that cool people like these albums/artists and I want to be cool, too. Never mind that when I actually meet any of these cool people I guard my wallet and look for the exit. It turns out the cool people I meet via the written word tend to be the same ones I avoid on the D train.

So before I do any further damage I'm pulling out all my WTFITS albums and, before I die, come to some understanding of/with them.

In the meantime, I will look at some new (for me) records that are kinda strange. This time I'll limit myself to two Velvet Underground alumnae.

Nico: The Marble Index (1968)

Take Chelsea Girls, subtract the good songwriters (Jackson Browne, Dylan, Lou Reed, etc.) and add random background noise to announce that it's art. Nico mostly disavowed Chelsea Girls, and here she wants to prove her avant-garde bonafides, so she dragged John Cale - producer and fellow VU alum - into this project. Good soldier John doubled down on the Art with a capital A and thus must accept some blame. I imagine Nico standing erect wearing a Viking hat when "emoting" these tunes (a term I use loosely) from the top of Mt. Bindingsnuten.

If the theme is "life sucks and then you die" that's fine, but don't actively try to make it so. I like a lot of music that could make one want to slit one's wrists but this could take out an entire neighborhood.

It starts off okay, with an off-kilter little ditty that sets the doomy tone. Okay, fine, I'm thinking, you're preparing me. So I get comfortable in my chair and wait. Then she does it again. And again. And so on. 

I will admit that after repeated listenings, a few songs do emerge, but alas, they recede again as the accompaniment (again Cale) is erratic bordering on random. On one song the background adds tension and thus improves things a bit, on another song it just gives the sense of two blind people occasionally bumping into each other in a dark room.

The climax is "Evening of Light", which - as you can see below - belongs in a cheap '70s horror flick. It reminds me of the worst parts of Pleasures of the Harbor and the best parts of The Wicker Man.

And yet, I don't hate it. It just needs a label, like "Warning: Pretentious, Bordering on Silly".

B-

John Cale: Paris 1919 (1973)

Having spent last summer with Lou, I felt it only fair to dip back into John Cale's oeuvre (I always  have wanted to write - but not necessarily pronounce - that word!). I've got his three albums on Island Records, which are good, if not exactly catchy. His 1990 collaboration with Eno is a lot more fun.

Cale, by the way, was born in Wales, was quickly recognized as a musical prodigy, and ended up in America playing with avant-garde luminaries like La Monte Young and Terry Riley, and playing 18-hour concerts as one does. 

He then met Lou Reed and formed the Velvet Underground, playing, among other things viola. After he got tossed out of the band (just Lou being Lou) he went on on to produce numerous artists including the Stooges, Patti Smith, Nico, the Modern Lovers, and Squeeze. And his own solo career would be singularly idiosyncratic without all the Lou Reed nastiness.

This is probably his most accessible record. Quite lovely and way more enjoyable than anything Lou was doing at the time. I guess this is Cale's stab at commercialism, just to show he could do it. But he can't without it coming out weird anyway. How does one recruit half of Little Feat and get them to sink into the mix without a trace? (Well, they do manage to bust out for "MacBeth".) I guess after years of trying to bend Lou Reed to his will (and vice versa) Lowell George was a piece of cake.

It's a bit baroque, rife with literary and historical references. What undermines it is his not exactly unpleasant but kinda shaky voice. He sounds like he's hanging onto the melody for all it's worth, and occasionally falling off. If it were sung more skillfully, it might have been one of the best records of the decade.

Alas, it's only pretty freaking good.

A-

Next: It gets weird(er)

Normies but Goodies

I've been spending a lot of time with weirdos lately. And by "spending time" I mean listening to their records, not hanging out with them. So let's have a post spotlighting the infinitely sane folks pictured above could serve as a palette cleanser before I go down that deep hole.

Timing Really Is Everything:

Pre-1964: Music didn't mean anything to me. All I knew were the Irish records my mom and dad played, which were ridiculously uncool (accordions) and downright depressing (the Troubles). Elvis was no help because I interpreted his sneer as him being conceited, and six-year-old Irish Catholic me did not like that!

1964: One assassination later, the Beatles arrived and that was that. Anything before that may as well not have existed. My attitude would only harden as I bore my parents' constant criticism of any person with an electric guitar. Say the following aloud with a brogue and you'll get the idea: 

    There'll never be a Beatles record in this house!

So I figured the best defense was a good offense, and I'd show nothing but contempt for anything pre-Beatles. And that meant 1950's rock 'n roll, too.

