You are currently browsing the category archive for the 'Uncategorized' category.
If you’re going to undertake Tonight’s the Night by Neil Young, I hope you have a lot of time on your hands. It’s a record that requires multiple spins on your turntable. Just be prepared for the consequences, as you will, as I have, become spellbound by the unbridled raw emotion of the record, and at the same time fall into a pretty bleak and hopeless depression. It’s not a record for the faint of heart, and it’s certainly not a record for the casual fan. I mean, if you’re just getting into Neil Young and looking for a place to start than you may want to go with Harvest, After the Gold Rush, or Decade. You need to work your way up to this record, and I’m telling you right now that there hasn’t been another record like this one in the history of recorded music before or after. The only one that comes close in terms of the mood is Exile by the Stones, but for as dark as that one truly is, this one is about as dire as it gets, and I’m talking way more depressing than anything Leonard Cohen ever put down and not in lyrical content, mind you, but just in atmosphere as Neil probably should’ve been on suicide watch while making this one and the let it roll attitude of the loose recording sessions captures not so much the beauty of the songs but doccuments the pervasive sadness and grit.
A little history, if you will. Though this was released in 1975, the recording took place in Miami Beach 1973. Neil Young was in full crisis mode. He’d become a mega star beyond his wildest dreams with the release of Harvest in 1972. Just before the tour and record release that was doccumented on the still unreleased on CD Time Fades Away, Crazy Horse guitarist Danny Whitten died of a heroin overdose. See “The Needle and the Damage Done.” Then, his friend and roadie Bruce Berry died thanks to the needle as well. Compounding this was the overwhelming stardom and catagorization of Neil Young that he himself was not ready or prepared for. Neil wrote a contemplative country rock record that put him in the middle of the road, so as he says, he went for the ditch. While guzzling epic amounts of tequila, Neil and Crazy Horse came together and let the tapes roll.
What happened was some of the rarest stuff in rock n’ roll. I mean, real art. Neil Young was wasted and it shows, and usually when rock stars are wasted on whatever chemical, the results are very bad. Cocaine’s usually the worst. It’s a pattern that continues to this day, rock n’ roll band makes a great debut record, gets a whole bunch of money and they buy a whole bunch of coke and spend months in the studio trying to create a masterpiece because the coke lets them stay up all night. The record sucks and they’re never heard from again (see Hot Hot Heat). But I mean, Neil Young was completely gone, not even able to sing. Just smashed and singing his guts out while totally gone about Danny and Bruce.
It’s not that simple, though, because Neil is also depressed because the movement that once showed so much promise is dead. “I’m not going back to Woodstock for awhile, though I long to see that lonesome hippy smile? I’m a million miles away from that hellicopter day and I don’t think I’ll be going back that way. Think I’ll roll another number for the road.” The hippy dream was completely dead. Nixon was elected to a second term, and instead of pushing forward, everybody just got drunk and high and stayed that way into the 80’s, and damn it, Neil was right there with them, but he wasn’t happy about it. The man just wanted to be alone.
But fuck it, I can’t tell you anything that you: a. don’t already know about the record. b. will actually understand the record through the words I write.
So I’m going to tell you this. We can analyze records to death, we can write books dedicated to single songs that are as pompus and overwrought as anything else, and we can act scholarly in our pursuit of finding contextual clues and answers in rock n’ roll. Or, better yet, we can just take it for what it is. The hippy dream died a long time ago and Neil Young saw it coming, yes yes. Neil Young saw the death of his peers and heroes and it made him sad and hopeless, oh yes. But Tonight’s the Night ain’t just about that, it’s about you and me and everyone else in any period of time on earth. People die who are close to us, some important people die way too young. The hippy dream didn’t just die, our ideals die daily, little by little and it’s depressing. Right now, we elected a President who was supposed to take us away from the moral decay and do what’s right by ALL of us and you watch him marginalize himself and move to a direction that you never wanted to appeaze the nutjobs in this country. This shit that Neil Young sang about in this record happens every single day, every single moment, in human existence. We have our ideals, and our morals, but we throw them in the toilet without thinking twice. You take this record for what it is and it opens undeniable truths about you, me, and everyone else in this goddamned world. It’s not just so much a testament to the inner turmoil of Neil Young, he’s not just baring it all like an exhibitionist, it’s the mirror he’s holding up. Look at yourselves!
Tonight is the night, every night is the night. The night where the breaking point lies. You can’t build back up what’s fallen apart. Better just to throw it all away, head out to Albuquerque, find a place to be alone so as to not let the world get to you. Get everything off your back and maybe not start over, because you can’t start over and you can’t outrun your problems but you can run far enough away to where your problems are just your problems and you don’t have to burden anyone else or nobody’ll probe you about them. And let’s be honest with ourselves, it’s been a long time since any of us have actually given a shit about what the next person goes through. You can act like you live in a neighborhood, but there’s no community, no neighborhood, no nothing, just you in some house in the middle of a plan with winding roads and everything looks the same right down to the vinyl siding but you might as well just be off in Albuqerque, alone in a diner, strangers staring you down like some circus freak. And you just go about your business, roll another number and ride off to Santa Fe. Less than ninety miles away.
Led Zeppelin is supposed to be the greatest rock n’ roll band ever, or so I’ve been told by so many people in my life through the years. Why don’t I feel the same way? What is wrong with me? Why is it that every time I hear a Led Zeppelin song I like, I think of one I don’t? Why can’t I just go with the flow on this? Why do I stay up late at night contemplating my feelings for this band, constantly vaccilating between love and contempt? Why can’t I just be normal?
