2. Curtis Mayfield & the Impressions - Seven Years
3. Otis Leavill - I Love You
4. The Miracles - Save Me
5. Stevie Wonder - Hey Love
6. June Conquest - All I Need
7. Barbara & Gwen - Just the Two of Us
8. Jean Wells - After Loving You
I used to live with these two metal-heads who called my soul records Rom-Com music. In which case, this is maybe like the sound track to the next Bridget Jones movie.
These are all songs particularly dear to me, nothing super rare or anything, but music I find pretty easy to love, like Seven Years, which is like a time capsule for my summer of 2005 (when I was living with said metal-heads, who were also, I should mention, really nice people). That was the same year I discovered "urban radio." Or, that is, my girlfriend at the time had a car, and that car had a radio, and so I listened to a lot of it, and the radio station I liked best was Jammin' 95.5 ("Portland's party station"). It was the summer of Curtis Mayfield and the Ying Yang Twins (and also Neurosis, but not by volition).
I thought whisper songs were going to be the next big thing, like auto-tune big. I'm still disappointed. Whispering is only cool if you're talking violence on the pussy? NO! So my affection for YYT was complicated, whereas Curtis kept things easy-- he's a love man, I'm a love man. We weren't about to beat anyone's pussy up.
A great compilation of Nigerian country music on the blog With Comb & Razor. It's crackly and sentimental and totally amazing. The kind of songs that get left off all the afro-beat funk heavy Soundway and Analog Africa releases. I SUPER RECOMMEND!
Ken Parker mentions "Sincerely" in an interview at reggae-vibes.com:
Q: [Both you and Phyllis Dillon] were contemporaries at Treasure Isle in the sixties. Did you work together there?
A: Yeah, that was in the early days, that's the early days. I think if I am not mistaken, one of the tracks that I have done on Treasure Isle, I dunno if she was the one who did the backing or if we actually did a song together. I think she was the one who did 'Sincerely', but I'm not too sure (sings the chorus).
Q: I think that was credited to one 'Dorothy Russell', whoever that was.
A: Oh, OK.
Q: Never heard that name before though, it could be her maiden name for all I know - or a name Duke made up to get the publishing, not unlikely.
A: Yeah, yeah. That song that they... actually it was her song, but she couldn't do the high note and couldn't do the changes according to how the song went, so Duke asked me to sing along with her to give her ideas in how to sing the song. But afterwards she just included me in, y'know, the singin' of that song, so that's why actually that track was not originally my track. But it was a track that Duke had liked, so it's just that I start singin' the part for her and then the rest of the song is history.
Also, I was reading Carl Wilson's book on Céline Dion last night and have to share this excerpt. It's from a chapter about Dion's worldwide appeal and deft international marketing. Jamaican-American music critic Garnette Codogan explains the Jamaican roughneck affection for Dion:
[I remember] always hearing Céline Dion blasting at high volume whenever I passed through volatile and dangerous neighborhoods, so much that it became a cue to me to walk, run or drive faster if I was ever in a neighborhood I didn't know and heard Céline Dion mawking over the airwaves.
I sometimes shared this little anecdote with other Jamaican friends, only for them to laughingly comment that they had a similar practice. The unofficial rule seemed to be, "If you hear Céline Dion then you're in the wrong place."
When Codogan asked around, the reason given was, "to quote one fellow, 'Bad man have fi play love tune fi show 'dat them a lova too.'"
Vintage Portland indie rock, ca. the tail end of the mid-90's. Featuring Ralf Youtz (original drummer for Built To Spill), who sings and plays guitar, and Tim Seiwerratch's (credited as the "microphonist") drunken, wild-eyed yelping.
From Tim Kerr's punk/soul supergroup's lone record. A cover of the King Floyd classic, Lisa Kekaula's vocal adds an element of sultry desperation not found in the original.