1972: Two assassinations later, and I was in full rock-snob-mode. Long guitar solos meant rock musicians were virtuosos, prog rock meant they were intelligent, and the Grateful Dead meant they wrote better songs. (Well, one out of three ain't terrible.) I hated Fifties music. It was simplistic, sappy, and lame. It also emphasized vocals when I wanted electric guitars. When WCBS-FM switched from a pretty good AOR format to oldies I was outraged. Having a station devoted to something other than '60s music suggested that there might be something lacking in it. I wasn't having any of that.

So I reacted by mocking oldies mercilessly. One song was the epitome of all that was wrong with it: "Soldier Boy" by the Shirelles. The first time I heard it, I scoffed at the melodramatic opening line, found the melody to be simplistic in the extreme, and the rest of the lyrics trite. After all, there wasn't a war or anything, was there? Four girls singing with an orchestra was just as wrong as could be. 

1985: This was the year of the great Mr. and Mrs. Jaybee wedding and, almost as significantly, record-collection merge. Having only purchased quality music myself, I needed to ensure my collection remained free of any "impurities", so I made a point of listening to every one of Mrs. Jaybee's records before admitting them into the collection. 

Amidst the occasional good album was some disco, R&B - neither of which I'd yet come to appreciate - and, lo and behold, The Best of the Shirelles - a ten-song single record with a crappy black and white cover photo AND the corner cut away, indicating a budget buy. The presentation was a clear indication of the "quality" inside. After some rest and preparation, I put it on, patiently awaiting thirty excruciating minutes of bad pop music, and failed to hear any. 

1987: I played it again and couldn't detect a single awful song. I played it yet again, and couldn't detect a single mediocre song. I did hear a couple of great ones, though.

Like "Soldier Boy", whose melody now sounded timeless, and the lyrics innocent and longing, the singing utterly artless and all the more powerful for that. And although even they don't know it yet, they're talking about fucking Viet Nam. Or may as well have.

This was folk Art.

2024: I decided there is some music out there I don't want to leave undiscovered, and ten Shirelles songs were no longer enough. So I opted for this compilation.

Shirelles: All Time Greatest Hits (1999)

Okay, so it's not a thirty-minute flash of genius that the knockoff LP was. It's over an hour (26 cuts!) of usually great and otherwise excellent music. It feels more complete if less miraculous. 

Highlights:

"Foolish Little Girl", where I'm tempted to sing the first line of the chorus But I love him! out loud at random/inappropriate times (supermarket, airport, restaurant, etc.)

"Tonight's the Night" kicks the Rod Stewart song's ass, and gives Neil Young a run for his money.

Their comparably matter-of-fact version of "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow" edges out Carole King's more emotive version. Ditto their "Baby It's You" vs. Smith's version.

I could go on, but will instead report the Shirelles are rightfully in the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame. Luther Dixon, their main songwriter, alas, is not.

But I love him! (You see what I mean?)

 A

Fats Domino: My Blue Heaven: The Best of Fats Domino (2006)

Now who would want to get a record by Fats Domino? The songs are sweet enough but they are ubiquitous on oldies radio. So you sing along or dance along at a wedding because they're so damn simple and catchy, but don't take him seriously right? Indeed, his affable persona might cause one (me) to underestimate him. 

Slightly wider exposure to his music makes a strong argument for him as one of the founders of rock 'n roll, at least the New Orleans version. It's astounding that such simple music could still sound so vital.

How could this be? Is it the accompaniment that is terrific throughout? Good tunes? That affable persona? Good guesses, but here's some actual evidence:

The bottom of "Ain't That a Shame" is astounding. (No, not his ass. Although... Subject for Further Research: Did Fats have a nice ass?). The piano, bass, drums, and god knows what else that provides the bomp in between the poetry: 

    Oh well   BOMP BOMP   Goodbye   BOMP BOMP   Although   BOMP BOMP   I'll cry

    Ain't that a shame!

And have you ever heard anything that summarized the human condition so concisely? It makes "Love In Vain" seem like Infinite Jest. And speaking of concision, these songs all clock in at the low 2-minute range. Why did it take our '70s heroes twice as long to say essentially the same thing?

Other highlights include:

• The sax on "I'm In Love Again" is to die for. 
• Fats' singing is out front on "Valley of Tears" so you can hear his voice in all its glory.
• And who gets away with singing oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh for over half the song before he starts singing actual words as Fats does on "Please Don't Leave Me"? (The title does the heavy lifting.)
• And is that ska I'm hearing on "By My Guest Tonight"? Did he invent that, too?
• It ends, appropriately enough, with "What a Party". Try it out at your next one and see.

