Excuse this, another in this ongoing series of lengthy excerpts — but so deservedly in this case: Stephen Burt’s loving tribute to Timothy Alborn on the London Review of Books’ blog. Alborn, history professor, Harriet Records founder, and publisher of Incite! is an example that this writer, and Ply more generally, is consciously echoing:
Alborn’s writing at its finest is short-form, impressionistic, non-technical criticism at its finest, with jokes. Pittsburgh singer Karl Hendricks sounded better solo than with his first rock band because ‘Like some other people I know, he’s much easier to take when he’s in a room by himself than when he’s surrounded by friends.’ Incite! #3 (1987), written just after Alborn finished his first year of graduate school at Harvard, recommends
listening to ‘All Hung Up on What Used to Be’ by the Flies and pretending it doesn’t apply to you… hiding from your friends by working with your enemies, overworking until you’re not sure anymore which ones are which, and avoiding the stench of it all by putting the needle down.
As Incite! went on it became less slapdash and more intricate, closer in look and spirit (though not very close) to illustrated Victorian miscellanies. Most things that Alborn reviewed were related to music – singles, albums, live performances – but he also examined the Slinky toy, the semi-academic British magazine Anarchy, dugongs and United Airlines.
Fanzines were a kind of reviewing, but they were also letters to strangers, distinguished by informality and sincerity, by enthusiasm and relative brevity, and by the anti-elite attitude of punk rock, even when the individual zine writers favoured far softer sounds. Sometimes strangers wrote back, and sent their own zines, or became contributors to Alborn’s. Incite! #27 (1994) took as its theme ‘epistolarianism’, life led through the post:
One of the perks of my job is that I get money to travel to distant libraries and read other people’s mail from one or two centuries ago… People should read these and remember why letters are better than phone calls or fanzines or just about anything else.
Actually I think I decided the first printed issue of Ply will be the second issue, because printing would only ruin the perfect, tardy-to-the-point-of-nonexistent quality of Ply No. 1.
Tony Herrington, on The Wire’s blog, battling against the underexamined assumption that “disco sucks” (does anyone still think that?), imagines disco as a form of protest in a capitalist wasteland:
The wisdom (if we can call it that) on disco that prevails in multiple subcultural nooks and crannies from Noise to alt.rock to Improv is that it is suffocating escapist froth, a retreat from the frontline of the Real into a dressed up, dumbed down, perpetual denial state of corny, showbizzy razzle-dazzle, all flaunt and flirt, oblivious to everything other than the solipsistic desire to go bang with all your friends at once, night in, night out. (Is it necessary to point out that such judgments rarely seem based on close encounters with disco’s actual milieu, let alone a close analysis of the actual music, which in its original state melted a complex of Afro rhythms – Bronx salsa, gospel and R&B, samba and Afrobeat – into a mix that was insouciant enough to suck up Broadway showtunes, Hollywood musicals, early synth experiments, jazz, minimalism and exotica? But then disco is the ultimate example of a genre whose complex reality and backstory has been obscured by its subsequent global commodity status, as the music that taste forgot, the sound that sucks.)
But as those revisionist disco historians Peter Shapiro and Tim Lawrence have already demonstrated, disco’s detractors should consider a couple of other angles on its supposedly head-in-the-stars refusal to grapple with the issues, its decadent insistence on fun and frivolity in the face of all the urgent evidence to the contrary (and is it necessary to reiterate the WASP-ish dimension to so much anti-disco rhetoric?)
For instance, rather than ‘speaking truth to power’ in the nominally engaged manner of protest songs of all stripes (rock, folk, R&B) – songs whose visceral platitudes and patinas seduced their audiences into thinking they were right there on the barricades, fed their sense of moral superiority in the taxonomy of cultural consumers – what if in its original incarnation, disco’s inclusive dancing-in-the-ruins vibe actively turned its back to the cynical machinations of prevailing elites and hierarchies? Consider the climate and conditions in which disco emerged, which is to say the dog days of the early 70s in the necropolis of Manhattan, when America was freezing in the chill winds of global economic meltdown and rampant political conservatism, and the pitiless systemic response to Vietnam protests, civil rights and the rise of identity politics. Now consider the possibility that, instead of knuckling under to this harsh 70s reality, disco proudly and defiantly resisted it by having the nous and the nerve to walk away, disappearing into a polymorphously perverse autonomous zone where none of it mattered, and where divisions of class, race, gender and sexuality were allowed to dissolve in a cavalcade of esoteric rituals that suspended time for as long as the night allowed.
In what follows, he traces how “revolutionary gestures become stadium grandstanding.”
