Containing, among other things, my humble effort to bring my fellow sixty(ish) year olds up to date on some current, and frankly, not so current, pop music.
For instance, the following record is the best folk/country album I've heard in years. Better this year than Hooray for the Riff Raff(!) (by a bit) and Waxahatchee (by a bit more) and Jesse Winchester (a bit more than that). And nearly as good as Robbie Fulks. Too bad it's 25 years old.
How is this even possible? I was on my last pop legs for a bit there. (This isn't pop, but you get the point.) No jazz chords either.
The songs have the most basic of melodies, made fresh via the kind of genius John Prine possessed, and Neil Young occasionally still does. It makes me want to play guitar again.
Brett Sparks' rich baritone is nearly as commanding as Johnny Cash's. He sounds ancient, yet I'm sure I'm twenty years older. I assumed the lyrics are profound. Or did the melodies and the voice make them so? Who knows? Who cares?
But upon closer listen, I find most of them dark and kind of twisted - more than one involving family murder. It's probably the only off-putting element in the whole project. But I'm still listening anyway, especially since there are also a few with lyrics so open-hearted as to bring you to tears.
I'd have preferred to include another album here for comparison or contrast, but that would have just complicated things. This short, modest record is nearly as good as the sprawling Diamond Jubilee.
I'm not a fan of summer. My comfort zone has shrunk considerably since I was a kid who loved being off from school for two months. Once school was no longer an issue, I quickly noticed that summer was HOT. And HUMID. Who knew? Air conditioning helped, except when it was too high and you'd get pneumonia. All this makes me grumpy, and that's not conducive to expanding one's horizons. Too many CDs get thrown out of windows, perhaps prematurely.
It's just safer for me to stick to simple, energetic, and melodic music. So classical, jazz, country, and blues were all out. They were relegated to winter, when all hope is lost anyway, so you may as well learn something. Plus, it takes effort, which generates heat, which saves on the gas bill.
But my approach was no longer working. Pop music was becoming foreign to me. (The age gap alone is getting embarrassing.) My old reliable - guitar-based pop - was sounding stale and repetitive, and I'm just tired of waiting for joy to show up. "Everything at/in its proper time and place" is wisdom I may not have time for anymore.
I tried something differenct last time and lucked out with the blues. The key was to keep things simple. No big box sets. Just single-CD best-ofs. Big Joe Turner and Skip James did the rest.
With that in mind, I asked myself Why not jazz? Perhaps a sax or piano could provide a respite. The guitars will just have to show up when they show up. One can't force these things.
And lo! (Always wanted to say that.) I managed to find some great jazz records I happily listen to in summer. Early summer mornings, but still summer.
Feeling Young:
Once while in college, I sat with a semi-stoner buddy. Since music was always the lingua franca of those years, we almost immediately got on the topic, and to my surprise, he told me he was into jazz.
I wasn't yet, but the explorer in me took over, and I asked him to name his favorite artist. His eyes went wide.
"Lester Young," he said.
I made a mental note that stood dormant for oh, fifty years, because there was always someone else who would edge him out. Sure, I'd get Billie Holiday records, where LY was the main side man, but never one of his own records. But there was one I had my eye on.
And wouldn't you know it? The All Knowing Jeff F*cking Bezos (his actual name) dangled that very album in my "music library". When I tried to play it, though, I got a saying it'd play if I joined Apple Music. I have yet to take that approach to my listening habits and declined. I like to own my music. And if anything, JFB has been misbehaving lately, which led me to my current "any store but Amazon" period, so I could safely say that was never going to happen.
But finally, one day the price was right (Yes, I checked iTunes, but it cost more. Any other suggestions would be welcome.) and I gave JFB my $7, which I believe went to his engagement ring fund.
By 1952, the quality of recorded sound was improving, but it still had a way to go. This might explain my preference for late-50s jazz. By then, the clarity had improved to the point that you could hear everything - including the silence - quite clearly. So the sound on this record is less than stellar.
Once you get past that minor limitation, it's a delight from beginning to end. Right off the friggin' bat, LY bursts out of the gate with a bouquet of notes to kick off "Ad Lib Blues". Oscar Peterson and his trio are not far behind. OP is smooth, smooth, smooth, like Art Tatum. But unlike him, he's willing to take the occasional Bud Powell-like imaginative leaps instead of giving empty flourishes. Barney Kessel's guitar - despite the limited sound - is very on point, so it's not all on Lester.