With all this under his, ahem, belt, you'd think Fats would be an asshole. But he appears to actually be the humble entertainer we all see him as. (Kanye, take note.)

A

Next: Things, Alas, Get Weird

Jimi

Ah, Jimi.

In 1967, you scared my young, white ten-(but in reality eighty)-year-old soul, with your (and Mitch's and Noel's) wild hair and even wilder music. The bent notes, sound effects, and suggestive lyrics (and suggestive music!) all put me off. 

I was a conservative Beatles fan and had strict rules for what was acceptable. Your hair could be long but not wild. Your clothes could be cool but not Dionysian (and no, I didn't know what that word meant and I'm still not sure, although the Olympics helped). And most importantly: you had to JUST PLAY THE NOTES. I could never quite put you in the pantheon because I suspected you were all show and no substance. 

And you looked nothing like that nice Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Yes, we did end up killing him even sooner than you, but you get my point. So for a guitar hero, better the admittedly paler (coincidence?) Eric Clapton who, well, just played the notes. And look how he turned out! 

I was sorry when you died but not devastated. Not like I was with John Lennon. You were one of those revered artists I couldn't bring myself to love. And yet, over the years your name kept popping up in conversations with friends, usually when yet another album of "newly discovered tapes" was released, albeit to less and less enthusiasm. Even so, everyone I knew - including my Mom - considered you a titan. 

After punk broke in 1977, when I learned noise had value, I began to suspect I may have missed something in 1967. So, in 1980, I broke down and began to buy your albums. 

Since I already knew most of the songs from Are You Experienced? I started with Electric Ladyland. (That record trip also yielded The River and Trout Mask Replica me being into double albums at the time.) With its vast swathes of material I'd never heard, it was a record I could immerse myself in. And I did! From the soul vocals of the title track to the hard jam of "Voodoo Chile" and the sheer beauty and majesty of "Burning the Midnight Lamp" and "1983 - A Merman Should I Be", and finished off by "All Along the Watchtower" and "Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)", it was studded with sublime moments. I would play it more today except it's on vinyl and thus a pain in the ass to put on. As with most double albums, it's not as consistent as single ones, but it's about the overall impact, and in that it is  marvelous. A

I'd heard Axis: Bold as Love at Childhood Friend Mike's house around 1968 and remembered the time passing quite pleasantly. But by 1981 I couldn't hum it if I tried, so it was time, and I found it nearly as warm and weirdly laid back (at least compared to AYE) as I'd remembered. There are rockers with great guitar playing, of course, but it was the vocals and drums that drew me in. And the songs! This one is my personal favorite - very rewarding and highly recommended. A

We got married in 1985, and on the way to church that day, I stopped at the record store to pick up Are You Experienced? (Okay, I made that up but you get the idea.) In one of the rare instances when I hear a record where I already know most of the songs, not only was I not let down by an anticlimax, I felt I was hearing it for the first time. A stunning debut, and one of the all-time greats. Jimi turns out to be a better guitar player, singer, songwriter, and human being than Eric Clapton would ever be.  A

Having finally absorbed these three core records, I was sated. Temporarily anyway. 

Cut to 2008 when I kept hearing about how - like the Beatles and Stones records before him, and Elvis Costello after him - the UK version of Experienced differed from the American one. Since CDs can contain about 80 minutes of music, many record companies (bless their hearts!) took the opportunity to re-release expanded versions of many such albums. Most of the time they include dross. In the case of the Beatles, however, we got the longer, usually better, UK versions. For Jimi, they included all the US cuts in their original sequence first, followed by the missing British songs. Oh, and also singles like fucking "Purple Haze". Better than the American version for the simple reason there's more of it. A

This reminded me of the daunting Band of Gypsies that Childhood Friend Eddie used to play on his stoop when it came out. I remember how tense and forbidding "Machine Gun" was. Now I felt ready for it, and it didn't disappoint. One good thing about Hendrix playing live is that you get to hear what he could do with a single guitar outside a studio. The mood here is more somber than before. He's got a different band, and he's taking the opportunity to explore a more brooding sound, at least for side one. Things get faster and louder on side two, but it's "Machine Gun" that stays with me. A-

That kept me satisfied for a while. Now it was time to dig deeper. The problem is that we're now dealing with all those posthumous releases some of which are just cash grabs. 

The Cry of Love (1970)

This record was assembled from what were deemed completed or almost completed recordings. Lucky for us they are high quality. It wouldn't always be that way.