Clawing its way out from underneath peaceful, sleepy piles of afro-pop keyboard groove is David Longstreth's voice, carving into the live space with his serrated melisma: "Say yuh-aaaaaaaaaa-uhhhh!" The sheer hopelessness of replicating Longstreth's squawks (and therefore participating in the call and response) is the prime driver of the idea, and comic acknowledgement is implicit in the first real lyric. "Precious reciprocity," Longstreth howls. The live crowd's limp reactions to Longstreth's exhortations are awesome. "Say, 'say yeah,'" Longstreth eventually tells us. I am a strong proponent of performers fucking around with their audiences, and Longstreth, pop music's premiere deconstructionist at the moment, is the perfect unreliable narrator.
"My music has really always been the sound of nightmares," Scott Walker says in an interview in Stephen Kijak's new documentary on the avant-gardist crooner. "Everything is disproportionate, larger than life." So it is with "Track Three," wherein each element is jarring and fractured. Everything seems sudden, out of place—from the heavily gated snare hits to the strained harmonies, the odd, discordant guitar shredding (which gives way to synth strings leaning hard on an unforgiving diminished chord) to the piercing digital 80s production. The free-associative lyrics are horrific, a pastiche of images flashing through Walker's supremely twisted dreamscape. Ostensibly a pop song, Walker has no problem making the verses impenetrable: "Delayed in the headlong / resembled to breaking-point / I swear you never slept at night / when the growing is slow."
Somewhere between the sweet vulnerability of "You Can Make Me Feel Bad if You Want To" and the uninhibited disco of "Is It All Over My Face" exists a place of perfect danceable compromise; Arthur Russell finds it here.
I would be remiss not to include some Siltbreezy stuff from SF as it is currently what is happening in the city (and seemingly on the whole West coast). Thank god I live in Oakland, where I can retain a comfortable detachment from a scene that is so huge and generally obnoxious that it seems destined to either be the next Seattle-in-the-90s situation or to implode in hideous critical backlash (more likely). These garage-y lo-fi bands are seriously a dime a dozen around here right now (Thee Oh Sees, Girls, Nodzzz, the unbearable Ty Segall, etc.) but Sic Alps are the ones with the most legitimate pop chops. "Love is Strange" is a great tune.
Chicago soul songstress. She had a local hit in '66 called "What is Love" and released a number of other singles that failed to chart (like this one). The combo of the guitar sound and Taylor's timbre is alchemy.
There’s something really disarming in hearing a voice so familiar through the gauze and warble of a home recording. The recording betrays the time between then and now, but is also so intimate and present, as you can tell the performance took place in a bedroom, or a living room or wherever, but certainly not a studio, and probably alone. It, or he, is both closer and farther. For me, it’s hard to shake the supremacy of a recording as record of an event, particularly an event like this one.
Last year I went through about six months of exclusively listening to boomer rock standbys-- Van Morrison, Dylan, Neil Young, etc.-- and figured it was only a matter of time before Happy Sad would be on heavy rotation and I’d be explaining how I finally gotMountain Jam. But then I got an ipod and the only thing that can really compete with the din and doldrums of my morning bus ride is a bratty punk song. This song is super catchy. Dunedin did it right.
Here is a clip of Sara & Maybelle performing "Cannon Ball Blues" in 1966. After Sara came out of retirement to record An Historic Reunion, with her son Joe stepping in for the deceased AP, Maybelle coaxed her into playing some live engagements to promote the record. Allegedly, they were headed to their car after a performance when John Cohen asked if he could film them playing a few songs.
For several months now I've been enthralled by the Blind Willie McTell song "You Got to Die" from the Atlanta Twelve String album. It's difficult for me to write much about it without succumbing to breathless praise. That being said, I'm pretty sure it's perfect.
Among the song's many charms is a great example of the 'talking guitar' blues convention in which the instrument finishes the singer's phrase. Take for instance the last chorus -- "You got to die/ You got to..." the final chord rings out, followed by the sound of knocking wood (fingers tapping on the body?) The twelve string guitar has an unnatural beauty even in the most prosaic player's hands, but this here is some next level business. The irregular rhythm-- leaning heavily on the chorus before speeding up on the verses-- and a vocal performance that goes from whisper to preacher's trill, give an idea of McTell's singularities and general greatness.
The song is related, thematically and structurally, to "You're Gonna Need Somebody When You Die" by Charley Patton
and more explicitly to "You're Gonna Need Somebody On Your Bond" by McTell's friend Blind Willie Johnson.