But they don't call him "Pres" (short for President) for nothing. His solos seem effortless and yet fill every available moment with a melodic ebb and flow. Unlike Coltrane, say, Young is not a searcher. He always sounds perfectly comfortable in whatever setting he's in. So he's not always riveting, but it is always rewarding and, well, reassuring.
LY was supposedly past his prime at this point. If that's the case, I'll have to dig deeper, because this is record is simply wonderful.
A
Trying to Catch the 'Trane:
And since I have no imagination whatsoever, I then default to John Coltrane.
I recently checked my database* to see how many JC albums I have. It lists nine under his name and eight collaborations. So, work with me as I do the math, and say the total is .... seventeen. And that doesn't count the dozen or so I've got with him as part of the Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk units.
That would tie him for SECOND on my all-time list, behind the Beatles, who have 22, and that's only because that includes both American and British versions of several of their albums. He shares this honor with the elusive and frustrating Miles Davis and the frustrating and elusive Neil Young. JC can be pretty f*cking elusive, too, but he's just so much more likable as a human, it makes me willing to hear him out when he jumps off the occasional musical cliff.
And he does that a lot. Whenever I get a JC album, I brace myself because I rarely get it the first time I hear it. My first Coltrane CD was Giant Steps in 1990. It took years for me to get a hold of the title number. It was like a roller coaster I was afraid to get on. Once I did, though, oh boy!
My favorite JC album may be Afro Blue/Impressions, which is a posthumous compilation of live dates from 1963, providing wonderful solos but also the occasional foray into space.
JC put out - and appeared as a guest or band member on - a dizzying number of albums, so I need Allmusic's help to zero in on the best ones. I noted that The Cats, Ole', and Crescent are the most highly regarded ones I didn't already have. So they would be my next stops on the Trane.
He mostly stays moored to Earth on these albums. You never know when I'll pull the trigger on one of his free jazz albums like Ascensionor Interstellar Space, which carry what amounts to warning labels. Having just gotten an Ornette Coleman box set of eight early LPs, including Free Jazz, I am no longer afraid. I'm prepared to be embarrassed, though.
Although released at the end of 1959, this was actually recorded in April 1957, right around when Miles Davis fired Coltrane because of his heroin addiction. (Coltrane's, not Davis', who'd already been there and done that.) Luckily, Coltrane had signed with Prestige, where he did a lot of work as a sideman. And that's what he is here, even if his name is on the cover.
But right out of the gate, you know it's him. Standard Coltrane here. At first, a bit tentative, finding his way. So nothing stupendous, but nothing bad. Later, with a little more room, JC branches out and uses space and silence as much as notes. A nice trick. The rest is mostly an inventory of his bag of tricks at this point. Perhaps he was just being polite. But not bad for a heroin addict.
And, of course, I may be judging this record on JC's performances alone, which would be unfair. The other sidemen really shine. Idrees Sulieman on trumpet, in particular. I suspect this one will be a slow burner.
At this point JC has kicked his heroin habit, re-joined the Miles Davis group for Milestones (1958), Kind of Blue (1959), among many other records, and put out a number of collaborations and solo albums of his own, the great ones being Blue Train(1957), Giant Steps (1960), and My Favorite Things(1961),which immediately preceded this album.
The title track shares some similarities with "My Favorite Things", mainly in how JC uses it to take his clarinet out for a spin. He uses the opportunity, on MFT, he replaced the Western major and minor chords with Middle Eastern modes to make something new. On this original, he uses some (what else?) Spanish elements to build up a rather ominous tone over its eighteen epic minutes. He may have been inspired by Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain, released the prior year, although Miles goes all in with an orchestra for a full album. Here, JC just adds a second bass, and then is one and done.
On "Dahomey Dance", he sounds a lot like Kind of Blue, but more muscular. He's given himself room to stretch out, and he's one of the few musicians who benefits from it.
McCoy Tyner's "Aisha" reminds me of "Naima" from Giant Steps. And as before, it's amazing how far he can fly on a mellow tune.
"To Her Ladyship" (on the expanded version of the album) closes things out in a very mellow mood.
Kudos to Freddie Hubbard, who more than holds down his end on trumpet. Ditto for McCoy Tyner on piano, and Eric Dolphy for adding sweetness with the flute.
An excellent record that finds JC in a more relaxed mood.
Now he's approaching A Love Supreme, which would come out the following year and two years before Ascension, when he does that swan dive, or rocket launch, depending on where you're sitting.
