Patti Smith: Easter (1978)

#11

The Transformation of Waste

I had a dream a few weeks ago that Patti Smith had accompanied me on a coach trip to Macclesfield. Needless to say, it was not the kind of dream that most people would wish to discuss in public. But since this forum does not exactly count as “in public” I shall continue this story until it is at an acceptable length with which to pad out this review.

We stopped off at the pie factory first of all, where the workers were all haggard devotees to local boys Joy Division. It was around this period, 1978, when punk was on the way out that this album Easter was unleashed on the world. This LP would coincide neatly with beginning of the end of the phenomenon she had helped to create, dovetailing her seminal Horses LP and her mediocre Wave effort.

“What kinda pies ya got here?” she asked some of the semi-conscious staff.
“Um… all kinds of pies. Mince, meat. Mince, kidney. Did I mention mince?” the worker replied.
“Yeah, you kinda did,” Patti replied, not impressed.

Then I woke up. Not exactly that exciting a dream but I can’t explain the damn things. One thing it did open my eyes to was the brilliance of this artist. Horses never set my word ablaze, I must confess, but Easter confirms what people had contested for aeons, that Patti Smith was the true poetess of rock music and is one hell of a talent.

Such is confirmed with the elegant opener Till Victory that begins the album with its distinctive guitar versus church organ sound and commences the spiritual thrust this record has behind it. The music has an outstanding transcendent feel to it, with her impassioned and fiery lyrics that leap from the defiant into confessional within the space of a few minutes. As usual, guitarist Lenny Kaye helps Smith take control of her vision from off, and this album would seem to be the closest she has achieved to realising this vision.

Space Monkey is a crunchier tune on the whole with more of those baffling beat poetry lyrics of hers (the liner notes are written in nonsensical Bob Dylan-speak) and builds to an uncomfortable, ejaculatory climax.

Because The Night was co-written with Bruce Springsteen and is an astonishingly good tune with an unusually romantic performance from Smith and possibly the catchiest chorus in her canon; making it one of the most commercially pleasing efforts.

Ghost Dance is taken from plains Indians, apparently, and re-interpreted as a campfire anthem here to exceptional effect. This track boasts the finest vocal performance from Smith on the album, bar three others, and the backing vocals of the mantra-like chorus are wonderfully stirring. It almost breaks down the walls of history and communes with ghosts of the dead, and not many tunes can pull this feat off – it is spine-chillingly magnificent, trust me. Except those of you who already trust me. Sometimes its 41, sometimes its 40. I’ll find that swine, one day…

Babelogue is a spoken-word rant performed in front of a noisy crowd and provides an odd segue into the next track.

In the decidedly controversial Rock ‘N’ Roll Nigger, Smith wields the taboo of this word for some fired-up attack on society at large, shouting in her finest Alice Cooper growl: “Outside of society! That’s where I want to be!” Lenny Kaye is also allowed to deliver a verse (unfortunately) and although their intentions are honourable, perhaps this tune does not really blast through whatever message it is trying to convey. It does rock, however. And how.

Privilege (Set Me Free) is far more interesting a tune, with a moving prayer section from Smith over some eerie synthesiser effects before it builds into a defiant and powerful piece where she wails out the line as though in some manic celebration of life: “I’m so young, so goddamn young!”

We Three is a simply unbelievable and beautiful piece of music, apparently arranged in 1974 by Tom Verlaine when he was still setting fire to fields with Richard Hell somewhere in New York. Unsurprisingly, it sounds like early Television but this performance of the tune is beautiful. It is a romantic, emotional and intimate tune with an absolutely spell-binding performance from Smith, especially towards the final line where the doo-wop harmonies meet the spirituality of the organ: “Every night we go to sleep and pray so breathlessly.”

25th Floor holds enough New York swagger to blast twelve Lou Reeds off the stage, and is an exhausting rock workout for her band, blending as it does into the spoken-word rant about art High On Rebellion. Some might argue this goes on for a little long but this reviewer finds the entire rave-up an absolutely dynamite work-out for her group. Ivan Kral is on bass, Jay Dee Daugherty is on drums and Bruce Brody is on the keyboards. They all deserve medals.

Easter is a profound closer, with its hypnotic chorus, swooning verse and ornate pan-pipes conclusion. There is some first-rate and stirring poetry from Smith that once more keeps the religious theme going and confirms that she managed to find a direct line to God for this wonderful album. Godspeed is added as a bonus track on the remaster but this is an improvised poetry reading over some horrible finger-clicks and grating piano chords… Birdland all over again.