After the supernova of his first three records, Jimi is merely human here, albeit one who plays great guitar. Having proven himself many times over, he now shows his more relaxed side. Like he has all the time in the world. But that was just for show, as the voluminous tape vaults can attest. 

So while there's nothing epochal here it is full of moments that show what a superb craftsman he could be. "Angel", "Night Bird Flying" and "Freedom" all being examples.

A good balance of guitar and songwriting from an artist who had more to give.

 A-

Rainbow Bridge (1971)

This also came out in 1971. And since producer/engineer Eddie Kramer was involved it's not a rip-off. The barrel scraping had not yet begun in earnest.

It's more raw than COL, which is fine, but it's also a little lightweight. It contains an inferior studio version of "The Star Spangled Banner", and an overly dramatic "Roomful of Mirrors". The songwriting is not quite up to par. 

The guitar playing nearly makes up for it, though. "Hear My Train A Comin'" is magnificent. Sounds like what "Voodoo Chile" would eventually become.

B+

The rest of Jimi's catalog is far too vast and plagued by bad faith - at least until the Hendrix family took over - to dive into head first. There appear to be many worthy live recordings, but since they are usually made up of familiar songs, I'm less inclined to try those.

So until something changes, I'll take another extended break. 

Who knows? Maybe next time I'll get to meet him in person.

The (Not for) Summertime Blues

Reasons to (Not) be Cheerful:

1. Sweltering summer weather (courtesy of James Inhofe, who at least had the decency to die recently. Keep up the good work, Jim! Won't miss ya! #pissonjimsgrave), and
2. The lack of quiet central air conditioning (this one's all on me) 

have combined to frustrate my attempts to listen to new (for me) music. I can only hear it clearly when the humongous dining room AC is off at the beginning of the day or later when hypothermia sets in.

And no, don't tell me to wear earbuds. It's hot enough already without chunks of plastic in my ears. Plus, I'm one of those pessimists who assumes the call to get to a fallout shelter will occur while I'm listening to the Ramones. So no earbuds!

Thus, I'm left to report on some music I listened to this past winter, which you might understandably not be inclined to listen to in the hot weather. 

Of course, you may not be like me - a depressive type needing all sorts of artificial stimulants (coffee, alcohol, chocolate, the odd pill, music, etc.) to maintain a positive outlook on life - and can handle music in July that I'd only recommend for January, then be my guest because the first two below are great. 

Though to be on the safe side I've included one pretty damn good Afropop record that I have been able to listen to in our newly sub-tropical climate, probably because it was recorded in a similar one. It reminded me of our honeymoon in Aruba in 1985, where the island setting and intense heat taught me to appreciate reggae, which was playing by the hotel pool. It was too freakin' hot to listen to anything louder or peppier than that. So now, in Brooklyn - hot, steamy, noisy, pungent Brooklyn - Afropop is the way to go.

But before we get to that:

Reasons to be (Somewhat) Cheerful:

Muddy Waters: Anthology 1947-72 (2001)

Muddy had to play in the summer before AC was widely available. You'd think simple empathy would encourage me to at least listen to it in July, but no. It just makes me feel hotter.

So it's not your summer picnic music. But what it is is primal. It packs more punch per CD than the BB King box set I was raving about last year. And it's sharper than the Sonny Boy Williamson record from the same post. And because of his electric guitar, it's more impactful than his own acoustic Plantation Recordings record.

Oddly, I find I prefer Muddy in the studio rather than live. I caught him in 1978, when he leaned into his faster crowd pleasures, like "I Got My Mojo Working". Here he's basically alone with his electric slide, telling you his troubles and there ain't no white college students around pretending they can empathize. He's telling you the bitter truth, to no applause. 

This two-disc set is less comprehensive but takes up less room than the three-disc Chess Box Set. You see? I'm learnin'!

And yes, it all sounds the same, more or less. You gotta problem with that?

Not for an afternoon with friends in the Hamptons. Try it in January when the credit card bills start coming in. Then queue up Martin Mull.

A

"I Can't Be Satisfied"

The Quintet: Hot House: The Complete Jazz and Massey Hall Recordings (2023)

This is a recording of what some consider "the greatest jazz concert ever", aka "Jazz at Massey Hall". There are numerous incarnations of the event but this purports to be the entire concert, with improved sound. 