(**the divshare flash player has been acting up. if the embedded player isn't showing up, you can scroll down to the mp3 links at the end of the post**)
On Blind Willie McTell's 1940 session with John Lomax, nine years prior to the Atlanta Twelve String recording, Mctell briefly talks about Johnson.
Lomax: "what do you consider his best music?" Mctell: "Well, sacred music. He have a heavy voice. Most sound like a preacher."
While Johnson & Mctell's recordings share the irrepressible prettiness of the melody (supported by Johnson's female accompaniment), Johnson's crazy false-bass growl makes for a very different impression. Initially Johnson seems to have replaced Mctell's lyricism for a fire and brimstone warning of damnation. But a minute in, Johnson begins singing in the first person.
I heard the voice of Jesus saying He told me he had risen Now in the waning midnight hour I don't hold my breath
Johnson addresses the basic fear of dying alone while McTell sings of the imminence of death. And of course, that Christ provides an out --
"Death is not extinguishing the light from the Christian; it is putting out the lamp because the dawn has come."
Blind Willie Johnson's song "John the Revelator" was included on Harry Smith's seminal American Folk Music and "You're Gonna Need Somebody on Your Bond" on Sam Charters' The Country Blues, giving Johnson a continued visibility and influence. The song was heavily covered and adapted in the sixties by Donovan, Taj Mahal, Buffy Sainte Marie and Captain Beefheart, among others. There's a very unfortunate youtube clip of Donovan performing the song. I considered including it, but thought wiser. It's out there if you're curious.
Captain Beefheart - You're Gonna Need Somebody on Your Bond
The Superlatives - I Don't Know How The song opens with a single uncertain cymbal before the tempo sets in. The moment the snare locks and the vibes chime in something deep within me is like "YES". The content is mostly perfunctory, as their tight harmonies sound like the best way they could've said "i really, really need you" even as they emphatically claim they "don't know how." The drums are played with such snap and groove and the whole affair sounds so crisp and taut that goddamn if she has the nerve to walk away. At the 2 minute mark- Wait for it... "HEY GIRRL!"
Little Richard - I Don't Know What you Got pt. 1 & 2 Little Richard's foray into Southern soul after his r&b/rock n roll hits on Specialty and subsequent gospel recordings on Mercury and Atlantic. The song was released on Vee-Jay shortly before the label went under. Written by Don Covay, a young Jimi Hendrix plays on the recording. This period of Richard's career is deemed a footnote to the "Tutti Frutti" days, but this is perfectly executed Southern soul.
Tammy Montgomery - I Cried & If You Don't Think Before she performed her monster hits with Marvin Gaye as Tammi Terrell, she recorded for James Brown's Try Me label. Both of these songs were authored by Brown (they were briefly romantically involved) and showcase a diversity and grit not apparent on Montgomery's Motown sides . On "I Cried" she's wounded and pleading. On the flip she moves between tenderness and exasperation and, in the process, crafts the perfect answer to the Godfather's signature scream - her sharp, little *ow!* - endearing and furious. At Motown she'd perfect youthful sweetness, but would never again growl and yelp quite like this.
Renaldo Domino - I'm Not Too Cool to Cry At age 12 I got my head slammed against a wall by the school bully. I remember, between breathless sobs, looking down at my paper boy hat flung to the ground and my plaid Mossimo vest, baffled by the poverty of appearances. Then I looked up and saw that my ex (who called it off abruptly after a month of furtive hand holding) was laughing at me. Anyway, this song is great.
Sam & Kitty - Love is the Greatest In a lot of ways this song is a pretty conventional blues based number, the b-side to a sought after northern soul cut. But there's something deeply captivating here. It's really important that you listen to this song really loud. At a certain volume the seemingly routine guitar becomes crucial and the voices get appropriately large. The song steadily goes and somewhere along the way the whole thing becomes momentous. Love is the greatest.
Allen Gauff - I Don't Want to be Alone This is a gospel number but it works just as well as an apocalyptic love song. "Right now the world is coming to an end/ And I just a-wanna, wanna be close to you."