I don’t know the answers to these questions. I’ve never really been able to accept the entire catalogue of anyone’s work and consider it untouchable. I love Bob Dylan, but have you ever listened to Empire Burlesque? Other than ‘Dark Eyes,’ it’s absolute shit. I mean, the Beatles assembled one hell of a catalogue, but how often can you listen to ‘Fixing a Hole’ without wanting to gouge your eyes out? I’m no big Grateful Dead fan, but I love Workingman’s Dead and American Beauty. So what if I don’t like Aoxomoxoa or 30 minute jams to nowhere? Doesn’t mean I can’t really love some of their work. I feel the same about Led Zeppelin. Some of their catalogue really cooks, but I can’t really say that I love, or even like everything they do.
I mean, really, I think Led Zeppelin hit their peak with their first record. It all went downhill. While I was brilliant, II was really damn good. III was pretty good, IV actually was pretty damn good, Houses of the Holy was good, Physical Graffitti was overdone, Presence was ok, and In Through the Out Door probably shouldn’t exist. That certainly doesn’t mean that there aren’t positives to be taken from any of these records. With those positives come the negatives. Will I ever stop?
II starts with a Jimmy Page riff that’ll forever eat your heart. “Cock rock!” you may scream, but you don’t even know the half of it. When Robert Plant says he’s gonna give you every inch of his love, he means it, and he’s not talking about his undying devotion (that’s for later). Right now, it’s all about lust which is really what most great rock n’ roll boils down to. Yeah, “Whole Lotta Love” is a Willie Dixon re-write. We all know that story. That certainly doesn’t mean it’s not a solid first track. It’s the kind of song that will perk your ears up and ask, “What the fuck is that?” if you’ve never heard it before.
The WTF is from Jimmy Page’s ecclectic and fresh production values. Jimmy Page is known for a lot of things. Most notably being a first class guitar wizard, having a healthy appetite for 14 year old groupies and heroin, and dabbling in the occult. What he really doesn’t get a lot of credit for is possibly being one of the greatest producers in rock n’ roll history. In the late 60’s, there were a shit load of British bands playing the blues and hard rock. Zep stands out, why? Because they have the best musicians? Overall they do, but Jeff Beck is a pretty fucking amazing guitar player and so is Clapton. Was it because they were so powerful live? They were, but if you never heard them live, you could’ve missed that power. Under Page’s control, those records lifted off the turntable and grabbed your attention whether you were ready or not. Without Zoso’s magic in the control panel, Zep could’ve been relegated to a footnote in rock n’ roll history for other generations to discover a la the Jeff Beck Group.
“And if I say to you tomorrow…” starts off the next track. “What Is and What Should Never Be,” is one of those tracks where Jimmy Page and the boys try to cram all of their virtuosity into a single track. You’ve got Robert Plant wailing during the chorus, evoking some sort of mythic Viking god, some tasty Jimmy Page guitar work, John Paul Jones impeccable bass lines, and John Bonham knocking some drum fills out of the park. We even have some slide work by Mr. Page. Jimmy was no Duane Allman when it came to slide, it very rarely appears in Led Zep’s body of work. The only notable track I can think of is “Travelling Riverside Blues.” It’s also one of the rare Page solo’s that is truly tasteful. Often times, I get the impression that Jimmy Page is trying to show off when he takes a solo, but here, every note means something. It’s a piece of art.
Now we come to “The Lemon Song.” Oh the sexual innuendo! Where did they come up with this stuff? This song is basically a patch work of several blues tunes, most notibly, “Killing Floor,” by Howlin’ Wolf. Unfortunately, the songwriting credits go to the four members of Zeppelin on the original album, and not to Chester Burnett (Howlin’ Wolf). I don’t want to be too hard on the Zep here, it’s a common theme in music. People take things and use them for their own purposes. George Harrison did it, Bob Dylan does it, many other artists have and continue to. Howlin’ Wolf eventually got some of the money owed to him, and now gets the songwriting credit, so good for him. It’s really part of the tradition of blues and folk music. While this tune was essentially “stolen,” John Paul Jones bass work really stands out here.
The first song that Robert Plant wrote all the lyrics for. “Thank You,” is a love song of epic proportions. It’s easy to see why this track gets played at quite a few weddings. Like most everything else in the Zep repetoir, this song is BIG. Real fucking big. The lyrics are big, the arrangement is big, everything is big. It’s grandiose nature serves it well, and John Paul Jones may be best represented as a keyboard player here. Lyrically, it’s big but simple. It’s statements are grand. “Your hand in mine we walk the miles,” and so on. It’s also one of the few tracks we hear someone else’s voice in the chorus. The riff echoes off the twelve string like a mutant Byrds song, and JPJ’s mandolin softens the mood. From a band known mostly for brute force, this is a relatively quiet and tasteful.
“Heartbreaker,” “Living Loving Maid(She’s Just a Woman),” and “Ramble On,” are three of the most played Zep songs on the radio. They rock, surely. “Heartbreaker,” became a live standard. That crunching guitar riff surely got the crowd in an uproar, and “Living Loving Maid(She’s Just a Woman)” is another rocker. I mean, yeah, they’re a bit generic, but boy if you want to get a party started, slap that on your turntable. They boil over with aggression. This was Led Zeppelin’s warning shot into the air, notifying all the other bands at the time that liked to play fast and hard that there was a new kid on the block with chops that you just would not believe.