Unless I have not said so beforehand… I rather adore this record. Easter is my favourite of all Patti Smith works, and she is an artist who delivers consistent quality but never many flat-out masterpieces. I contest this LP blends all that is brilliant about Smith. It is bursting with the intellectual venom, the spiritual beauty and moonlit bliss of her finest music, and demonstrates a simply impassioned and untouchable artist at the peak of her brilliance and divine powers.

Easter is the one true Patti Smith masterpiece. Even if she cannot stand mince pies.

Rating: 9/10

10,000 Maniacs: In My Tribe (1987)

#10

The Souls of Men & Women, Impassioned All...

Oh… what a vicious world it is we inhabit these days. I refer of course to the period in which this review was keyed (October 2007, in the middle of an August which looked a bit like summer). Before then, things were just a bit “mwah.”

In these dark times, bands like 10,000 Maniacs seem to make it all right. Without wishing to dwell on the gloom too much (heaven forefend) we need protection from the onslaught of another war and the fact as a planet things might get a bit too gaseous and smog-filled for us to breathe in 2034. Since the UN, NATO and the EEC can do sod all for us right now, why not take solace in classic eighties collegiate rock albums in the meantime? Or build a bomb shelter and hide. Drop me an e-mail if you’d like to book a place (standing room only, no gas masks supplied).

In My Tribe cannot combat disease and the mildew of civilisation but it gives things a damned fine polish all the same. This release from 1987 is a triumph of jangle pop melodies, rich and socially astute vocals and sublime musicianship from a concerned bunch of intellectual New Yorkers. In the limited camp of essential LPs which attempt to rattle the cage and thwart the status quo until people LISTEN, this triumph of a record is miles ahead of the rest.

It captures the inherent goodness in humanity and shakes its head at those who fail to understand why we were put on this Earth in the first place. Yes… to write reviews on websites no-one ever reads the whole way through, and to embarrass oneself in front of snobbish librarians. Not a lot else to existence, really…

What’s The Matter Here? has become an alternative rock classic to cherish for time immemorial, and the finest tune about child abuse ever composed. The ecstatic jangle guitars belie the horrors expressed through the campfire squall of lead songstress Natalie Merchant who narrates a sympathetic portrait of a family taking unjust disciplinarian methods against their child. The lead guitar from maestro Robert Buck lifts this piece into a sublime third act which attains a moving climax on its own uncompromising terms. Merchant grips onto the moral high ground and squeezes throughout, but pushes so emotion from her words her message becomes impossible to ignore.

Hey Jack Kerouac is a self-explanatory tribute to the popular author of On The Road, an influential and skittish text I read four or five years ago to this date. I never caught onto his legendary status myself, but he was no slouch in the scribe department that’s for sure. Those seeking an intellectual critique can seek elsewhere. Perhaps Jack would be proud of this swinging tribute? A beatific sound keeps it fast and energetic with a neat keyboard swish from Dennis Drew.

Like The Weather is an ode to depression and gloom which lifts me from the “dull torpor” mentioned in the lyrics until I am swimming in mirth and committing huggish behaviour. Cherry Tree is beautiful – a gentle and understanding look at adult illiteracy with a spine-chilling acoustic guitar bridge from Buck. Tremendous bass guitar accompaniment comes from Steven Gustafson.

The Painted Desert opens with a masterful drum thwack from co-composer and drummer Jerome Augustyniak and creates an aural palate larger than the Aussie outback. What is this one about? Who knows, but it is evocative and powerful in ways most eighties acts never ever achieved throughout their pitiful careers. Wasn’t the eighties terrible? I do believe it was.

Don’t Talk boasts a large arena-rock sound with glorious U2 guitars before it sways into a lighter-waving chorus of humbling proportions. The chorus is more accessible than the elegiac verses, but the same moving climax comes soaring from the swirling instrumentation on a number of occasions so do not fret. I believe this tune is about the pain endured through another’s disgraceful lies. Merchant sounds hurt here and that comes through. You better believe it. Sublime solos from Buck fill out the five minute duration.

Peace Train was snipped from the second pressing of this album for political reasons. Cat Stevens suffered from foot-in-mouth syndrome and the band distanced themselves from his comments. This does nothing to detract from the quality of this innocuous cover version where Merchant pushes the preachiness to such an extent we want to go around cuddling everyone. And why not?

Gun Shy is an anti-war anthem which defines the phrases “quietly chilling” and “humbly effective.” With a forlorn vocal and eerie organ lead, the regrettable verses coast along with silent rage until the chorus says it all with panache: “Well I knew, I could see, it was all cut and dry to me… there was soldier’s blue blood streaming in your veins.”

My Sister Rose is a little self-indulgent and ups the cheese factor to gas mark four. Still, it would take someone of quite an unpleasant temperament to dislike the mambo shimmer of this ode to marriage. I might just be that someone. A Campfire Song boasts a low-key guest turn from Michael Stipe which turns out to be the finest aspect of the tune, until Merchant ups the ante with her chilling refrain of: “Lonely lonely lonely man!”