The first two compositions here are as mellow as anything J.C. has recorded, except for the fact that he finds a way to gracefully veer from smooth sailing to heavy turbulence and back in a matter of seconds.
The relatively short "Bessie's Blues" is more uptempo, and JC swings with it for all its worth.
Then it's back to the mellow "Lonnie's Lament", one of my very favorite JC tracks. Solemn, mournful, and yet hypnotizing.
This is another relatively subdued Coltrane record, and a fine introduction to his work. Which is why I give it a slight edge over Ole.
A-
If things go as expected, about a year from now, I'll get the JC itch again. I always seem to be looking for more John Coltrane.
I think I'm trying to understand him. That's a fool's errand, especially for me, the pop music fan. But it's provided me with a lot of joy as I try.
I somehow got through last summer after tempting the blues gods to smite me with genuineness when I would not be prepared to appreciate it. I somehow dodged that bullet by loving damn near every minute of it. Is there perhaps something to the phrase "SummertimeBlues" that applies to seniors such as myself?
I'm cheating a bit, having Joe here. There are a handful of blues songs, after which Joe smells the money and starts to, well, rock. He doesn't drop the blues - he just slaps it together with the new sound and in the process, releases half a dozen songs that - when covered by other people - more or less founded rock 'n roll. Joe himself - the Rodney Dangerfield of rock 'n roll? - never made it big.
This is certainly one of the most unpretentious albums I've ever heard. Nary a guitar to be found, but the piano and horns lend everything a party atmosphere. Even the slow blues numbers will make you smile, because Joe is a SHOUTER, and that tends to allay the gravitas.
You'd think after hearing the always hustling Joe Turner, I'd dismiss this guy, whose delivery is so on the criminally lazy side, it would almost be funny, except that those vocals contrast so beautifully with his very sharp band, and his own even sharper lead guitar. In theory, awful, but in practice, magical.
And just when you think he's a clown, he goes dark. And I suspect when he talks about "love", he's not talking about romance. During one of his come-ons, he mentions how neither she nor he is going to heaven, so why not? Shudder!
So he really means business and understands that taking it a little slow just guarantees you'll get there in one piece. Well, at least he will.
A
And that's that. Each is a single CD, and neither overstays its welcome. I wasn't going to push it with a huge box or multi-CD set. I still have scars from my Lou Reed five-album foray a couple of years ago.
I've had similar luck with jazz, lately, too. We'll get to that maybe next time.
Although I typically mention how I choose a given album, in general, I choose the first option (RTFOOEP). It has its shortcomings, but I've always believed it will produce better results in the long run.
Getting older does remind one, however, that we don't have as much "long run" as we used to. And recent events have shown I may have even less than I thought.
So, lately I've been making impulse buys, based either on the odd Quora comment (very dicey) or off-hand critic reference (also not without risk). The result has been albums that may not be pantheon-level but will likely satisfy something in me, even if it's mere curiosity. When I find myself saying I always wondered about that album I've decided - at least for now - to just cut to the chase. No more wondering, Jaybee, okay?
So, here are three artists I've had my eye on for some time. I was just waiting for the right recommendation to get me to try them out.
This Canadian singer-songwriter has twenty albums in her Allmusic Discography, so it was tough to figure out which one to try. I might have opted for a best of, but some rando on Quora answered a question about underappreciated artists, and included this album as an example. Since the same poster had mentioned numerous other albums I'd been a big fan of, he/she (let's face it - he. "She" is likely too busy adulting.) seemed like a good source, so maybe it was time to give Jane a try. Another post that same day also recommended the same record, and that was that. Never once did I ask myself Who are these people?
This record is a bit slick and a bit cute. Cute is fine, but slickness is unforgivable. Little touches like expert piano tinkling between lines or other gestures of virtuosity drive me nuts. (The jazzy reverbed guitar on "Hockey" is bearable, though.) It's like pop music for the old at heart. So my first impression was kinda negative. Mrs. Jaybee, who has less patience than I about such things, also gagged.
At first, I thought she sounded like the Cocteau Twins without all the reverb and echo, but then I thought of someone else.
"Sounds like Kate Bush," I said to Mrs. Jaybee.
"Kate Bush League, maybe," she replied.
After a couple of listens, though, two songs suddenly stood out as beautiful and distinctly lacking in either cute or slick. Suddenly, I needed to rethink this review. The singing is less mannered than it first appeared. The accompaniment, less fussy. Even "Everything Reminds Me of My Dog" sounds okay now.