“Ramble On,” aside from “Whole Lotta Love,” is probably the most famous tune on this album. The most interesting thing about it is, despite its large radio play, it was never played live in full until the 2007 reunion. Here we get the first glimpse of Plant’s Tolkien fetish, as the lyrics draw heavily from Lord of the Rings. You know, being literary is a good thing. Dylan, Zevon, Springsteen, and many other great lyricists draw heavily from their own literary influences. It’s funny though, to think about how hard a song rocks, and then to think it’s about elves. Hey, man, those movies were huge, and those books are generally considered great works of literary genius, so what the fuck do I know? More power to Plant for having enough balls to write about that stuff and pull it off.
Led Zeppelin were not only innovators as far as heavy metal music, but they were (with the help of Iron Butterfly), innovators in the ridiculously long drum solo. On “Moby Dick,” John Bonham’s signature track, the drum kit is at the front and center. Whether you like drum solos or not, you always have to admire the drummer at hand, and there was no better than Bonham. The drum is the tie that really binds rock n’ roll back to its roots. Africa. Rock n’ roll came from Africa. The slaves brought their own music, field chants and so on. That eventually mutated into jazz, folk, blues, and then to rock n’ roll. And fuck all you naysayers out there, I could give a fuck less about Neil Peart. Yeah, he plays fast and long but the fucker doesn’t have an ounce of the soul that John Bonham had. Fuck Rush. I must say, though, I don’t give a good damn about drum solos and this track is masterbatory.
“Bring It On Home,” rounds out this collection, another “homage” to the great bluesmen of the south. Willie Dixon gets another credit on this track, it’s another reworked blues tune, and that is that. Nothing new, nothing original, but really it doesn’t matter.
Led Zeppelin II provides us with a few hints as to what Zeppelin would become. This was still before the mysticism, the darkness, fan worship and all that non sense. Led Zeppelin always took themselves way too seriously, well, except for Bonham. There is very little fun to be had in their work. It’s heavy, yes, it’s so fucking heavy, but isn’t rock n’ roll supposed to be fun, too? You can try to pour on the pretenses and all that other shit, but it all comes down to a simple question: Can you shake your ass to it? With most of Zep, there is an extreme lack of joy and exhuberence, only poking out like the sun behind dark storm clouds on the first couple of records, and most of those moments are on I and II.
These two records, love or hate Zep, are straight ahead blues rooted rock n’ roll records that have taken on a life of their own. They rewrote the blueprint for what it was to play this kind of music and set the blues on fire. Unfortunately it wouldn’t last as Zeppelin crashed under their own weight by forgetting a simple axiom laid down by one of their not so distant forefathers: It’s only rock n’ roll.
Although the top ten list, or lists in general are fairly cliche, I figure it’s a good way to introduce whatever readers there are right now to my own musical preferences. When we’re talking rock n’ roll, I could go on for hours, but I’ll try to keep this short and get to the point.
10. The Band-The Band
Often times referred to as the “Brown Album,” the second effort by The Band is their most consistent in their catalogue. It is also features some of their most famous songs, “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “Up on Cripple Creek,” and “Rag Mama Rag.” Not only that, but it also has the three singers, Richard Manuel, Rick Danko, and Levon Helm in fine voice. The album is a landmark in versatility, featuring the swampy rock groove the band made famous, as well as more intricate tunes like the haunting, “Whispering Pines.” If you want to hear a group of superb musicians hitting their stride, look no further than this album. It’s a testament to American roots music, and that’s not too shabby for a bunch of Canadians, eh?
9. This Year’s Model-Elvis Costello
There was a time, a long time ago, when Elvis Costello was angry. This album, released in 1978, came along during the heart of the punk/new wave revolution of the late 70’s. Under the production of Nick Lowe, Costello unleashed a fury of angry and hungry rock n’ roll that any punk purist could appreciate. It also helps that he was backed by some of the best musicians that the punk movement had to offer. The Attractions featured Pete Thomas on drums (listen to the fills on “Lipstick Vogue”), bassist Bruce Thomas, and keyboard wizard Steve Nieve, and they all played with punk fury, but with soul band precision. This album found Costello at his most moody, and while he’s had other artistic peaks, this album remains his calling card.
8. Elephant- The White Stripes
While the fear of rock n’ roll being stagnant has been around for decades, it was never more so in the late 90’s. After grunge had run it’s course, what was left in its wake were terrible mainstream post-grunge bands like Creed and Staind. The rap/rock hybrids of Limp Bizkit, Papa Roach, et al, were also an unfortunate blip on the mainstream rock radar. Then Jack White hit the scene, and the White Stripes took off as a duo with blues fury that brought rock n’ roll back to its roots. White Blood Cells got them noticed, but it was the masterpiece, Elephant, that blew them into stardom. With “Seven Nation Army,” “The Hardest Button to Button,” and “Ball and Biscuit,” The White Stripes brought a whole new generation to the blues, which is really what great rock n’ roll always does. In guitar circles, Jack White may not be a technical wizard like Eddie Van Halen, but his playing recalls a simpler grit of Robert Johnson and the force of Jimmy Page. Long live Jack White, the voice of the 2000’s.
7. Darkness on the Edge of Town-Bruce Springsteen
Starting off with the martial beat and fierce energy of “Badlands,” this 1978 effort from the Boss found him in a darker, bleaker, harder mood than his previous effort, Born to Run. Gone were the Phil Spector-ish wall of sound effects, and larger orchestrations. In their place was a band playing harder and louder than they ever did before. There was no hope on this record, just harsh reality of what happens when hope and dreams die. This record features the incidiary father/son song “Adam Raised a Cain,” the heartbreaking story of “Racing in the Street,” the bleakness of “The Promised Land,” and the outright desperation of “Prove It All Night.” In sound, this may not be a brother to the punk movement, but it is certainly a cousin.