Why the greatest? First, there's the band, which actually deserves the label "all-star" - Charlie Parker (sax), Dizzy Gillespie (trumpet), Charles "not Charlie" Mingus (bass), Bud Powell (piano), and Max Roach (drums). Hint to fellow geezers: It's the rough equivalent to Cream, but with Jimi Hendrix and Steve Winwood added.

And they've all brought their A-game. Powell is the one I immediately respond to, then, in order, Parker, Gillespie, Roach, and Mingus.  And because of people like me, who notice the bass last, Charles Mingus (quite the character) insisted on overdubbing his bass lines, as one does when surrounded by four geniuses playing their asses off. My edition has an extra disc containing versions with said overdubs. I still don't hear a difference.

Oh, wait. Now I do!

I'm still partial to Charlie Parker and the Stars of Modern Jazz: The Complete 1949 Carnegie Hall Concert. It's not a fair comparison, since Carnegie is a showcase for several different artists, and thus unrelenting in its quality. HH is "just" these five men. But since Bebop is so insistent one can't help but be in awe of what they accomplish.

This one takes a bit longer to sink in but once it does you're hooked for life. 

A

"Wee (Allen's Alley)"

Dr. Sir Warrior and the Oriental Brothers International: Heavy on the Highlife (2006)

This is a compilation covering 1973 to 1988 by three brothers from Nigeria who make Oasis and the Kinks seem like models of sibling harmony. Just for fun here's a (probably incomplete) list of the "Artist Names" that have been slapped on the several records where these six songs have appeared:

• Oriental Brothers
• Dan Satch Orchestra
• Dr. Sir Warrior
• Warrior
• African Brothers International

That's approximately one artist name per cut, which makes the Artist Name of this compilation a wonder of concision.

Why this record, you ask? Blame Robert Christgau, who is my go-to guy for all things Afropop-related. He's been listening to it for over four decades and, dilettante that I am, I know I'll never quite appreciate it at the historical/political level he does. The liner notes are quite helpful, though. Either way, it's no biggie when the music is this good.

I can hear the enthusiastic vocals and the more-detailed-every-time-you-hear-it guitar accompaniment. The songs veer from the short and sweet to the long and insistent. It will take a few listens to take in the details. But give it a chance and this 67-minute CD will flow by in no time.

And like the reggae in Aruba (or, for that matter, Beach House's Teen Dream in cloudy, humid, rainy Brooklyn in June 2018) this one fits the weather quite well. 

No air conditioning required.

A-

"Uwa Atu Alamujo"

In the Meantime...

Enjoy yet another heat wave. I'm sure everything is just fine.

Nearly 24, And So Much More

The Artists. Get Used To It.

Kids These Days:

Since I retired and became a grandfather, I've been waiting for any random young person to walk up to me and say look at my life, I'm a lot like you were. So far, no takers.

The young folk just don't care, and - aside from Neil - they never have. I know I didn't. During my childhood, the older folks listened to Lawrence Welk and voted for Nixon. We loved our Beatles yet felt defensive about this brand-new culture of ours. 

These days, young folk who are far more secure about youth culture than we ever were just laugh at our music and call it things like yacht-rock, or worse, dad-rock (two words that should never go together). 

Their reaction to us - utter indifference - could be a lot worse. And it will be, once climate change really kicks in. We'll have to buy plastic sheets to cover our graves for when they start pissing on them. (I'm smelling, so to speak, an opportunity here... Time for a patent?)

And they go on making and loving their music. Our opinion of it means nothing to them. How can an old geezer/blogger - who still believes there's something worth hearing there - keep up?  Should he even try? (Asking for a friend.)

Diamonds in the Rough:

It doesn't help that the music industry continues to pump out ever more "product". You'd think I'd be happy about that, but it just makes it that much harder to locate new music to love among the bazillion albums released yesterday. I know it's out there. It's what keeps me going. The results, alas, have been hit or miss. 

I'm tempted to liken the current rate of music production to the thousand proverbial monkeys typing away, theoretically on their way to eventually producing Hamlet. But that's not a fair comparison. After all, this is about guitars, not typewriters, and bands that know how to play them. On a good day, they're producing maybe Henry V. Not bad and often very good. Alas, I'm looking for Hamlet.

This is unfair, of course. I'm chasing that first high (or in my case, the second and third ones, too, meaning the Beatles ('64), Allmans/Dead ('73), Punk/New Wave ('78)), that hit of ecstasy that a new album could provide back when I was seven/sixteen/twenty-one. It's exceedingly rare to begin with and my aged synapses are worn down, much like my taste buds (thank you, Frank's Hot Sauce) Would I even recognize "great" if I heard it? Possibly not, yet I'm certain it's out there. It's just a question of finding it.

