Top One or Two Hundred All Time Whatevers

Act One of my One Act Play:

You: Happy 200th post Jaybee!

Me: Thanks!  Hey, wait a minute! That means I completely forgot about commemorating my 100th post. Why didn’t you remind me?

You, contrite: Sorry Jaybee!

Me, gracious as always: That’s okay.

THE END

Ooops! I Missed a Spot Post!

So what the hell happened to my #100 post? If I’m counting correctly, this is it. 

Nothing special, but theoretically appropriate in that it covers the year I was 15 years old. That’s supposedly when your brain gets permanently wired for the music you’re going to love all your life.

Not true for me though. In my case, it was when I was six (Beatles) and then again when I was twenty-one (punk).

So I really dropped the ball on that one.

Some Sound, Not Much Fury, Signifying Meh:

So, does 100 or 200 of anything have a special significance for me?

Well, my 100th album seems to be 4-Way Street, which is indicative of nothing except that it was in 1974, when I was starting to buy lots of records.

My 200th album was Warren Zevon, which I got right around the our nation’s 200th Anniversary. Ooooh! 

I was hoping for something poetic/resonant/thematic here, but will settle for this eerie yet boring coincidence.

So before I get distracted again, and forget that this is my #200 post, I thought I’d make up for my prior omission by doing something special. Something so ambitious, and yet so unstructured and drawn out as to - as Saddam Hussein once said - astound my friends and terrify my enemies. The Mother of All Lists, if you will.

We’re all fond of describing things as the Best/Worst (fill in the blank) Ever. Well, at least Comic Book Guy is. He can be a little too specific for me, so I’m leaving myself some wiggle room.

I was going to call this “The One Or Two Hundred All-time Coolest Happenings Ever” but the acronym for that is TOOTHACHE, so instead, let’s call it “The One or Two Hundred of the Greatest Things Ever: Songs, Records, Guitar Solos, Whatever. Not Albums, though, because I’m always talking about albums. Not people, either.”  (TOOTHOTGTE, etc.... seems pretty safe.)  

I’ll even include the odd non-music related thing, if indeed, such a thing exists.

My Head Exploded, But in a Good Way

One criteria for making the list is that the thing threatens to make your head explode, but in the nice way.  You know what I’m talking about. It’s like a form of good bumps, only it happens on your scalp. And you brain doesn’t splatter the sidewalk.

And when it happens several times in succession, as it did for me recently - twice(!) in public(!!) - you either react in an embarrassing manner (see below) or create a list like this.

Positive music experiences in public rarely happen to me. So when they do, I sit up and take notice. My hope is to just not get pissed off at what I’m hearing. Actually enjoying myself is a small miracle. These two occasions were that and much more.

The first time was at a Starbucks in Philadelphia. We walked in, got our hot chocolates, sat down and suddenly it was as though they were trying to chase out anyone under 50 years old. Usually, it’s the other way around. Anyway, they play Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game” and bunch of other songs I keep on a CD labeled “Miserable”, which I burned after a very depressing election.

Perhaps because I’d been softened up the night before by watching the American Masters episode about Phil Ochs, one song after another hit some deep emotional button to the point that I had to get up and leave on the pretext of getting a crossword puzzle from the van. Crying in public is not cool when you’re in your fifties.

And then it happened again later that year at The Mermaid’s Inn in the East Village. This time things were poppier but no less powerful. I realized that there are some songs that weren’t just great. They were part of me.

So this will be my outlet - those songs, records, Moments that Just. Kill. Me.

Worst. Best of Lists. Ever.

I have no intention of reaching or limiting myself to 100 or 200. If I stretch it out enough I should finish by about post 300, which will be my excuse to continue this futile exercise that I’m only doing because, as Louie says, God is Dead and We’re Alone.

I make no claim that this will matter to you one bit. These are merely transcendent (to me) moments. They are what keep me alive. What makes my agnostic soul believe with all my heart.

By the way, the numbers are not rankings. They just help me keep count. Young people can blog up stuff like this at a moment’s notice. I just don't have the energy.  

And really, how wrong can I be?  Every day I see another stupid Best of article:

• Rolling Stones albums that didn’t include Aftermath in the top 10.
• A Top 5 Dylan list that didn’t include Blonde on Blonde or John Wesley Harding.
• A Worst-to-Best REM list that had Out of Time as an almost-worst.
• A Best Scorsese movie list that placed After Hours above The Departed. (Are You Freaking Kidding Me?)
• And finally, an “Embarrassing Moments” list where what qualified were songs by rockers who momentarily drop their guard and show some real emotion.