6. Rubber Soul-The Beatles
There are so many damned Beatles records one could pick as their artistic peak. The unfortunate part for list compilers is what’s fortunate for listeners. They kept topping themselves. This record was a huge step for the Fab Four in becoming artists rather than popsters. With songs like “Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown),” “Girl,” “Nowhere Man,” and “In My Life,” this may be the album in the Beatles catalogue with the best contributions from John Lennon. Not that Paul and George didn’t hold their own. This album was a statement: Pop can be serious art. Everything released after in the 1960’s owes this album big time.
5. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars- David Bowie
It’s hipper to like other albums in the Bowie catalogue. It’s even less hip that this is a “concept” album, a term and idea which I normally have reservations about. Mostly due to that most records with a conscious attempt at a story usually end up being too grandiose and self serving (see The Wall and Tommy). This record is his best, though, and it’s what made him a rock star. The production values on this record are pristine and Mick Ronson’s heavy, yet intricate guitar playing is showcased at the forefront. Songs like, “Moonage Daydream,” “Ziggy Stardust,” and “Suffrigette City,” really bring this home. This would be one of the records I’d pick to take along with me on a desert island, after repeated listens, the album never gets old, never wears out, and like all other great works, there’s always something new to discover.
4. Highway 61 Revisited-Bob Dylan
The second of his “electric” albums, this may be the tightest. Starting out with a snare drum crack like a shot to the head, “Like a Rolling Stone” may indeed be the greatest opener to an album all time, and may indeed be the best song of all time. To think, Al Kooper’s famous organ riff almost didn’t make the cut, due to the fact that he didn’t even know how to play it, and that the track that you hear is the only time in the studio the band actually made it through the whole record. Dylan had really come into his own here, making rock n’ roll and folk and the imagery of the beats all come together as one. It’s a high flying, death defying act that Bob nearly never got through. If you don’t own a copy of this record, you don’t know rock n’ roll, and I’d severely question your musical tastes. Many have tried to imitate, but there is only one, and if you’ve never listened to Bob Dylan in your life, you need to start here.
3. Born to Run- Bruce Springsteen
The one long American summer night. This is a concept album, even though there is not a concept, really. It’s dedicated to the wonder, majesty, and romance of the summer time. Author Michael Chabon says of his own work, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, that he wanted to write a book dedicated to the summer, like the poets of summer, like Bruce Springsteen. It’s really no coincidence that so many in the literary world share a love for Bruce. His eye for detail, phrases like, “The bare foot girl sitting on the hood of a Dodge, drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain,” could come out of any well written novel. The album starts with an invitation, “Thunder Road,” an invitation to come along to parts unknown with only the beat up Chevy and rock n’ roll itself as salvation.
2. Revolver- The Beatles
Predictable? Yes. It’s absolutely predictable that on any list of greatest rock n’ roll albums, that a Beatles album should be at the top of the list, or at least near it. There is a reason, and it’s quite simple. No other band, artist, or act, has a song book that can match the amazing consistency of the Beatles. And Revolver, quite simply, is the Beatles at their best. George Harrison makes two wonderful contributions in “Tax Man,” and “I’ve Got to Tell You.” The wonderful double guitar jangle of “And Your Bird Can Sing” would influence everybody, even Thin Lizzy. This is one of the best contributions of Paul McCartney, and although one could argue that his best contribution to the Beatles was actually keeping them together through the later years, and practically forcing the group to make “Abbey Road,” here, Paul’s songwriting is at it’s peak. “For No One” and “Eleanor Rigby” are heartbreaking and the latter may be his best vocal performance among many. Paul could really sing, and is in my opinion, the best rock n’ roll vocalist of all time. “Sgt. Pepper” would come after, and then nothing would be the same, but this album is just a collection of 14 really great rock n’ roll songs that few could ever come close to matching.
1. Exile on Main St.- The Rolling Stones
If an alien were to land on Earth and it wanted to know what this thing called rock n’ roll was all about, I’d give him this record. It’s a double record, that sounds like it was made by five guys with a death wish. It is what all great rock n’ roll should be. Not too serious lyrically, almost ready to fall apart, and swings like a mother fucker. Other bands were around that were certainly heavier musically, had better musicians, but none could roll like the Stones. From start to finish, this record is everything that rock n’ roll should be. It’s loose, it’s dirty, it’s savagely rooted in the blues, and you can dance to it, too. Tell me that you can’t move your ass to a song like “Tumbling Dice” or “Happy.” It’s Keith Richards’ greatest artistic statement on guitar, and while other Stones albums are great, this is why they call them the “greatest rock n’ roll band in the world.” For further exploration on this album, see my lengthy review below.
Notable Exceptions:
There are many great records I left off the list. You could really include most of the Beatles catalogue, a whole score of albums from Bob Dylan (especially Blonde on Blonde, my personal favorite), and many Stones albums. There are many other great rock n’ roll albums from many great artists, and your top ten list might be completely different from mine. That’s what’s great about rock n’ roll.
The Jack Daniels raw vocals of Mick Jagger. The haze of Keith Richards. Slug a fifth and belt it out in the middle of the night. Wake up in the miserable heat of the French Riviera and a riff jumps out of your guitar. Do it all again. Over and over. Stragglers, drunks, and junkies littered on the floor like corpses, soldiers long dead in a war that never stops. Bloodshed. The depths of human depravity. Redemption. Exiled from high culture, low culture, and everything in between. A group of pirates, plundering, pillaging, and burning everything in their path. This is Exile on Main St. This is the Rolling Stones at their most decadent and at the same time, distilled down to their very essence. They embraced their inner-most demons to make this record, and it had its price. Surely, they all knew that when you make a deal with the devil, he always collects. The hell hound nipped at their heels, and because of it, The Rolling Stones unleashed a record as dark, demonic, and brilliant as you’ll ever hear in rock n’ roll.