But it's not quite enough to put it over. Perhaps a best of would have been best? Of?
I've had my eye on this record for a while, and the same rando I mentioned above recommended it highly, so I pulled the trigger. So not purely impulse.
These Brits are very tuneful. So tuneful in fact that one could miss the lyrics that are, shall we say, pointed? It's the Thatcher era, and since the band members are ACTUALLY CHRISTIAN, they take issue with the direction their country is heading. (Imagine that!) My favorite line is from "Freedom":
So this is freedom, You must be joking!
Paul Heaton is the main songwriter and singer, He's got a pretty, and pretty focused, soprano, which could wear over sixteen tracks. Luckily for us, he keeps the melodies coming.
Much of the musical attack is piano-based, so you're not getting raucous rock 'n roll here. Just sharp, precise pop.
Now, who would want to (re)visit England in the eighties? Not many. But who would want to hear an energetic and musical album that avoids all the crud (synths, nasally vocals, hair, etc.) from that awful decade, and sticks a knife into its false platitudes?
This long-lived British band has been many things - in 1965, blues-based rockers a la the Rolling Stones (and thought by many at the time to be better), and creators of possibly the first rock opera S.F. Sorrow, per Peter Townsend, a key influence on Tommy.
Was it Wikipedia that told me that Rolling Stone named this Album of the Year in 1970? No, it was probably another Quora answerer. Having read some of their old reviews, both in compilations and on one of my favorite websites, perhaps I should have held back.
But the record sounds pretty damned good! They have nice harmonies, good melodies, guitars that get the job done, and, when needed, a nasty rock 'n roll sneer when called for.
I don't hear anything innovative, but I do hear many AOR 70s rock motifs being deployed. Even knowing they'd be deployed elsewhere, and sometimes more skillfully, that just tells me how durable they are.
In the meantime, I enjoy them just fine right here.
B+
I don't know how long my randomish picks will continue. I'm just trying to say Yes, instead of Later. Later may end up being Never.
A while ago, prompted by an Amazon.com $5 mp3 sale (admittedly, a core motivation for most of my life decisions) for the Woodstock soundtrack, I wrote about Woodstock, The Event. Now I'll write about Woodstock, The Place. Sort of.
I've never been there, although I may pass through in a few weeks.
Why is this coming up now? Because I just finished Barney Hoskyns' Small Town Talk, which is a history of the town during the reign of Albert I, who is otherwise known as Albert Grossman - aptly named by the way, depending upon who you ask. In A Complete Unknown, he's a cuddly teddy bear companion to Bob Dylan. Here he is somewhat less so. The ultimate Citizen Kane of rock and roll, he had as many admirers as detractors.
So why do I give a shit about him, you ask? He was a catalyst in the great migration of folk and pop musicians to Woodstock in the sixties, and the ruler of his little kingdom until, oh, the eighties or nineties.
Now, that area has been described by some of our more spiritual folk as a mystical place - a North Eastern Twin Peaks. (Come to think of it, each place had a rather monstrous person named Bob, but whatever.) As such, the town was always a haven for artists and oddballs going back to the beginning of the century, and each new wave of said artists would be derided by the now old guard for ruining the town.
And who are we talking about when it comes to the sixties? Well, there's Dylan himself, Bob Neuwirth, members of the Band, Paul Butterfield, Jesse Winchester, Charles Mingus, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Van Morrison, and Todd Rundgren, just to name a few.
Like episodes of Behind the Music, or any musical biopic, this is another long, sad story, only exponentially greater due to sheer numbers involved. It is one sad book.
Spoiler alert: The biggest asshole is a tie between Grossman, Dylan and Rundgren, with Van Morrison running close behind. The biggest substance abuser is god only knows who.
So, out of the wreckage, I decided to dip into two artists I've not previously had the chance to get into - Paul Butterfield, who is a character throughout, and Jesse Winchester, one of the singer-songwriter types from the 70s I used to listen to all the time. Somehow, I never got around to him.
Jesse's got a nice deep voice, and veers between rockin' little numbers like "Pay Day" and more serious numbers like "Yankee Lady". All in all, a good balance.
The production is so-so. Typical early seventies better-than-the-sixties-but-not-quite-there-yet sound. The drums, in particular, are quite muffled. (What's up there, Smartypants Todd??)