Don't Look at My Life, I'm Not Like You Were:

So I bide my time and explore other genres. I retreat to jazz, blues, etc. for a while and when I return, pop, if anything, is even more dominated by high-energy-dance-oriented-female-vocal-calisthenics, the singer intent on ruling the Earth. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But it can be exhausting. Carly Rae Jepsen's Emotion, for instance, is quite good but I don't play it much. It feels too much like getting run over by a truck. One with high heels.

Is this what it means to be old? When any display of sustained energy by a young person is by definition exhausting and thus depressing because I am much closer to dying than they are, and I don't like being reminded of it? 

But that's the whole purpose of pop music, isn't it? To celebrate youth. And here I am trying to kick it off my lawn. So keeping up with, and god forbid appreciating it has become a challenge. 

And I look damn silly trying to at my age. Even Mrs. Jaybee wonders what's going on when I get yet another record by yet another often attractive young woman. I try to explain that I've been listening to guys sing about their woman problems for decades now, so it's refreshing to hear women bitch about us. But I'll admit my recent buys are the aural equivalent of hanging around by the local schoolyard. 

Mrs. Jaybee has shown both a forbearance and a healthy skepticism ("Who's this weirdo?"). And while her initial reaction to the music is often a mild dislike, she usually does warm up to it, like she did with me. 

Consulting my no-longer-trusty spreadsheet, I see that it is bigger than ever (8,000 rows>), yet the possible candidates for purchase elicit only a yawn. I keep looking though, and found two artists who, if I hope to just know what the hell is going on, I'd better check out.

And of course, they're young and female. It just gets weirder. As of now, they're both over twenty-one, now. However, these records came out when one was seventeen, and the other was nineteen. Is this even legal?

Billie Eilish: WHEN WE ALL FALL ASLEEP WHERE DO WE GO? (2019)

Wanting to avoid repeating the Carla Rae Jepsen experience, I hoped for something different, and Billie was certainly that, even if I didn't know it. Without knowing who I was listening to, I'd hear a brief snippet of a song on the car radio, barely making it out. She tends to sing in a whisper, you see. And since Mrs. Jaybee hated that, she'd switch the channel before I knew who it was.

But the name was on my radar. While only seventeen when she released this, her first album, she managed to have a bunch of hits, Grammy awards, and critical accolades. Not the usual thing.

It's irritating enough for Mrs. Jaybee when I innocently buy what turns out to be a strange CD.  Knowingly doing so could be considered an act of war. It would take more time before Billie could come into the house. 

It took True Detective using a few of her songs for Mrs Jaybee to reconsider. So I had an opening.

Finally, I took the opportunity when I retired (when everything was about me anyway) to sit her down and inform her that I would be getting Billie Eilish's first CD. I feared a reaction akin to that if I was proposing an open marriage, but she was okay with it. With Billie, I mean.

And we're playing Billie all the time now. She is practically family. And if anything, Mrs Jaybee likes her more than I do.

The whispers, vocal distortions (via her producer-brother), and eerily quiet backdrop are the antithesis of all I have come to fear in pop music. And if anything, it's more like a musical whack-a-mole game. One second, a voice pops out of the right speaker, and a second later it's coming out of the left one. Dodging, and weaving, maybe she's a boxer. Or just shy. And when she dispenses with the sound-affects, and just sings a ballad she's damn near devastating.

After at least a dozen listens I still don't feel I'm at the bottom of it yet. There's always more to hear, even on the very spare ones. And she almost always hits her mark.

And in her unique way, achieving world domination. It's heartening that the young folks would take to such a weirdo.

A-

Olivia Rodrigo: Guts (spilled) (2023)

This one's a slightly expanded version of her second album, Guts, released last year, adding five new songs.

Olivia's not weird, but she does have issues. And she makes the most of them by co-writing a bunch of intelligent, funny, and tuneful songs.

Every song has at least a few things to offer, whether it's her great voice, the thoughtful lyrics, or sturdy melodies, all done in a variety of styles, including rock n roll and country. As a matter of fact, every kind of music - fast, slow, loud, and quiet - is accounted for. And speaking of quiet, the ballads aren't awful (i.e., over-the-top delivery of bad lyrics to compensate for unearned emotion). Quite the accomplishment.  There are no wasted moments or filler. 