There’s a terrific review of two recent David Bowie biographies by Thomas Jones in the new London Review of Books. Jones is unusually fluent with musical particularities as well as the complex interworkings of pose and culture, of performance as an aspect of the artist’s self-presentation and as a construct built out of the components of its musical idiom. For example, he glosses part of Paul Trynka’s biography Starman:
Trynka doesn’t often go into details about the music, which is perhaps just as well. In his discussion of ‘Starman’ he talks about its ‘opening minor chords’ when they’re nothing of the kind, and says that ‘the key changes from minor to major’ at the chorus. But there’s no key change, and it’s important that there isn’t: the effect Trynka’s hearing, the sense of ‘release’ and ‘climax’ he gets when the chorus kicks in, would be lost if there were. What happens is that for the first time, the melody hits the tonic; Bowie gets through 15 bars in F major without singing an F, and then on the word ‘starman’ he hits two of them, an octave apart. The octave leap is, as Trynka says, ‘an ancient Tin Pan Alley songwriter’s trick’, and the steal doesn’t stop there: the melody of the chorus is ‘lifted openly, outrageously’ from Judy Garland. Bowie privately called the song ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’, and before long was singing Yip Harburg’s lyrics as well as Harold Arlen’s tune in live performances of ‘Starman’.
In creating Ziggy Stardust, Bowie was acknowledging that it was no longer possible, if it ever had been, to make ‘original’ or ‘authentic’ rock’n’roll, especially if you were a skinny white boy from Bromley. Since all pop music was imitation of one kind or another, and since there was little point in producing another collage of obvious pastiches, however accomplished, the only way forward after Hunky Dory was to invent a new idol, an amalgam of all his heroes (including Iggy Pop and the Legendary Stardust Cowboy, both of whom he’d first heard on a trip to America to promote The Man Who Sold the World in 1971), the ultimate fantasy rock god. Obviously he couldn’t himself be that impossible figure, but he could pretend to be him, act the part as it might be played on a music-hall stage, and in the process become something else, something more interesting and possibly even something new – synthetic not only in the sense of ‘inauthentic’ but in a dialectical sense, too. Ziggy Stardust is an archetype of the popstar that has yet, as the cover of French Vogue attests, to be superseded.
The latest issue of Wax Poetics focuses on Prince and the birth of the Minneapolis sound during the late 1970s and early 1980s. The interviews with various Prince affiliates, including Morris Day, Jesse Johnson, and Andre Cymone, offer some insights into the interpersonal dynamics of the scene’s early days. Of course, I picked up the issue for its coverage of The Time, the best funk band of the 1980s. But I especially appreciate the magazine’s attempts to clear up one of the more irksome misconceptions about the group. Many people believe Prince wrote and performed all of The Time’s material. In fact all of the band’s albums were collaborations (the first one primarily between Day and Prince) and, while Prince did write much of The Time’s early work, their two biggest hits, “Jungle Love” and “The Bird,” were actually penned by guitarist Jesse Johnson. Prince probably should’ve loosened the reins a lot more. After all the band did include Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, who, of course, together went on to become the architects of New Jack Swing after Prince fired them for missing a show. It’s also worth noting that much of the band’s success can be attributed to its longstanding reputation as one of the greatest live R&B acts of, well, all time. Back in the 1980s, when they were Prince’s opening act, they were known for giving audiences the better show.
The group, probably for legal reasons, is now known as the Original 7ven and released an album of new material last year. Personally, I think Johnson is the group’s most interesting success story. In the Wax Poetics piece he talks about how Prince derided his songwriting efforts during the band’s early days:
“I played tapes of my songs for him, and Prince would literally start laughing,” Jesse says. “He’d call Morris over and be like, ‘Listen to this, listen to this,’ and they both laughed. When I bought him the music for ‘Jungle Love,’ he wasn’t laughing anymore.”
Johnson got the last laugh in more ways than one. He enjoyed a successful solo career during the 1980s after writing the aforementioned Time hits, but what’s more his most recent album, Verbal Penetration, is easily one of the best R&B albums of the preceding decade, right up there with Teedra Moses’ Complex Simplicity, Raphael Saadiq’s Instant Vintage, and Kem’s Kemistry. That’s a hell of a lot more than one can say about Prince’s latest work.
Unfortunately, the Wax Poetics article doesn’t touch on Verbal Penetration at all, so I’ll just say a few things about it. The album is far from perfect. It has several unnecessary extended interludes. I say that immediately because its scope and musicianship invite hyperbole. Johnson wrote all of the songs, and they are, for the most part, beautiful. Indeed Johnson has improved on his songwriting skills tremendously since the days of “Jungle Love.” The album is primarily made up of protest songs, love songs, and funk-rock workouts. The lyrics are subtle, well-constructed, and occasionally profound. For an example of the latter see “Love Letters,” the ballad of a soldier who proposes marriage to his girlfriend while away at war. The tune calls to mind the best of Marvin Gaye and Curtis Mayfield. Likewise “Propaganda” is a clever attack on black stereotypes and crime that, perhaps because of Johnson’s cool delivery, doesn’t seem preachy. The love songs are especially tasteful and catchy, particularly “Sheila Rae,” an ethereal nod to Quiet Storm. Johnson nails it with the chorus:
Forever I’m your baby
Sho’ nuff, ain’t no maybe
I’m your man, will you be my baby?
(Sheila Rae)
Lovin’ you so crazy
My torch is burnin’ lady
I’m your man, will you be my baby?
