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.
I was busy patting myself on the back the other day about some clever turn of phrase I came up with, when it occurred to me that my original goal in creating this blog - other than the obvious ones ("Ego Trip", "I'm Smarter Than You", "Avoid Actually Conversing with Humans", etc.) - was to bridge the gap between other people my age and all the great music available to them that they probably didn't know about.
A recent audit revealed that I suck at this.
The critical idea was to disprove the notion that "there's no good music anymore", by directing the reader to said good music. I felt qualified to do this because, except for a short period in the early nineties, I've kept up with musical developments while my dear readers may not have. This is due to them having a life while I don't
So, while I've been free and easy about telling you that I like something, it might have been more helpful to also have given you the context you might need to determine if you might like it, too.
After all, it's one thing to say "this is a good jazz record" but do you really know what I mean by that? Do you know I love late-fifties small-combo jazz and loathe fusion? And if neither of those two labels means anything to you, have I told you if said record might be a good entry point into jazz? Maybe not.
Thus my grades were based on personal enjoyment and not that of the reader who may be hearing free-acid-bop-dixieland jazz for the first time. As our beloved ex-President would say, who knew?
So who would blame you for just shaking your head/plugging your ears? Besides me, I mean?
I'll continue to grade according to my very specific tastes, but I will try to provide more context/ caveats/caution when needed. That way, when I recommend a jazz record, you will already know what I like, and thus, be able to judge if it's a good bet to check out yourself.
I may even - if so inspired - place the music somewhere on a spectrum of that genre.
Gone are the days when I could put on a record and know exactly how I felt (and would feel) about it. The best I can do after one listen now is to mumble "promising..." to myself. And even then I'm usually wrong.
It now takes me at least six listens to get a good handle on a record. Some don't become clear for months.
And then some just get crowded out by the other records that I can grok more quickly. Hence this post-Jaybee-bie catchup habit I've fallen into.
Since there's no reason to put you through the records I've not yet, ahem, "come to appreciate", I will limit this to those I've deemed worthwhile or better:
I caught him on Sunday Night Live with Jules Holland and David Sanborn around 1989, and found him to be "catchy". Now that I've finally gotten this career overview - and a lot of other African albums in the meantime - I think he falls somewhere in-between artists like Franco and Ya Ntesa Dalienst and Le Maquisard.
The melodies and the guitar lines were simpler and sweeter, and the tempos not quite as frantic. This really brings out the beauty. In a word, poppier.
Perhaps because it was considered a hip-hop classic, I shied away for a long time, given the extreme experiences provided by other classics like Enter the Wu-Tang. (Are you getting as big a kick as I am about a 65-year-old typing those words? Next, I'll be saying things like "Biggie" and "Dre"...)
But this one is nice and "flowy". The words lock in with the rhythm and there are nice snatches of actual melody. Exactly what I like.
It's also consistent - each song has a hook, and each one is a variation on a larger theme, which I take to be common decency in difficult circumstances.
Apparently, it was overshadowed by Biggie (see?) Small's Ready to Die, which also came out that year. Dilettante that I am, I prefer Nas to that very strong medicine the hip hop connoisseurs prefer.
With a gloss so thick, Mrs. Jaybee wasn't even sure they were singing in English. And they may as well not be - they're Scottish. This is shoe gaze for shoe gazers. But it is real purty. Enough to make me curious about how the songs would sound if done acoustically. Pretty good, I think.
But I don't see an Unplugged special in the past or future for them. So I must take the Peter Griffin position.
It's commendable that they are always going for the sublime. It's just they rarely get there.
A fine, muscular free jazz record. Not too loose like Ornette Coleman is to my ears, and definitely not smooth like all too much fusion and later commercial jazz.
It's fast and dares you to keep up. Fine by me, as long as I can follow it. The playing is remarkable and gives the lie to the idea that they're just playing wingin' it. And the calm spots give you time to breathe.
I thought this friend of Nick Drake's might wash the taste of Judee Sill out of Mrs. Jaybee's mouth. And she doesn't hate it. She even asks to hear it occasionally.
Between the vocals with a hint of religious ecstasy and a guitar he's not afraid to muck around with, John Martyn's music ends up muted, intense, and bluesy.
And not embarrassingly so, like all too many white artists who try things like this. It's even got a beat or two.
Positively Springsteenian in its drama, with an energy level set to "Cheerleader". The trouble is I never did like going to football games.
And due to this, what some might call consistency comes across as monotony. Succeeding at this level requires a single-mindedness of purpose in service of a worthy cause like partying (a la Andrew W.K. link) or anarchy (The Sex Pistols). Here, it's about teen angst. You'd have to be the Beatles to pull that off.