Long before this, thanks to some clever marketing gimmicks, the Stones were perceived as the ”bad boys” of rock n’ roll. They were the contrast to the squeaky clean image Brian Epstein had given the Beatles. The Beatles, while not perceived as four guys that you’d want to let your daughters date, were nice. They were funny and cute. The Stones, on the other hand, were marketed as five guys you wouldn’t want your daughters in the same room with. While the images in the beginning were marketing tools, the bands diverged on very different paths. Where as the Beatles diverged into what would be called now as “power-pop,” the Stones drenched themselves in the blues of the deep south, exploring its dark imagery. The Beatles wrote songs about love. The Stones wrote songs about sex. The Stones wrote songs from the perspective of serial killers, of Satan himself. Contrast “Midnight Rambler” from Let it Bleed and “The End” from Abbey Road, both released in the same year. The final lines, “And I shove my knife right down your throat,” compared to “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” While the Beatles provoked and inspired the flower children of the late 1960’s, the Stones rooted themselves in the darkness of humanity.
The 1960’s became the 1970’s. The Stones closed out the decade that brought love ins and flower children with a free concert in Altamont that, supposed to be a Woodstock West, resulted in the stabbing death of James Meredith. The day was marred by countless acts of brutal violence brought on by the Hell’s Angels, who were tapped to provide security. In the coming year, the Beatles broke up. Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin died. Bob Dylan remained in seclusion, releasing confoundingly simple and bad records. The anti war movement lost its steam, and the remaining protesters turned increasingly violent. Four students were killed at Kent State by the National Guard. The chaos that the Stones embraced in songs like “Street Fighting Man,” and “Gimmie Shelter,” had manifested itself and turned to hatred. By 1972, it had slid into apathy.
On the albums preceeding Exile, the Rolling Stones had always included elements of country, rock and roll, gospel, and all three American schools of the blues (Chicago, Delta, and Memphis). Yet, on all of the records of the “Stones Renaissance” beginning with Beggar’s Banquet, the styles seemed self conscious and separated. The transitions jolted too much from song to song. It was if they determined a quota on each record to fit a country tune, a different stylized blues tune, and a couple blazing rockers. On Exile, and perhaps it was the atmosphere, the drugs, the booze, or whatever, the self consciousness dropped. Instead of being recorded in a sterile recording studio, the heart of the record was recorded in Keith’s villa in Nellacote. A former Nazi mansion with swastikas on the floor vents. The styles and motifs the guys had been working in finally meshed themselves together in a seamless fashion where every type of American music comes together in a swinging mass of sloopy boogie. The songs ease into one another unlike any other Stones record before or since. The Stones, always a singles band, had made a record, a double record at that, with one, unifying theme throughout even if they never intended to. They didn’t intend it, not like their British Invasion counterparts, The Who, who had released two “rock operas” by 1972 with a unifying concept. No, Exile was not as thematic and plot driven as Tommy or Quadrophenia. There is no “story” present in the lyrics or a plot that pushes the record forward in the more traditional sense. Yet, while there is no plot or grand arc noticable on the album, there is a unifying sound that’s as muddy and dense as any record and thematically the record is straight from the gutter, pool halls, backwater gambling shacks, front porches, cotton fields, and the gospel churches of the South. To sum up, it’s quite simply sin and redemption, the two sides of the coin that cause the conflict of all great blues records.
The record starts with a hellish riff coming off of Keith Richards’ guitar and Mick screeching, “Oh yeah!” In most respects, this a typical Stones rocker. What the Stones are most famous for are the riffs that stick in your brain. Go look at a Rolling Stones greatest hits package. On it, you’ll find songs that are immediately recognizable in the first 10 seconds. From “Satisfaction” to “Start Me Up” and beyond, the Stones live and die on Keith’s guitar neck. In the opening track, over very satisfying and enhancing horn bursts (The Stones were probably the best at using horns, never overdone, always tasteful and fitting), “Rocks Off” finds Mick tracing the same theme of sexual frustration of “Satisfaction.” Except now, he gets all the sex he could possibly want but it’s boring the fuck out of him. He only can get his rocks off when he’s dreaming. It’s typical Stones, but they keep finding ways to make it interesting.
Side one is rounded out with a heinously fast, “Rip This Joint,” and the classic “Tumblin’ Dice.” Where as “Rip This Joint,” flies at break neck speed, with Mick trying to get all the words in at a rapid fire pace to keep up with Keith, Mick Taylor, and the rest of the boys, “Dice” finds the band in a relaxed mood. In it are the images of gambling and loose women, common blues themes. The lyrics, at times, aren’t intelligible, as Jagger’s voice is buried in the mix, but it doesn’t matter. The song’s loose, but engaging sound, filled with a chorus of female backing vocals make it the classic that it is.
Side two starts with the country tune, “Sweet Virginia.” With the acoustic guitar jangle, Mick’s vastly underrated harmonica, and vocals by committee sound, the song lifts off the ground and takes them to a whole new height of country sound that completely dwarfs previous efforts like “Country Honk,” “Wild Horses,” and “Dead Flowers.” It’s more natural, less forced, the country vocal inflections that Jagger used on “Flowers” is gone. As the sing along chorus comes around for the last time and the song ends, we’re directly brought into “Torn and Frayed,” another country tune that struggles awkwardly at the beginning, but lifts off into honky tonk barroom bliss. The Stones would do country again, but never this naturally and effectively.