When I put it on I braced myself for the onslaught. But right off the mark, I got a different vibe. Okay, she does hit you with the sledgehammer about thirty seconds in, but it's those quieter thirty seconds - with an acoustic guitar no less - that I latch onto. It's like a signal saying, I trust you to listen to the quieter parts. And there are several here. 

This young lady has it all and is just getting started. I'm betting that's her on guitar, too. 

A-

The Kids Are More Than All Right:

Out of caution, I'm being stingy with the grades. They're not quite on the level of So Great I'm Dying to Put It On, but they definitely are I'm So Glad I Did Put It On material. I give the edge to Olivia for now, but Billie may have the staying power. 

They're not GOATs but they give me hope. That's all I'll need for now.

Speaker(s) of the House: Some Things Reconsidered

Me Reluctantly Deciding It's Time for New Speakers

Salsa and Cheese:

A few years ago, we had some family over for a barbeque. (Yes, another post with a barbeque story.)

My niece (not the one with the fire extinguisher, her sister) and her boyfriend were tasked with bringing dips for the nacho chips. Tostitos Melted Cheese was a thing at the time, although I never had much use for it, seeing it as a heart attack in a jar. Nonetheless, the zeitgeist had spoken, and we expected salsa and melted cheese. And we got it, technically. 

Alas, instead of two separate jars, they made an executive decision to mix the two together into one big tub of gooey slime. Perhaps seeing the look of dismay on my face, they were quick to insist it was "so good" this way. I tasted it, for research purposes of course. The rest of the family voted with their tastebuds and it sat there more or less untouched. 

Which is good and just since the salsa diluted the thick gooey-ness of the cheese, and the cheese blunted the sharpness of the salsa. And it looked like, well, bloody vomit. Seeing the lack of enthusiasm, they rationalized that "it all goes to the same place anyway". I beg to differ. It's how it gets there that matters.

Bass and Treble:

During the early part of the Covid shutdown, looking for small joys as Armageddon approached, I decided we needed better speakers for the family computer. This realization was painful for me as I was always a punk-rock-lo-fi-anti-snob. ("Speakers shouldn't matter!") Yet even I was never quite satisfied with the ones that came with the computer, and I figured enough time had passed that new ones would have to be better.

Alas, my anti-snobbery came back to bite me in the ass as I didn't know good speakers from cans with strings attached. I ended up getting analog speakers again which, if anything, sounded even worse than the original ones. Shocking how you can't rely on Amazon user ratings.

It took some time for all this to sink in. Surely, I thought at first, the computer must be the problem. So I twiddled a few knobs hoping for salvation and then suffered in non-silence for a few more years. 

When we finally got a new computer last month, I held out for the possibility that those replacement speakers would magically sound better now. Alas, they sounded just as shitty as before, so I finally broke down and got new speakers. And wouldn't you know? Suddenly everything sounded great. 

The lesson, kiddies, is to keep that hi-fi equipment up to date! I recommend Quadrophonic speakers, which I avoided for the longest time because I thought they'd only play Quadrophenia. Not true. Other Who albums work, too.

That voice in my head said Uh Jaybee, how could you be sure it wasn't just a case of listening to better music? So I put on two albums I'd gotten a few months back that were not measuring up and used them to test the new speakers.

And Houston, we had separation! The salsa came out of the left speaker and the cheese came out of the right one. Just like God intended.

Two Things Reconsidered:

Elliott Smith: Figure 8 (2000)

Curmudgeon and ultimate casualty, Smith wasn't easy to like. and I didn't, at least not as much as I thought I should. 

My first record by him - and still my favorite - was XO. It featured Smith with a small band, which enabled him to balance out the quiet/confessional with Beatle-ish pop. And while a bit lightweight, it was also modest, tuneful, and sweet.

Then I got Either/Or which came out before XO, and was mostly Elliot solo and lo-fi. It was also not as tuneful and a bit nasty to boot. A big disappointment. I stopped there, at least for a while.

Then Jaybee Son Mike raved about this one, which came out after XO, so I thought I'd try it. 

Old speakers: It leans more heavily on Smith with a rock n' roll band. Although louder seemed a natural progression for Smith, more wasn't necessarily better. It rocked but all sounded the same. 

B+

New speakers: The band now had more definition. I could make out the individual instruments! And the lyrics, too, which were nasty as ever, but clever. Lucky for us, Smith puts a hummable melody on every song. 

A-

"Wouldn't Mama Be Proud"

Sufjan Stevens: Javelin (2023)

Old speakers: The latest Sufjan was somehow coming up short. It was as melodic as his other records, yet the impact was minimal. You don't usually have to wait a few listens for an SS album to sink in. The first listen does it. This time that didn't happen. Nor did subsequent listens.