And thus, it's the quieter songs that stick with me.
A good record. If you're in the right mood, very good.
Musically and politically, better than 2021. Personally stressful.
Abstract:
Slightly fewer fascists than expected in the Senate, but alas, they're in charge of it.
An excellent year in music. Women continue to damn near dominate. Few Masterpieces (frankly, they're usually overrated anyway). Just lotsa good rekkids.
Best Humans:
Volodymyr Zelensky
Jacinda Ardern
Greta Thunberg
Worst Humans:
Vladimir Putin
Ron DeSantis
MTG
Lauren Boebert
Alex Jones
Matt Gaetz
George Santos
Best Books:
All the Marvels by Douglas Wolk: Having loved Marvel comics from 1965-1975 this was like manna from heaven. A celebration of great storytelling.
The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas: You have got to read the 1,300-page unabridged version, with a translation by Robin Buss. I'm a notoriously slow reader and yet I polished this off in three weeks. Rife with ludicrous plot twists and fantastical coincidences, this was an absolute delight to read.
Best Movies:
The Banshees of Inisherin
The Batman
Glass Onion
This might just be a list of what movies I saw. What can I say? I don't get out much.
Best TV:
Better Call Saul
Barry
The White Lotus
What can I say? I don't stay in much, either. (I spend a lot of time in the vestibule.)
Best Concerts:
None
Maybe I'm spending too much time in the vestibule.
Music Awards:
Most Work (But Worth it):
Schubert Leider: Sure, it will never be in my top 10, but I'm glad I've heard it.
Most Work (And Possibly Not Worth It):
Arnold Schoenberg: Verklärte Nacht is the single piece of music I listened to the most this year, and I'm still not sure if I like it or not. Save it for a World History Project post, I say!
Most Surprising (and Not Necessarily in a Good Way):
And a lot more not far behind! Another year with a bunch of also-rans. A good sign!
Some of the best songs I heard this year can be found here.
Conclusions:
A stressful year. Some drink more or smoke more. I listen more, which resulted in a lot of new records, plenty of which I haven't even mentioned. I hope I'll have a chance to.
The musical present seems pretty good but there's so much of it, I'm finding it necessary to wait it out a bit to let the wheat separate from the hype. Hence, I've been spending more and more time delving into the past, where that separation has already occurred.
The reason I wrote that sentence is because those two names have probably never been in the same one. The very idea of it would piss off Lou Reed to no end. And since he can't retaliate, well, he'll have to settle for turning over in his grave. (Wait, wasn't he cremated?)
Anyway, I got these records as presents this year and it occurred to me they couldn't possibly be more different.
One was recorded at the beginning of a career, the other well into it.
One is bombastic and pretentious, the other calm and matter-of-fact.
One stresses virtuosity and technique. The other is more or less just banged out.
One comprises four or five lengthy epics, the other fifteen shorter ones.
One is a fantasy that would make Tolkien roll his eyes, the other a reportage of a man's life and death.
One I enjoy despite nearly being crushed under its avalanche of sound, the other doesn't give a damn if I like it or not, and is, in fact, damn good.
Even the cover art differs.
One thing they have in common, though, is that Robert Fripp appears to be almost as big an asshole as Lou Reed.
I remember sitting on Eileen's family's stoop with Eddie and maybe Mike, listening to maybe Cream, when Kevin McGowan came walking up the block with an album he just bought at Korvette's. He pulled it out of the bag to reveal the red (okay, crimson)guy and his uvula (I almost wrote "urethra". What an album that would'a been!)and possibly his adenoids.
Covers being all important back then (summer of 1970?), we were impressed, and admitted it beat out Wheel's of Fire. Over the years I'd hear the title song, and caught a snippet of another on Adolph's Kanye's Mein Kampf Dark Fantasy record.
But that was it, and all I'd ever hear from almost anyone was "oh, you gotta get it!". And I planned to but held back, probably due to Xgau's D+ grade and review ("...ersatz shit"...). But finally my curiosity got the best of me.
Firstly, it's a hoot, in a non-fun kind of way. What I mean is that I'm having a hoot at the utter seriousness of it all. Plus I'm impressed that they got to do this at all, in a simpler, more innocent time, when all they had to worry about was wars and assassinations.
I don't mean to be condescending. What the hell do I know anyway? Greg Lake's singing is endearing, and the rest are great musicians with vision who just don't happen to play music I'm inclined to put on. It must have sounded wild at the time. Even Awesome actually, back when awesome was enough.