Rounding out side two is the gumbo tinged “Sweet Black Angel,” and the country blues tune, “Loving Cup.” What stands out on this tune to me is the drumming of Charlie Watts, the most underrated drummer in the history of rock n’ roll. Yeah, we here often of the prowess of John Bohnam, Keith Moon, and Ginger Baker. Watts is often left off the Mount Rushmore of rock drummers, which is a shame. Many have drummed heavier, harder, and faster but none could lay down a groove like Watts whose whip smart cracks and fills are as tasteful and brilliant as any drummer before or since. Watts is the foundation that the Stones have always built on and his long, heavy fills in “Loving Cup” show why he is greater than the greats.
The only real flaw with side two is that it lacks a rocker to move it forward. The transitions from “Torn and Frayed” to “Sweet Black Angel” to “Loving Cup” drags on. While they are all wonderful songs, “Loving Cup” being one of my favorite Stones tunes, this side lacks the propulsion of a bonafide Stones boogie to keep the listener intent.
Side three comes out of the corner swining, literally. It’s the famous, probably the most famous Keith Richards sung Stones song, “Happy.” The riff, again, is instantly recognizable as Keith starts the song off and Mick T.’s guitar weaves in and out of the line. The horns blare on as Keith laments his need for love and not lear jets to keep him happy. This song is where Keith lays down why he is reveared as a rock n’ roll deity. He is so unbound by pretension, so unfettered by trend, fashion, or silly rules. He just exudes cool, which makes him the ultimate foil to Mick Jagger’s jet setting, trendy and fashion laden lifestyle. Keith Richards is the heart and soul of the Rolling Stones, while Mick is the face. “Happy” is loose and fast, like any song by Keith should be. It is also his greatest vocal performance, as he actually sells the song’s buried angst and general anger.
Something else was cooking on side three entirely, with Jagger and Taylor collaborating on an incindiary “Ventilator Blues.” A woozy, somewhat nonsensical track with horns simmering under the surface, you can hear the humidity drip off your turntable. Jagger snarls through the track and Taylor steps out as he was rarely allowed to do in the Stones, and delivers a hellacious solo. The only other solos that can compare are on “Can’t You Hear Me Knockin’?” off of Sticky Fingers, and “Winter” off Goat’s Head Soup. Rounding off side three is the classic soul tune, “Let it Loose.” It’s as soulful as any Al Green or Otis Redding number, and quite frankly, I’m surprised that in Green’s long career, he’s never covered it. Mick Jagger goes balls out on the vocal, straining his voice and turning in one of his greatest vocal performances ever.
In the bar you’re getting drunk. Yeah yeah yeah. Ain’t in love, ain’t in love. No no. Hide the switch and shut the light. Let it all come down tonight.
It’s a forcefully emotional tune, complete with gospel singers and a shower of horn lines that pull at your emotions without being too corny or overwrought, i.e. “Angie.”
Side four begins with what would become a Stones live standard, “All Down the Line.” It starts off with another swinging Keith riff. This record is full of them, and it cannot be stated enough that this record is Keith’s finest moment in the Stones. The song is a pretty standard rocker, and gets side four started off with a bang.
Coming next is the Robert Johnson tune, “Stop Breaking Down.” The Stones loved the blues, and often did faithful covers of others. Their best, in my opinion, being “Love in Vain,” also written by Johnson. This track, however, is too sloppy, and seems to be thrown in to round out the fourth side. If you want to hear a good cover, listen to the White Stripes version of this song.
“Saw you stretched out in room ten o nine, with a smile on your face and a tear right in your eye,” is what starts off the straight gospel tune, “Shine a Light.” Here is the redemption. “May the good Lord shine a light on you,” is its refrain. A fine tune, with another Mick Taylor solo that’ll knock your socks off. The lyrics are a bit cheesy, but it’s the Stones atonement prayer. Some have claimed this song is about their late lead guitar player, Brian Jones, but I don’t know for sure. What I do know is, I’d go to church if they played this song.
The last song on side four is “Sole Survivor.” It’s not very good, but the message is clear. The Stones are the sole surviors of the 1960’s. With the majority of their members in tact, the Stones survived what killed other artists. Unfortunately, their survival through this blood and guts effort of a double record seemed to tap them for years to come. After Exile and the STP tour, the Stones fell a bit into the wilderness. Keith’s addictions got the best of him, Mick Taylor became dissatisfied with the state of the group and felt not only bound by the Stones, but betrayed with his lack of songwriting credits. Jagger sold out, became a jet setting playboy, enjoying the lifestyle of the rock star rather than creating much worthwhile. Yes, the demons that made this record so great engrossed the Stones throughout most of the 1970’s. The efforts that followed, Goat’s Head Soup, It’s Only Rock n’ Roll, and Black and Blue were arguably bad, or at least disappointing considering the standard they set with Exile.
So listen to this record if you truly want to know what the Stones are all about. They’d never eclipse this record, they’d never get back to where it was in 1972.
Warren Zevon passed away a few years ago now, and the music world still misses him. Listen, I’m not going to pontificate on the greatness of Zevon, considering that I only own a couple of records. What I will say is that my only contact with Zevon live was a Bob Dylan concert back in 2002, when Zevon was still alive but his health rapidly fading away due to terminal lung cancer. Dylan, in tribute, played two Warren tracks that night, “Accidentally Like a Martyr,” and “Mutineer.” They were odd moments, sure, but the message stood. Warren Zevon was a great songwriter that got famous from one song, “Wearwolves of London,” but wrote some of the most twisted and endearing songs in rock n’ roll history, yet never achieved the type of fame that those songs deserved.