It could be that - five albums in - I'm all Sufjaned out. (Point of diminishing returns, use of my dwindling time, and all that).

The musical arrangements moved away from the minimalism of Carrie and Lowell. I would have welcomed this except they sounded like bubble gum (not the musical genre, actual bubble gum shoved in the speakers). Not quite a turn-off. Just nothing very artful in it. "More" didn't sound like more. 

Here are the SS albums I've got already, in ascending order of "ornateness". I've included my overall rating, too. It's only about 25 percent of his total, and all pop, with none of his orchestral output. 

• Carrie and Lowell: Nearly sere folk with some minor flourishes. A- 
• Seven Swans: Serene acoustic religiosity A-
• Michigan: More orchestration, yet still modest, and miles from rock n roll. A
• Illinoise: Rivaling Michigan in its scope, with better production, more energy, and the occasional electric guitar. Some transcendence, A

As you can see, my admiration for SS only increases when he incorporates more musical elements into his records. Thus, Javelin should fit between the mournful Michigan and the joyful Illinoise. Still, I'm not moved.

B

New speakers: Now there was actual separation and clarity. The dynamics - previously absent - now were front and center. And sure enough, his melodies began to do what they've always done. I love some of it and greatly admire the rest. 

Plus, there's his great cover of Neil Young's "There's a World."  A relief, as his covers don't always hit the mark. In this case, though, I think he beats the original.

A-

"There's a World"

One More Thing, Reconsidered:

Given the huge difference the new speakers made for these two records, I had to wonder what other records I misjudged. There was one I specifically called out for a muddy sound, and gave it another shot, and it sounded ever so slightly better, and even there I might have been kidding myself. Alas, no great revelation to be had, except the one that says the Clash didn't need great sound, but Teenage Fanclub sure did. 

In other words, the speakers didn't matter. This time.

Heroes and GOATs, Part 4: Don't Axe Me Why

A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. Franz Kafka

I love books, devouring at least a couple of dozen every year. But I still found this quote was a bit much. Arty, Snooty, Masochistic, No Fun, etc. You know, the Severn Deadly Buzzkills. 

When I plop down on the couch with a book, it's often with a Yeungling and a jumbo bag of Chex Mix. I'm not thinking come on Franz! Bring it on! I want to enjoy the reading experience, because it's gonna be a while before I finish. Whereas, as I described in the last post, one album can wreck you and then another bring you joy, in the space of little more than an hour. 

Plus, books are way more, well literal, so I'm more likely to enjoy them via my brain than my heart.  And the reverse is true for music. It was more of a 50/50 deal back when I was younger when emotions ran high no matter what the art form. In any case, both then and now, I can relate to this quote much more when I think of it as pertaining to albums instead of books. But don't blame Franz. Books were his albums.

Last time I also gave some shade to all time best-selling albums. Some clarification may be in order. When I looked at the list again I saw very few bad records. Oh, there were many to which I was indifferent, but there were quite a few good ones. Rumours, Thriller, Tapestry, etc. Jeez what's not to like? Their placement on the list is an argument for the notion of music being "universal".

But here's the question I always ask myself, and now I'm asking you:

Do any of these albums just destroy you? Do any of them re-arrange your molecules? Or as our friend Franz would put it above, do any take an axe to that frozen sea within you? I could be wrong but I'm thinking no.

Last time I asked how you first experienced your favorite music. Was it with friends? As part of a community? Out on the street, perhaps via a passing vehicle (my recent experiences with the latter notwithstanding)?

It happens more when you're 13 than when your 65. And when I turned 14, I experienced this community less and less. When the whole world didn't recognize Allman Brothers at Fillmore East as one of the all-time great records, I realized that me and the world needed some time apart. This was merely my version of teenage rebellion. A silly overreaction but the joys were becoming more solitary and more personal.

Do you and your larger community still agree on what was good? If yes, I congratulate you. It must be great to be able to always enjoy music with other people, and to come out the other side of it intact. If you compare your GOAT lists everyone will smile and nod very sincerely because even if they don't all love the same thing, they'll know the same thing and be able to relate to it.

But to me, your personal GOAT list should be weird and embarrassing. If not, you're just not listening hard enough. 

It's not that everything you listen to should threaten you with an axe. But everything that does will make it to my GOAT list. 

And Franz has one more thing to say to us: 

Was he an animal, that music could move him so? He felt as if the way to the unknown nourishment he longed for were coming to light.