There's plenty of sixties music I happily listen to to this day. But Prog Rock (my fond memories of Nektar's Remember the Futurenot withstanding) has a built-in expiration date. In what should have been a perfect fit for me, such seriousness is directly aimed at equally serious (i.e., not getting laid) teenagers who will eventually have to lighten up. A sense of humor would help - the music and the teen-ager.
Otherwise, I'm just there for a visit - and the 50th Anniversary edition, with at least three versions of each song, is a long visit - and then I gotta go.
Not very "lyrical". Just a recounting of Andy Warhol's life by two artists who knew him. And it's all the more touching because I don't feel like I'm being coerced into liking it, which is a hazard for tributes of this sort.
The music, too, is right-to-the-point-simple, but with arrangements more varied than what Reed was doing at the time, which was the straight-ahead electric rock and roll of New York. Even at its loudest, this one - like his subsequent Magic and Loss, which also deals with the death of friends - is calmer than any of those records.
Estranged at the time of Warhol's death, Reed is regretful that they didn't patch things up. He even admits some fault. What a relief!
Cale is tuneful and stoic, even with Lou breathing down his neck. Who knew they'd be able to play together again? Not them, certainly. They would take another stab at fellowship after this, with the European reunion tour of the Velvet Underground. It's a shame that one didn't turn out so well as this.
I guess, in order for it to work, it's got to come from the heart.
The Jesus People showed up in our neighborhood in late 1974. I was seventeen. How do I remember you ask?
Well, one of them mocked me for having the latest issue of Rolling Stone with me instead of the Bible. It would have been futile to explain that I just had to read the review of Jackson Browne's new album, Late for the Sky. (A rave, of course.)
She was the bad cop among many good cops who tried instead to inspire me to accept Jesus. How could I explain, after having gone to 8am mass every weekday from fourth through eighth grade I had probably spent more time with JC than all of them combined?
They were talking about quality time, I guess. (One's mind does wander a bit during the eucharist.) But I think we all know what an overrated concept that is, even now that it's dressed up as "mindfulness".
I promised I would think about it that night. In doing so I concluded that JC and I had already worked out a perfectly good arrangement, which was to acknowledge each other's existence with a nod and a wave when we passed each other on Fifth Avenue and pick up a round at the bar. My creed amounted to something along the lines of "Let's Just Give Each Other Some Space, Okay?".
So how was I going to explain this to the Jesus People? But that's when the Miracle happened.
I never saw them again.
The six of them had been ensconced in a loft above the A&P right across from Johnny's Pizzeria where I hung out. So I figured they'd be around for a while. But no. They dropped off the face of the earth. Did the rapture occur and I didn't know it?
Can you imagine my embarrassment if I had accepted Jesus only to find myself the lone Jesus Person in Sunset Park? I guess I assumed I would live with the cult little group in the loft. That itself would have been an issue as at the time I was spending way too much time in the bathroom trying to get my hair just right. (High school-era photos indicate I failed.)
Anyway, after listening to the record below, I realized how the Jesus People might have succeeded in converting me if they had only written some good songs.
Now that's quite the title, isn't it? Rest assured, they're talking about the record label, not the place.
As a matter of fact, Sill's first album was the first one ever put out by Asylum. It would soon be followed by ones by (well whaddya know,) Jackson Browne, Joni Mitchell, and the Eagles. This two-CD set consists of her two Asylum albums plus a bunch of demos and live versions. The consistency in quality throughout is remarkable, and I have no problem playing it all the way through.
I should point out that Mrs. Jaybee - the more religious of one of us - is not on board. (Heathen!)
Now, I'm so agnostic I'm agnostic about agnosticism. As such, I'm not very into gospel music (although I'll admit I'm missing something) and not at all into "Christian Music". There's a very practical reason: listening to someone get praised is boring (except - oddly enough - "Praise You" by Fatboy Slim).
One of the few books I put down without finishing was The City of God, by St. Augustine, because it just goes on about how great god is. And since the author is speaking directly to God my BS detector went off and it smelled like one huge suck-up.
But someone who is plain-spoken in her faith and writes great melodies that span folk, country, and gospel, will always have my ear. Add to that, a good voice and clean, simple production and consistency and it's hard to resist, no matter how much I doubt.
One caveat is that her beliefs could be categorized as "old-time religion" - referencing lambs, soldiers of love, Jesus as bridegroom, and even the rapture. She'd give the Jesus People a run for their money.
A complicated person, to say the least, there are even some drug references in these songs. This would later come back to haunt her. A serious car accident got her addicted to painkillers and she died in 1979 of an overdose.
I wish I had known at that time. I would have prayed for her.