So, as I say, how wrong can I be?

So here goes.

First Ten:

1. A Hard Day’s Night

But why not start at the top I say?

Starting with the Chord of the F*cking Century (not exactly but so what?) moving on to characteristically energetic singing by John of a virtually one note melody. But that’s okay, the chord changes do all the work, shifting around as the song charges forward.

And then.

And then.

It Comes.

What may be the Greatest Moment In The History of Western Civilization: 

When Paul comes in to sing the first line of the bridge (When I’m home..), kicking it all up a notch immediately by virtue of his higher vocal range. But that’s not enough. The second line takes the melody even higher, and still higher, until “Baby you’re holding me tight, Tight!”, which as philosophical statement beats the hell out of any ism we’ve come up with so far.  

The Sixties had officially begun.

I will generally stay away from the Beatles for this list, but sometimes it’s like trying to stay away from breathing…

2. Witchita Lineman

Not a complicated melody by any stretch, but the chord changes that accompany it are so dramatic they take your breath away. The lyrics are just vague enough to keep you wondering what the hell it’s about. And the strings are never overbearing, never cheesy. But a so-so vocal would have wasted it all. Instead Glen sings with such conviction and longing that I will fight anyone to the death who laughs.  I’ve demanded silence in shopping malls when it’s played there.  

And I get it.

3. September Gurls:

Okay, I know. I keep harping on this song. And even if you’ve heard it,  you like the Bangles version. But you’re wrong. The Bs do a fine job of emulating middle-period Beatles with that speeded up guitar solo that serves to remind you of the speeded up piano solo of “In My Life”. It is “excellent”!

But “excellent” just isn’t good enough for this list.

Listen to Big Star’s version. You could mistake it for a merely great pop song until, oh, about thirty seconds in where you get the Chord of the F*cking Decade. (The 70s that is.) This will be followed by Alex Chilton’s completely unhinged guitar solo. Not technically brilliant, mind you. Just a few random strums, but completely un-self-consciously off the wall and purely emotional - unfiltered by “taste” or “intellect”.  

Alex Chilton also sings it in a higher(!) key than the Bangles. He of "The Letter" fame! So he’s playing for bigger stakes than the Bs dare to, even with their sly lesbian angle. Alex is singing an autumnal song like an adolescent, convincingly!

Then he finishes it all off with an ever more seriously disturbed solo that doesn’t quite end when when song does.

And for that moment we see him. The artist Naked.

4. Dancing Queen

“Muriel’s Wedding” brought me dangerously close to getting sick of this song.  But I recovered.  Glitzy, over produced, utterly commercial.  And stunningly beautiful.  The part of the chorus beginning with “You can dance” rivals the bridge in "A Hard Day’s Night" in sheer joy.

5. Walk Away Renee

Before I owned this record, coming upon it on the radio meant that whatever else was going on had to stop. I’m so glad it wasn’t playing in Labor and Delivery when my kids were born.   

Now that I have the record, I do notice that the background singing isn’t as good as it could be and the sound could be a lot cleaner.  And yet, I’m sure that if a version existed that addressed those problems, I wouldn’t love it nearly as much as I do the original.  

And the words!  It would have been nice to know them - the singer isn’t trying very hard to enunciate.  But now that I know what they are, I realize the song is more effective without me knowing.  An overwhelming emotion that can’t be expressed in mere words. They come close, though.

And the melody!  Was it simply handed down from heaven to Michael Brown? The strings certainly were.

6. She’s Not There

As much as I love rock and roll, I’d be the first to admit it’s very simple music and the musicians are not always up to even that. And yet, here we are in 1964 with Rod Argent playing a bitchin’ electric piano solo. And how about that pretty nifty melody in the verse, which suddenly switches to virtually a single note during the chorus, but there’s that harmony that works it and works it and works it. Along with the time shifts, key changes, and the breathless tempo.

Okay, maybe not transcendent, but thrilling.

7. The Kid’s Are All Right

It’s a disgrace that the first time I heard this 1966 song was the little snippet at the beginning of that song on Quadraphenia in 1973. Thanks a lot FM and AM radio! HUGE fail.  

Anyway, when I finally caught up with it, I realized that Pete Townsend wasn’t a genius because he could do a rock opera. It was because he could write such a perfect pop song, which by the way, isn’t so because of the melody or the playing, even if  the harmonies and Roger Daltrey’s vocal are perfect. It’s because of the lyrics.  