(Sheila Rae)
Johnson is one of the last great funk-rock guitarists in the tradition of Eddie Hazel, Ernie Isley, and, of course, Jimi Hendrix. He has said that he vowed not to play the same chord twice on this record, a constraint that required him to develop a greater understanding of his instrument. It paid off. Johnson now knows his way around several black American musical traditions. “Merciful,” my favorite tune on the album, is an extended Hazel-style solo over a deep funk groove, an old school b-side that sounds like something Pimp C would’ve paid top dollar for. “Beautiful Sadie” and “Peace Be with You” are more bluesy. But the technical knockout here is “Ali Vs. Frazier,” a straight-up jazz number in the swinging, bop-inflected style of Wes Montgomery. It’s clear from these cuts that Johnson can play circles around the purple one.
I’d love to say that Verbal Penetration, which actually came out three years ago, is the future of R&B, but this is the kind of album that requires a certain pre-digital knowledge. Don’t get me wrong, Johnson employs all sorts of modern technology on the album (one reason comparisons to D’Angelo’s Voodoo, which you come across here and there, miss the mark), particularly state of the art synthesizers and drum machines. But Johnson was able to produce this incredibly textured album in large part because he learned his craft the old-fashioned way. Far too many artists and producers in the world of contemporary R&B only know how to use high-tech samplers. Unfortunately this leads to the abandonment or at least the attenuation of black America’s rich musical heritage in today’s pop world.
““If you really love your babies, then people show your pride,” Johnson sings in the album’s opening. I love that line because it seeks to bridge the gap between the past and the present. He entreats the old to show the young just what it means to appreciate their history and themselves. A deep cultural consciousness—in terms of both form and content—animates this record. That is why I must echo New Yorker critic Ben Greenman’s comment that it “would be a shame if it were overlooked.”
Alex points out Jonathan Bradley’s provocative characterization of Lil B’s “February’s Confessions” and B’s “based” style more generally:
The whole based steez is a bit of a scam, really. Lil B’s style isn’t confessional: rather, he performs the act of confession. Where traditional rapppers, ones supposedly unburdened by Lil B’s unfiltered honesty, bare their selves on record, they do so in service of imparting actual emotion: see, for instance, Scarface expressing the mute emptiness of grief, Pimp C aching with weary malaise, or Tupac Shakur fearful and fatalistic. Game is more unfiltered, Tyler more self-critical, Boosie more desperate. “February’s Confessions,” by contrast, reveals undefined people want Lil B’s money, that undefined friends treat him differently now he’s famous, and other undefined non-friends want to be friends now he’s famous. His revelations tend toward hippie mysticism like “Live your own life and be happy for the moment.” But because he raps in a hushed voice in elegiac tones over a slow, piano-driven sample, and claims to have a lot of shit on his mind, he sounds as if he might be baring his soul.
The always delightful Robert Wyatt discusses his motive for covering the Monkees, in an interview with Pitchfork:
I didn’t like the fact that hierarchies had developed between what people thought was “serious” rock music and pop music—that was all rubbish. I was very uncomfortable with that. That was exactly the kind of situation I thought our generation had got rid of. I’ve always admired pop music, because I think it’s the modern post-industrial folk music. Everybody can join in, you don’t have to be a specialist. You can sing along with it. But there’s not much room in pop music for all the things I want to do. It’s a bit like food: I like all kinds of interesting food, but in the end, I can just sit down with an egg sandwich and really feel great.
Over on The Mire, Tony Herrington delivers a defense of Herbie Hancock against Adam Harper’s charges of appropriation:
Where Adam experiences “Watermelon Man” as an inert distillation of an ancient and complex and living communal music, I hear an integrated musical performance riven with tension and currents that run fast and deep. (And if Adam really wanted to make a point about how such an alien genre can be killed stone dead by careless sampling, then citing Deep Forest would have rammed the point home more thoroughly, not to say conclusively.) Adam wasn’t impressed with that album title either (“It’s called Headhunters for God’s sake!”), but I’ve always read it as a sly deployment of the kind of militant semiotics that would be mobilised to fuller effect by P-funk and the Hiphop Nation – as in: Headhunters as proselytizers for a new tribal aesthetix, mind expansion for headz, etc.
More rumination on Herbie’s idiosyncratic fusion career in the rest.
R.E.M., live performance of Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game”
I can’t figure out what 1995 show this recording is from—it was briefly a staple of their live performance. But it doesn’t really matter, this is the killer take that, had they heard it, they should’ve put out on the promo 45.
The Chris Isaak song, according to Wikipedia, only became a hit after a David Lynch-obsessed DJ in Atlanta got into it through Lynch’s Wild At Heart. The Roy Orbison mode, which Lynch dipped into regularly, you would think would be a bit foreign for chronic mumbler Michael Stipe but he shows himself to be at least equally capable as Isaak in crooning the shit out of it.
At the Ply Christmas party, this just plays on repeat as everyone drowns in whipped cream eggnog. Close attention to the acting in the wine sequence is well rewarded. Next year I’m going to make a special point of booking that ski resort double-date well in advance.