Excitable Boy is like a case study in bi-polar disorder, LA style. At parts touching and endearing, and at other times scathing, sneering, and very funny. It’s a little bit of Randy Newman, a little bit of Jackson Browne, and a little bit of the Beach Boys, but it copies none and stands on its own.
Zevon was in a lot of ways a bizzarro Springsteen. Where as Springsteen had cultivated the image of a clean, working class boy making good by writing songs about the characters of every day America, Zevon cultivated more of a wild man image. He penned tunes about the lives of Americans, yes, but they were hardly your average American. No, Zevon’s characters were blood thirsty rebels, psychopathic prom dates, wearwolves eating Chinese food, and paranoid heirs getting into trouble abroad.
Take for instance the character in “Excitable Boy.”
He took little Suzie to the junior prom. Excitable Boy, they all said. Then he raped her and killed her and he took her home. Excitable boy, they all said. Well he’s just an excitable boy.”
This is sung with bubbly background vocals by Linda Ronstadt and a ripping sax solo. The music is so happy, hook laden, it makes you snap your fingers and clap your hands. But then, it’s about a boy who raped and killed someone, and then ten years later, dug up her grave and made a cage with her bones.
That’s Warren Zevon, though. He is the embodiment of all of those paranoid, dark, voices that drove Brian Wilson crazy all those years ago. And Excitable Boy is where everyone in America discovered him.
The 1980’s, while looked upon some 20 years later through nostalgic eyes, were a tough time for many Americans. The very economic structure of the U.S. went belly up as most of the mills and factories where hard working, blue collar Americans made their livings for decades shut down. Many, especially on the right, love to look back at Ronald Reagan as the “great communicator.” One of the supposedly greatest Presidents of all time, he stared down the Soviet Union and brought the country together after the deep breaks that occurred in the 60’s and 70’s due to Vietnam and Watergate. What they fail to look at is the deeper, more catistrophic fracture that occured during the Reagan administration in terms of class. According to Paul Lansing and Sascha Knoedgen in their article The Causes and Consequences of the Global Inflation of CEO Salaries, before 1980, the average CEO made 40 times the average worker. Due to various favorable economic policies, the CEO’s salary spiraled out of control in the 80’s to today where the ratio is 450 to 1.
Aside from the great economic disparities that started in the 1980’s, this was also a time in which those on the right began to co-opt patriotic images and themes as their own. They claimed the American flag and Jesus as their own personal symbols. No longer was it possible for the left and right to come together under one flag as one nation, now that jingoism had replaced a quiet, dignified patriotism. This is what Born in the U.S.A. is about. Listening to it today, it is not only a time piece in subject matter, but in sound itself.
The general confusion for some, especially concerning the title track, still exists. “Born in the U.S.A.” has a gigantic, almost triumphant sound in the chorus. Springsteen has always been noted for his ability to write about desperate, dire subjects while placing them over an almost exhuberant sound. You need to look no further than this track to find a prime example. The chorus rings out with a triumphant, rebellous growl. “I was BORN IN THE U.S.A.” he shouts over the jingling synth line and steady snare drum crack, sounding swift and hard like a 21 gun salute. The song was and still is confused by those as being a patriotic hymnal. Somewhere in America, 24 years later, you can turn on a radio and hear this song played during a 4th of July fireworks display. Hell, even Ronald Reagan tried to make this his own, using it in his 1984 re-election campaign until Springsteen told him publicly to cease and decist. At its core, this song is about the disillusionment of Vietnam Veterans who came back from the war without their friends, lost their jobs, and were and are left behind by the government they risked their lives for. In the wake of the Walter Reed scandal last year, this song is eerily relevant in its subject matter and its anger.
The rest of the album is mostly typical Springsteen stuff. The desperation of every day Americans to get by, the loneliness, and harshness of a life spent squeaking by. “Glory Days,” one of Springsteen’s most famous songs, is another song that is catchy as all hell, but is pretty bleak. Same goes for “Dancing in the Dark.” These are the songs that made this record an absolute smash for Springsteen, sending him off into superstardom the likes of which he hadn’t seen before.
In its construction, the album employs the “bookend” method. While most of the tracks on this album are winners, the first and last songs are the real message pieces. Springsteen likes to do this. Think “Thunder Road” and “Jungleland,” off of Born to Run. “My Hometown,” is a companion piece to “Born in the U.S.A.” and it sums up the 80’s to that point better than any other song to come out of the decade before or after. This is the story of a man talking about the memories of his hometown, and how its been destroyed and relaying to his own offspring the same lessons he learned from his own father, driving through the streets. It’s about home, losing your home, how people all through the 80’s had to leave the places they were born to make ends meet.
“Now Main Street’s white washed windows and vacant stores, seems like there ain’t nobody wants to come down here no more. They’re closing up the textile mill across the railroad tracks. Foreman said those jobs are going, boys, and they ain’t comin’ back to your hometown.”
And then, to close off the record, Springsteen sings this last verse:
“Last night me and Kate laid in bed and talked about getting out. Packing up our bags and maybe heading south. I’m thirty-five we got a boy of our own now. Last night I sat him up behind the wheel and said son take a good look around. This is your hometown.”