I don’t think I’ve ever heard a song that better captures the insecurities, the camaraderie, the pain and the joy of being a teenager. The title, I think, is a f*ck you to adults who thought every teenager was a hoodlum. Pete always had their back. It’s “My Generation” again, only this time much sweeter.

8. Friday on My Mind

Of working class themed songs, “Summertime Blues” is the funny one. FOMM however is the keeper. It’s just so damned intense. Maybe the most intense rock song ever.  

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that the tempo is frantic.The key changes go higher and higher and the harmonies keep up with it. And great guitar riffs.

And the story: A working class guy who sounds like he’s right on the edge. When he promises to lose his head, you hope it’s in a good way. He bitches about his job, but for once, doesn’t take it out on his girlfriend, who he can’t wait to go out with.

9. The Circle Game

I don’t think I’ve ever heard a bad version of this song. Even Buffy St. Marie (sort of) kicks ass with it. But I’ll give the edge to Joni Mitchell’s.

Like some of  her other songs,  its theme is  trite,  in theory anyway. But she fills them with such evocative words and perfectly matching melodies that you’re too stunned to notice.

10. Dying to Live

I know you don’t know this one. That’s why I put it here! I have nothing to say about it that you can’t hear yourself. We can all be forgiven for not realizing how much soul Edgar Winter has, but not after hearing this.

To Be Continued:

I’ll stop to take a breath now.

I’ll give the rest to you in bunches, or individually, as the mood, logic or alcohol dictates.

These songs are at such a level of perfection that you’re forced to stop whatever you’re doing and just let yourself be carried along with them. 

I think it's what we mean when we say God.

Jaybee Just Misses Yet Another Great Time

1967 is generally considered the high water mark in rock n roll. (Yeah, I know I already did a post on it. Just bear with me please?.) It was an apex of experimentation and songwriting. Apparently it’s been all downhill since then, even though I had a perfectly good time afterward.  

I was only ten years old in 1967, so my enjoyment came via singles, Sgt Pepper and maybe Monkee’s Headquarters. Albums, along with many of the year’s more...exotic pleasures were beyond me, so I can’t help but think I missed all the real fun. This “just missed the real fun” would become a theme in my life. Upon entering a new job, grade, decade or even room, I was always being told what a great time everyone had last time, and that it just isn’t the same now.

I’ve done a lot of catching up since then, but Pink Floyd somehow got left behind. Probably because we had the 1970s era Floyd to distract us. They hit my radar on early FM radio and weird TV music specials. Since this was before my serious record buying days, they would always seem way too daunting to take on. Plus, I was afraid that if mom or dad heard them, they would (correctly) conclude that pot was the inevitable next step. I’d’ve gotten in trouble for it without even having gotten to smoke any.

But in 1973 they broke big, with Dark Side blah blah blah, so you and I and even your mom got to know them. And for the rest of the decade they were actually pretty hard to ignore. So I cared less and less. I found The Wall to be kind of annoying, actually. Not as much as John Lydon, who would wear a Floyd t-shirt with the words “I Hate...” painted on it.

They can now be heard as mainstays on classic rock stations. Where the contents of maybe three albums are still in pretty heavy rotation.

All this kept me away for some time. It was only after having gotten - and loved - the Zombie’s Odyssey and Oracle and the Small Faces Ogden’s Nut Gone Flake - did I venture to dig deeper into flower power era English rock again. So why not check out a record that is now remembered as one of Floyd's best, one featuring the Crazy Diamond Syd Barrett himself?

Pink Floyd  Piper at the Gates of Dawn

As is always the case with records of that era, I was less than impressed the first time around, mostly because of all the drug induced whimsy. However, I eventually noticed that Syd was not bad when it came to writing actual tunes, even when the lyrics were a bit off off the rails. I also noticed that the ten minute “Interstellar Overdrive” isn’t content to be merely spacey like so many excursions of that era. There is some pretty aggressive guitar playing on it, too.

And when it comes to the songs, Old Syd turns out to be a bit more down to earth (believe it or not) than the other guys anyway.  Otherwise, why are the songs so catchy?

Oh, it’s all kind of hazy like Tame Impala was/is. Plus it’s got a thin crust of 60s-psychedelic cliches on it. But it’s so light and fluffy!

As usual, it took awhile for it to finally hit me. (Mrs. Jaybee was humming it way before me.) And I’m not totally sure I’ll be humming it all six months from now, so I’m going to hold off an unqualified endorsement for now. B+

But between you and me, if anyone brings up Pink Floyd to me again, citing Dark Side or anything after, I’m just going to have to tell them that Piper was their peak, and after Syd left, they were just never the same again.