City of Angels is bizarre and comes close to dud status with the off-key mandolin part and the dank wooble of the keyboard. Like the word “wooble?” It is amazing what the mind will comes up with when proper words elude one.

Verdi Cries ends the album and is the finest piece Natalie Merchant has ever composed; a haunting aubade on the piano with spine-chilling cello accompaniment from Dennis Karmazyn. Her gentle choruses somehow encapsulate the cryptic sadness in the verses; as though lamenting all that has fallen to ruin in the affairs of the world in one afternoon. This is spellbinding stuff and with the string arrangements, forces me into two whole tears upon its closing perfect cadence. Magnificent, unforgettable music.

In My Tribe surely lurks in all record collections somewhere? To ignore this timeless album is to deny the very process of life itself. All those who run in fear from its enchanting beauty and earthbound poetry are surely evil specimens of humanity. Recommended to all those with a pulse.

Rating: 9/10

Radiohead: Kid A (2000)

#9

David Aaron's Opus

For eight years now, fans of dejected Oxfordshire scamps Radiohead have sought to uncover the identity of this elusive Kid A.

At my school, Grotty Comprehensive in the town of Grump-on-Whine, Kid A was always David Aaron. With his name first on the class register, this blessed sod was first for EVERYTHING. He got first dibs on the climbing frame. He got to handle the big saws in Craft Class before we all did. He was first to commit arson in the tuck shop. He was first to embezzle funds from the PTA and serve two-to-five in juvenile hall. He was first to kill and eat a mollusc. Yes… he was first at truly everything!

What does this have to do with Radiohead? Well… asides from my glib literal interpretation of the title, very little. It was rather petulant of you to ask, actually. Well… it is unlikely David would have taken to this album. The blacker than black soundscapes and lugubrious atonality offered as “music of the future” on Kid A would not sit well next to his collection of Pato Banton LPs. Who remembers “Bubblin’ Hot?”

Kid A was met with critical opprobrium and adulation when it was released in 2001 with its sister piece Amnesiac, reviewed earlier this afternoon by me (aren’t I tedious?) Some kindergarten friends of mine from the local brat-dump remarked the following:

Nigel (aged 3): “It casts a Sisyphean gloom over the listener to such an overbearing extent, he is left lost inside this black canvas of unrelenting rue – in the most archaic sense of the word – and it envelops the neurons in his brain; inducing within him a sort of neuropathological joie de vivre in all its sadness; spreading into a type of inter-cranial Weltschmerz; rather akin to being treated with electro-shock therapy for manic depression… and loving it.”
Theresa (aged 32): “I liked Treefingers.”

The Music

I was unsure what to expect with this album. So when the woodland synthesisers of Everything In Its Right Place struck up, abounding with cavernous menace and futuristic foreboding, and the warped tape loops of Thom Yorke entered to little fanfare, I was a tad surprised. Perhaps I was even delighted. For this schizophrenic piece was perched just on the right side of paranoid, world-weary mania for my liking, and a warm smile came across my face a moment after it ended. Radiohead are back, I thought, staring into the darkness of my fetid soul…

The title track, Kid A, suggested to me that the solution for the next generation of humankind was to build a bomb shelter in which to hide until the dawn of the new world order. This squished lullaby from outer space is like a Stanley Kubrick vision of paradise being spoilt by a hellish Kafkaesque nightmare; but one from a far and distant cosmos. A little piece of my soul got lost in the ambient universe of this song one night…

The National Anthem is all repetitive guitar menace and swirling macabre fright, with the St. John’s Orchestra blowing us into the nightmare of the next world via kick horns. This is a ghoulish rave-up in which all are invited to dance with a sombre quick-step into the bowels of hell. Did I love it? Am I going to get negative about Radiohead? Unlikely, my friends.

How To Disappear Completely is an ambient piece for the most part, working the suicidal dirge of Thom Yorke’s guitar and vocals into the mix for a spirit-draining six minutes. It is a hopeless drift down the Liffey river (East Ireland), washing the listener deep into the gloomiest caverns of his sadness via funereal synths and miserable string arrangements. An elegant but challenging piece of classical woefulness.

Treefingers is an ambient dirge. No time for it. Sorry, Theresa.

Optimistic begins the “squished music” portion of the album where all instruments appeared to have been crammed into a small corner of the mix in favour of the vocals and weirder elements. This has a catchier rock melody afoot, with a doomed mantra chorus in fitting with the band’s despondent aura. In Limbo is distinctly bizarre, perhaps the most hopeful piece on the album with its major key plonking and moments of light respite amid the soul-destroying gloom. What is Yorke singing about? Best not to ask.