Speaking of the drums, they are nice when syncopation is called for, less so for forward momentum. I expect better from Levon Helm, and thus believe it's one of the other guys listed in the credits.
However, Winchester has a distinctive voice, both as vocalist and lyricist. It carries the record where it might otherwise slack off. I'm a big fan of great songs like "Black Dog" tucked away at the back of records.
Thus, this 55-year-old record, despite some sonic shortcomings, can often speak to us today.
It's not a Great Record, but a very good one.
A-
This next record also falls short of greatness. Alas, when it comes to the blues, that makes all the difference.
Paul plays a mean harp, and with Mike Bloomfield and Elvin Bishop on guitar, along with Muddy Waters' rhythm section. What could go wrong? Not much. And it must have been quite exciting when it came out. It has less of an impact now. It packs a sonic punch, and the sheer momentum can overcome one's caveats.
It's just not Great.
Don't get me wrong. I rate it right up there with the other white blues bands of the day. Listening to the Yardbirds, Fleetwood Mac, and the Bluesbreakers, this fits right in. What those bands have in common is a guitar at the forefront. Forget vocals. Save that for the real thing. However, Mike Bloomberg hasn't quite emerged as the genius with an individual style just yet. Elvin Bishop is great, but I think I've heard it all before. And as a guitar lover, it falls ever so short due to that.
A fine album to put on, but one you may not go back to all that often.
B+
As I said, I'll be in the area next month. Given the time, I hope to go to Woodstock and possibly Saugerties as well. I expect more tourist-trap than either Peyton Place or Utopia. Humans, especially our beloved but flawed musical heroes, have a tendency to, in the short run, create magic, but in the long run, create broken families and succumb to addiction.
No judgment intended here, except for major jerks like Dylan (who seems to have mellowed a bit), Rundgren, and oh, Van Morrison (who has not mellowed a bit). They're great at what they do, but can we please just not idolize these guys?
I've covered a lot of female artists lately, and while I like most and love some, Mrs. Jaybee is lukewarm overall. She doesn't like the ones who sing with a "girly" voice, and wishes they would "sing like grown women."
I could probably put all of these artists on a spectrum - starting with Phoebe Bridgers and ending with Bessie Smith, with Chappell Roan, Carly Rae Jepsen, Olivia Rodrigo, Angel Olsen, Sandy Denny, Kasey Musgraves, the Beths, Alvvays, the Illuminati Hotties, Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald, to name just a few, order them by girly-voice-ness, and find the dividing line between acceptable and not.
But it's not that simple. What about all the other pertinent qualities? Songwriting obviously matters. (Mrs. Jaybee has grudgingly come around on Joni Mitchell.) As do many other factors, each of which should be weighed based on its importance and pertinence. (At this point, friends from work would recognize a certain look in my eyes and say, There goes Jaybee starting another spreadsheet...) But really, how dare I think I can reduce my wife's taste, nuanced and thoughtful as it is, into a two-dimensional grid?
I'd sooner do that for my taste, which, come to think of it, would save us all a lot of time in the long run. Instead of writing rambling, nonsensical blog posts, I would simply publish my grid once, and upon hearing new music, indicate its coordinates on said grid and give a score. And when I don't like said score, muck with the numbers until I do. Easy and logical, right?
The thing about spreadsheets is that they encourage my tendency to postpone actual thinking. Now I hate to think as much as the next guy, but sometimes it just can't be avoided. I could lie, I guess, but I'm bad at it. It's one thing to write something that makes no sense, which can be construed as being unintentional. But it would be worse to write what I don't mean, especially when you, dear reader, can tell.
So perhaps it's better to focus on outcomes.
To a point.
Anyway, both Dacus and Lenker have distinctive voices. Not strong, mind you, but you sure do know who is singing right away.
Recently, while listening to Boygenius, Mrs Jaybee and I agreed that Lucy Dacus (below) had a lovely, deep voice. One would only naturally want to hear more of it.
Alas, like Emmylou Harris before her, Dacus is a much better backup singer than lead.
Her lyrics, though - and there are lots of them - are quite good, and worth delving into. It's just her voice doesn't break through quite enough to make them front and center.
I don't hear anything wrong with this record, but after having spent a couple of weeks just trying to hear it, I'm not sure I've heard anything exactly right, either. And it's that very voice that's keeping me from hearing the melodies, if there are any.
Mrs. Jaybee originally liked what she heard, but after about a half dozen listens, agrees with me - a rarity - that it all sounds the same. But thank you, Ms. Dacus, for contributing to our marital accord.