Welcome to the Show, Now Shut the F*ck Up

I took the title from that obnoxious tee shirt we’ve all seen, “Welcome to America, Now Speak English”. It’s usually worn by young men whose grandmothers have been here since 1950 and  still don’t speak it.

I’ll put it to better use.

Welcome to the....”Guy Sitting Next to You” Show:

Perhaps you’ve had this experience, too. You pay a small fortune for tickets to a concert and go, only to find you’re sitting near someone who talks constantly throughout the entire show.

He’s a first cousin to the guy who takes phone calls during a play. The person who ignores the call, and turns off their phone is to be forgiven. The one who actually answers the call should be summarily executed.  And, no, I DON’T care that he was passing on the antidote to prevent a zombie apocalypse. He should have taken care of that before he left the house.

Clearly, I’m on the far end of the tolerance spectrum. I get annoyed, for instance, watching youtube videos of concerts recorded on a smartphone, where the performance is competing with conversations taking place near the phone. The further away the phone is from the stage, the more understandable the background noise.  I once saw a video taken not twenty feet from Robyn Hitchcock, with a  the sound of an avid conversation at least as loud as the song. I half expected Robyn to climb down and kick their asses. The English don’t seem to do that, unless it’s Motorhead. A shame.

It happened more recently at a couple of shows I attended.  And I fear we’re talking epidemic proportions people.  

Mrs. Jaybee and I caught the (musical, not apocalyptical) Zombies at Central Park over the Father’s Day weekend. There were other old folks like us there, and one poor schmuck made the mistake of dragging his teenage daughters to the show. In appreciation, they chatted through the opening act, but saved their most intense conversation topics for the headliners. Me and the Mrs.decided to leave those seats to brave the standing only area, but not before muttering insults and curses.

It happened again at a tribute to Big Star’s “Third” album, where two men were more into getting to know each other than the music they purportedly loved and came to hear. Get a room, I said, preferably a sound proof one. They eventually complied after ruining a couple more songs.

I had begun to feel self-conscious about my apparent obsession with, ahem, ACTUALLY HEARING THE MUSIC, when I was thanked by someone. I guess I could have said “you’re welcome” instead of “hey you wanna keep it down?”  But I think he understood.

Like zombies, though, their numbers grew.. So again, I found myself (no wife this time) leaving the cheap seats, where this kind of thing is rampant, to the standing-only area. But even there, I found two guys talking during the concert highlight. ‘So, let me get this straight,’ I pretended to ask them. ‘You go to the trouble of coming to a show, and stand for hours only to have a conversation during the best part?’ Who ARE these people?

I understand that these concerts are also social events. The performers interact with the audience and audience members interact with each other. And that this is a good thing.  (No, the more I think about it, the less I think it’s a good thing. Human interaction is so overrated!) Couples should be able to exchange endearments, and friends should exchange pleasantries. Hell, I even want to sing. And someone else should be able to write a blog post telling me to shut up.

The overly obvious point-that-shouldn’t-require-a-blog-post-but-since-humans-are-assholes-it- clearly-does, is that I’m there for the music, not you.

I realize that this differs somewhat from the view of a lot of people.  Their main purpose in attending a show is to...be able to say that they attended the show.  The show itself holds little interest for them.  These people are event collectors, and I hate them more than Anakin Skywalker hates the Sand People.

I’ll admit I may err on the side of anti-sociability.

Just One Look:

My kids tell me I have “a look”. One that has probably scarred them during childhood, when it rightfully should have been directed at the outside world, where it could have done some good. So I tried it out, and sure enough it did!

We recently attended a Jerry Seinfeld show, with Colin Quinn opening. The young couple directly behind me apparently felt that Mr. Quinn had nothing to contribute to the evening, and happily continued to chat when he came on. I turned around and shot them the look. Damn if they didn’t stop talking in mid sentence.  Mid word, actually

Which in retrospect is a shame, because I suspect that Mr. Quinn is quite capable of addressing this situation himself. That would have been fun to see, but it was good to know I possessed this super-power.

I also tried it on an otherwise nice couple at the Big Star show and it had a similar effect.  Proximity seems to help since people sitting further away, don’t seem to notice it.  It becomes a garden variety old man glare that is ignorable.  Up close, though, it’s devastating.