The genius author George Saunders said to me once that he felt that Springsteen lost his way when he introduced synthesizers to his music. I couldn’t disagree. The only thing that keeps this album from being an absolute classic is the overall sound. Now that the 80’s have been long gone, synth riffs sound offensive to the discerning rock n’ roll enthusiast. However, I remember that I replied that it was the 80’s and he could hardly be blamed. It is true that the sound of this record does not hold up, but its themes do. Even still, it works as a time piece, functioning in both the sound and feel of the 80’s.
Some would say that this album that sold bazillions of copies was the greatest record of the 80’s, and I would have to agree.
When I was young boy, Neil Diamond encompassed the sun and the earth. This isn’t an easy thing to admit. From birth until this very moment, with a good six to seven year lapse, Neil Diamond has been a part of my life. Every waking moment is haunted by that luxurious comb over and the unusually thick chest hair protruding from sparkly stage shirts. Acting out the various scenes in The Jazz Singer, or putting on an hour and a half concert to Hot August Night in my Grandparent’s living room are some of the most cherished memories I have. What I’m really wondering, though, is that if this life long obsession with the self proclaimed Solitary Man has fucked me up in any tangible way?
It’s one thing to ponder the Nick Hornby, High Fidelity question as to whether us devotees of pop music are miserable because of pop music, but it’s another ball of wax entirely as to examine whether one’s own life has become the embodiment of an artists songs. It’s impossible to think about, really, without wanting to run away, burn your record collection, and spend the rest of your days living as a Mormon. The fundamental question as to whether your life’s path thus far has anything to do with the songbook of another human being is also a foolish and selfish one, I mean, can the body of Neil Diamond’s work have put me here? Does it have anything to do with the way that I think?
I spent most of my youth ingesting some of the most trite lyrics and syrupy production values on a daily basis. As a five year old, I somehow bonded with the sorrow filled and meloncholic lyrics of songs like “Solitary Man,” “I Am…I Said,” “Love on the Rocks,” and “Hello Again” to name a few. Repeated listening at the most important years of my development of lines like, “But I’ve got an emptiness deep inside, and I’ve tried but it won’t let me go,” has to play some sort of role in my life as a semi-functioning adult. Again, am I miserable because I listen to Neil Diamond or do I listen to Neil Diamond because I’m miserable? Did I spend my youth in vain trying to imitate the every move of a self described “loner?” To try and blame anything on Neil and his music seems to be a bit selfish, and most definitely a cop out of some kind.
Which brings me to Neil Diamond’s latest dispatch, Home Before Dark. I remember several years ago when it came through the wire that Neil Diamond was working with uber-producer, Rick Rubin. The combination seemed odd to say the least. For many reasons, Neil Diamond’s reputation through the years has been that of a pop crooner, the Jewish Elvis, writer of “Sweet Caroline,” and other infectious, but rather lightweight pop hits. His vocal bombast, as well as the outright corny nature of his live shows have turned fans of “serious pop music,” off for years. In a lot of ways, he is the prototypical housewife’s dream. Not too offensive, and not too heavy either. While the flower generation ate up bands like Jefferson Airplane and The Doors, Neil was making records for their more conservative counterparts not interested in revolution, but interested in listening to music that made them feel good or feel something anyway. Yet, underneath that image of the sparkly shirts and showman attitude, always lay another, deeper level to Neil Diamond that so many miss when assessing his career. It took Rick Rubin to get to that level, first on 12 Songs, and now on Home Before Dark.
Like his previous effort, Home Before Dark is a stripped down affair with Neil’s voice front and center in the production, and only accompanied by himself on guitar, as well as Heartbreaker Mike Campbell and Matt Sweeney on Guitar, Smokey Hormel on bass, and another Heartbreaker, Benmont Tench on piano. There are no drums, the guitars are all acoustic, and there are a few tasteful string arrangements. While some of my “hipper” counterparts argued back in 2005 that because of this stripped down sound, as well as the production credits going to Rick Rubin, that Neil Diamond was trying to ride on the coat tails of the great Johnny Cash to a late career resurgence, I argued that Rubin was boiling the songwriting of Neil down to its essence. The first hit records of Neil’s career, “Cherry Cherry,” “Kentucky Woman,” feature no drums, acoustic guitars, and little flair. While those were somewhat happier affairs, the point is that these Rubin produced albums are all essentially Neil Diamond and nobody else.
Being that they are Neil, these songs are quite dire and dark. Neil is more blunt than he’s ever been before. Where casual sex has never been part of the Neil Diamond songwriting vocabulary, the subject comes up in the first track, “If I Don’t See You Again.” The title sounds like about a million album tracks from the early 70’s that Neil penned, and in this somber and sober tale of a breakup that Neil sounds as though he’s initiating, he states, “And at the end of the day, I hated sleeping around. There’s nothing worse when you’re lost and you don’t want to be found.” The melody is intense, catchy, draws you in like a million other Neil songs. The solitary man is in full bloom.
He is for the rest of the album, too, making this probably one of the most depressing records of the year. It’s just heavy lifting. Songs like “One More Bite of the Apple,” and “Forgotten,” are indeed catchy and hook laden as hell. The duet on “Another Day (That Time Forgot)” with Dixie Chick, Natalie Mains, is so fine that you’ll forget about his last duet with Streisand as long as you live. Yeah, sure, there are some cliches and endless metaphor, but that’s ok. That’s part of the reason that many of us like Neil.
So now, I sit here, after digesting this record for a month straight wondering where my life would be and how I would be different had my childhood hero had been Spiderman instead. Listening to this record, even with this being one of the darker albums I’ve listened to in a long time, I don’t think I’d have it any other way.