I hope I'll get to revisit this again, at which time I'll note an excellence that slipped past me this time around.
B
PS: Okay, okay, I figured it out. The first problem is that many of Dacus's songs are melodically similar. The second is that you have to play this loud to make out the differences. It is thus, Pretty Good.
On another co-listening occasion, this time a Big Thief CD, Mrs. Jaybee may have told me to never play it again. I don't quite (want to) remember.
Adrienne Lenker is Big Thief's lead singer and songwriter. Together, they've made several records, one of which I love and another I wish I liked more. The former provides a perfect musical accompaniment to her voice, while the latter lays bare when things don't match as well.
One can't accuse Lenker of a gloss, though. Her voice is so fragile, you're afraid she's going to emotionally collapse mid-song. Further, she typically chooses minimal accompaniment for her songs, which could just a consequence of doing a solo album to begin with. The first song almost doesn't qualify as one, but she persists, and by the end, you believe it actually does.
I've wandered so far off-track and off-time that I've neglected this more-than-half-completed decade. Thus, like Imperial Contracting, I've been redoubling my efforts, with achilles-heel-style-vent included free of charge, just to catch up.
All three of the following records are from 2024, and all are cases of buy first, listen later. Aside from the utter dumbness of this approach, there's also the surprise factor. Does it sound as I expected (based on words used in reviews, band name, or - even more logically - the cover art)?
It's like a form of blind and/or speed dating. And all of these records confound such expectations to some degree. What is one to do? I already bought them, so swiping left (or is it swiping right?) is out of the question.
Plus, having one's expectations confounded is actually way more fun with music - I'd imagine - than actual dating.
Did I mention all three groups have female band leaders??
Actual: Energetic, yes, but softer-edged and humorous. And there's even a name for it: tenderpunk.
It's fast and funny, but the high-pitched - okay, squeaky - voice can wear a bit (at least for my demographic). Thankfully, they relieve this somewhat with good melodies, great production, and a couple of strong slow ones as a change of pace.
A great listen if you're in the mood. I just haven't been, lately.
Expectation: Loud, sleazy (just like the folks mentioned in their name) rock n roll. And forbidding. too, especially as she so resembles Aubrey Plaza on the cover.
Actual: Folk/country mid-tempo ballads, love songs to broken people, with a focus on lyrics.
The tunes are pretty basic. What really puts it all across are the lyrics and the urgency of her delivery. That little quiver in her voice shows that she really means it.
And it just rolls along, one simple song after another, and there's not a bad one among them.
Not quite compelling, but if you want forty minutes of a consistent quality - and a certain laid back, romantic, urgent mood - this is it.
Expectation: Female singer, torch songs, with a little David Lynch thrown in.
Actual: Some of the above, but with a primitive edge. The guitars are not always in tune, but always there.
The "band" consists of Canadian expatriate Patrick Flegal with some help from Steve Lind. Patrick is also Cindy Lee herself. And they make the space sound huge and intimate at the same time. Like in an empty airplane hangar, or a desolate landscape dotted with factories, making for a "you can't get away from industrialization if you tried" feeling. (We - the USA - should feel so lucky.) Sort of an updated, more rural Eraserhead milieu, 'cept here EH is trans. David Lynch would be proud.
This record has been hard to find - poking around for most of 2024 in obscure places - but finally released on iTunes this month. Somehow, it nearly topped several year-end polls anyway.
Starting from absolute quiet, a slow fade-in with an acoustic guitar played with the minimal necessary technique, then a soft, high-pitched female voice, and then out of nowhere a feedback-drenched electric guitar (Peter Green comes to mind, but with none of the blues licks) played with delicacy. There's also a male voice, which is provided by the same person who provides the female one.
I'm keeping faith that the strength of the opening numbers will hold up over its 32(!) tracks. It's not so easy to tell at first. And I'll admit that the second disc strays a bit, but I'm willing to wait it out.
Production is minimal. Sort of "if you can't kill it yourself, you're not going to eat" approach. And very, very sixties. The whole design is an appeal to obscurity (echoey vocals from a guy who's WAY down the hall, etc). Musical masochists will flock to it. It could all be a huge scam but every time I put it on I hear more. Why does primitive sound so refreshing to me?
It's meant to be listened to in the cold, early morning, when you're all alone, and it's utterly compelling.
.jpg)
.jpg)