Even at a recent Belle and Sebastian show in Prospect Park, a young couple stood behind me, chatting amiably in another language. I glared at them several times, not using my full power, which could have killed them.  A good thing, too, because, they then asked me who the artist was, and I realized they were experiencing that most rare happy accident - stumbling upon a new band they immediately liked. How could I stay mad? So once I extracted a promise that they never again speak at a show, and an invitation to their wedding,  I told them who it was. May they have many intimate conversations very far from concert venues!

Go Forth and Shut Up!:

Such circumstances are rare. So, if you’re heading for a show, go to dinner first and exhaust all your conversation topics beforehand. If you’re like me, it should take about five minutes. Then come to the show feeling completely drained and mute, stay that way for two or three hours, and then on the way home, talk all you want about how great the show was.  And be proud, because you helped make it that way. At least for me you did.

The (non musical) Zombie Apocalypse can wait for the end of the show.

Secret History: 1968

Ahh, the Summer of Love ('67, in case you missed it) has by now ushered in the Age of Aquarius, and at the beginning of 1968, it's clear that everything is going to be just great. (No wonder I prefer music to real life.)

Let's start off with a couple of records that were really released in late 1967, but didn't make their mark until 1968:

First, there's Bob Dylan's "John Wesley Harding". I was going to ignore Dylan, but I really like this record. Now if he would only take harmonica lessons and I could forget Hendrix's version of "All Along the Watchtower", I'd say it was love.

And then there's The Who Sell Out, which is just my all time favorite album. Now when you buy it, you're going to listen to it once and say, what the hell? Will you please put it on again? And again? At some point, you're going to realize that the Tommy references are pre-Tommy references, the commercials are hilarious, and the ballads are as beautiful as any Pete Townsend ever wrote. And who doesn't like Heinz baked beans?

The Byrds kept pretty busy. When they weren't busy killing each other, they were making their two best albums. First, there's "The Notorious Byrd Brothers", which is an artful suite of tunes, the most famous of which – but not the best, mind you - may be Carole King's "Going Back". Then there's "Sweetheart of the Rodeo" which takes on country music, with great enthusiasm and respect, thanks to Gram Parsons. This is truly one of the highlights of the decade. Greatest American Band of the Sixties, you say? Hard to argue with you, sir.

And although I'll admit that "Moondance" has more soul, Van Morrison's
"Astral Weeks" is (warning: bs phrase approaching) full of jazzy poetic mystery.
It is also where
I first wondered
if Van was out of his mind. At first I was taken aback by all the growling, scatting and general weirdness. But it's clearly Van at his most hypnotic.

The Zombies scored early in the decade with a couple of great singles ("She's Not There" and "Tell Her No"), but then struggled for years for a follow up hit. "Odyssey and Oracle" was their last shot, but it came a little too late. "Time of the Season", didn't become a hit until 1970, two years after they called it quits. They deserved better, because this is a wonderful record. "Care of Cell #44" is brilliant, and a couple of others ("Hung Up on a Dream", "Brief Candles") are as good as anything else the sixties served up.

The Kinks could always be counted upon to create a brilliant side of music every year or so. And side one of "Village Green Preservation Society" is
one of their best ever. Side two was always their Achilles heel, and here they do wander off a bit to the village green. But that's the Kinks for you. But definitely worthwhile nonetheless.

And if you're as sick of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" as I am, you might want to try "Bookends" by Simon and Garfunkel. Besides "Mrs. Robinson", it's got "Fakin' It" and "America". Not too shabby, although I still maintain that Art Garfunkel is the luckiest man alive. At least Ringo can drum.

Spirit boasted
great
musicianship and excellent songwriting, if not the most electrifying singing. Maybe that's why their first record went by the wayside. They would later become more famous for "I Got a Line On You" and "Nature's Way", but this record is very fine. Check out the acoustic guitar of "Taurus", which Led Zeppelin "borrowed" for "Stairway to Heaven".


 
The Weirdness:

While the Beatles were telling us that All You Need Is Love, some people were having none of it. Frank Zappa being one of them, he felt the need to make his own heartwarming philosophical statement – "We're Only In it for the Money". Now I always found Frank to be a bit overrated. I always felt like I was supposed to like his stuff. Well, any record that calls out both the cops and the hippies appeals to the misanthrope (curmudgeon?) in me, and this is one record for which I'm happy to make the effort.

Back when Peter Rowan and David Grisman were hippies, they formed Earth Opera, whose first record sounded dated before they finished recording it. Slow, weird, and with weak singing. But there are tunes here. I think.


 
In sum, people were so inspired by all this great music that 1968 will always be remembered for its racial brotherhood, a curious dearth of assassinations, and peace in Vietnam.