Despite the awful events of the prior year, this may be my personal favorite musical year. (Okay, maybe 1967 was better.) It was when I met Mrs. Jaybee, so there was a kind of magic in the air.
And the music was good, too. Maybe even better, because of that magic.
So I'll depart momentarily from my usual method of just listing music released in 1981 to convey what else was in the air.
Always trying to impress people with music, I wanted to play stuff the future Mrs. Jaybee would like.
And of course, I'd take to real romantic places like J&R Music World.
Probably the first song I ever played for her was “I Love You” (talk about moving fast!) by the Steve Miller Band. I'd had Anthologyfor several years already but every few months I'd have the urge to put it on. And there was really no better time than now.
Then I calmed down and played the avalanche of music that I'd acquired recently:
Elvis Costello: Trust, Get Happy, Taking Liberties
Eno - Another Green World, Before and After Science
David Bowie - Low and Heroes
And many, many others
And just as George Michael asked of us, she listened without prejudice. Otherwise, things could've ended right there. She would eventually draw the line at Pere Ubu and Captain Beefheart but I came out way ahead on the deal. In so many ways.
Plain Ol' Secret History:
But all that came later. Now I'll get back to my usual method. I'd be lying if I pretended my take on the music wasn't colored by the magic of that year.
Don't let the cramped sound get you down. This is one of the all-time great punk rock records. And an American one at that. Quite the relief after all those Brits.
Led by then couple John Doe (vocals and bass) and Exene Cervenka (vocals) who, in a very strange way, remind me of Paul Kantner and Grace Slick on the Airplane's live stuff.
And they are TIGHT. With actual musical ability, Billy Zoom (guitar, of course!) and DJ Bonebrake (whaddaya think?) make it go, and it GOES!
Discovered and produced by Ray Manzarek (whose organ sorta marred their first record) they avoid that mistake but nonetheless end with the words:
Not as catchy as the relentless I Just Can’t Stop It, but it’s a real grower. It trades forward motion in for texture, as though it's intending to give you time to think after you've done all that dancing.
Before Twyla Tharp choreographed Billy Joel, she collaborated with David Byrne, who wrote and performed all new songs and instrumentals, with contributions from Brian Eno, Bernie Worrell, and others.
Never one for/to dance, I didn't see the show and don't care. It’s not as bracing as Talking Heads and not quite as heady as great Eno, but it’s the sweet spot between them.
The former guiding light of Television, Verlaine makes another album filled with furious but beautiful guitar sounds. He'd done it with his first solo record, but now erases any remaining doubts by singing - never his strong suit - less.
The Beatle-killer's been making music for a long time – longer than the Beatles, actually. The early stuff was - as you’d expect - "experimental". But she got more pop as she went along.
I was torn about including this because I still don't know what to make of her as a human. There are just too many... stories.
But there are some excellent songs here, and I will pay this possible devil her due.
Having been less than overwhelmed by the amount of joyful summer music, and quite underwhelmed by a series of "summer reading" novels that were work to get through (Pathfinder, Possession and Green Mars, I'm looking at you), I was willing to entertain music I would normally have postponed until winter.
You may know Max (Mrs. Jaybee and I met him so I feel I'm on a first-name basis with him) for putting his musical stamp on The Leftovers and any number of films. Mrs. Jaybee and I saw him play a number of those pieces live, and took the occasion to get Infra, which he had showcased that evening. It holds up remarkably well on CD, and is one of my favorite CDs of the last decade.
He works foremost with violins and keyboard, adding in various sound and vocal effects along the way. At the show, the house was full of couples holding hands for what is essentially classical music. Now that is no mean feat.
My favorite Max piece is - of course - "On the Nature of Daylight" which originated on this album (and pops up in Shutter Island). The good news is that almost all of the other cuts strive for a similar intensity of feeling. Almost all succeed.
Either Max has got quite the scam going (the James Taylor of classical music??) or he's found a way to be both experimental and emotional simultaneously.
I've got at least a dozen Monk records now. And a perusal of the titles on this one tells me there's only one composition here that's new to me.
T has a habit of re-recording his compositions, which means I must have at least five to ten versions of most of his songs. You'd think that would be a problem.
And yet, this one is one of my favorites. The band is on it, as is Monk himself. I can't even say they are the best musicians he's ever had. But they may be the most sympathetic.
Everything here has got that extra added oomph to make you sit up and notice.
A pleasure from beginning to end.
I dream one day of burning all his CDs in order to make a playlist sorted by title. (Eight versions in a row of "Bolivar Blues" anyone?) I might not play it around Mrs. Jaybee though. She tends to notice things like that.
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All this may encourage me to explore, say, surf music.
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