Idioteque and Morning Bell make greater use of the drum machine and are both intriguing experiments that uncover this “urban gothic” side of the band (later refined on subsequent albums, see review links below). The former features esoteric samples from Paul Lansky and Arthur Kreiger which is rather pleasing to know.

Closer Motion Picture Soundtrack is a sluggish mope festival with Yorke crawling out of his airtight little hole to complain about the stench of his wretched life. When it ends there is a gap, and then further bizarre things happen after two minutes, most of which are scarier when heard in the dead of night with prowlers outside…

Just listening to Kid A again for the purposes of this review, it is obvious that this record has no universal or mass market appeal whatsoever. It is as leftfield as any contemporary rock record could hope to be. This does not make it unfavourable. Quite the opposite. Although I feel Amnesiac holds more emotional resonance and that these tracks are too aloof and impenetrable to connect with the listener, as a brave stab at alienating their entire listenership, Radiohead have succeeded instead in captivating them.

These two albums are impossible to listen to without antidepressants and a hotline to the Samaritans, but in small doses, they are no less than audacious and avant-garde masterpieces.

Rating: 8/10

Cocteau Twins: Treasure (1984)

#8

The Wonderful World of Glossolalia

Last week, my dear (eight) readers, I crossed that threshold between maladjusted "normal" person into the beautiful realm of the maladjusted "special" person. What am I banging on about? Well, last week, I was taken out to lunch by a doctor. No ordinary doctor, mind you. We are talking a gentleman with a PhD in English Literature, here. A real life-saver. The restaurant we attended, for fans of geography, sits just on the edge of Guthrie Street in the capital city of Edinburgh from which I hail (in Scotland).

Among the big questions he posed to me that day were when was I going to drop out of my degree, as I had been spending too much time writing music reviews and failed all my exams. More pertinently, however, he asked me what my musical tastes were.

In my portable CD player at that very moment, all I had on me was a copy of the Beta Band’s eponymous first LP, and I was hardly going to lie to him and explain who this band were. Although their eclecticism earned me some bonus points, they just were not leftfield enough, plus I had to make myself appear interesting and intelligent in his presence to banish this image of weird slacker he had (correctly) attached to me. Several band names scrambled in my head until eventually I settled for the mellifluous Celtic folk duo the Cocteau Twins.

"They some kind of pop group?" he piped up, spooning some pasta into his massive gullet. "Far from it," I replied, hoping he would choke on just one ribbon right then and there. For those, like my dead doctor friend, who require information, they are a duo from Grangemouth in Scotland, and used to consist of Robin Guthrie and Elizabeth Fraser. The former wrote all of the music himself and provided all of the technical wizardry, while Fraser supplied the immaculate glossolalia; a big word meaning nonsensical vocals which sound like another language.

This album from the duo is often hailed as their best, and one would be hard pushed to argue with this, quite frankly, since it is pretty much a masterpiece when one considers their overall canon. The tracks here are atmospheric and dark folk tunes which conjure up the sound of dimly-lit caves in magical fairytales, or nasty, unpleasant coves one may discover in the pages of Gormenghast. This album, thematically, centres around powerful female characters in Roman and Greek myth, some of whom I have heard of but others which remain wholly alien, and the tracks are all wholly spectacular.

1. Ivo (3:53)

This luscious piece kicks off the album in dark and moody style, fading in over some ethereal acoustic guitars and moonlit notes on the bass before the drum beats enter and the track is a wash of glorious sound. Across Fraser’s yelping vocals, which conjure up Kate Bush at her most playfully giddy, some bells and guitars jangle out-of-sync over the processed drum machine beats. It might not sound particularly attractive here, but this music is really impossible to conjure up through words alone.

The relentless strumming of the background guitars essentially drives the tune along with the bass through its minor key modulations, but it is the bells and the neat little melancholy effects Guthrie spreads across the layers of intersecting and eye-popping vocals which keeps things original and breathtaking. The electric guitars and some very off-kilter, processed blobs of sound keep it strange indeed, and feedback is used in the way that Sonic Youth could only dream of in 1984. There is so much technical wizardry going here, it is impossible to keep track of where all of these noises are coming from. But the end result on this LP is always especially gorgeous.

2. Lorelei (3:41)

Named after a siren in German legend who lured boatmen to destruction, this track tops the opener and then some. Beginning with those bell noises once more over a quite outstanding bed of crystalline keyboard noise, the drum machine bangs in ferociously while Fraser allows her vocals to ascend to sky-high levels of brilliance. The track is driven along by the blistering glow emanating from the keyboards and the thud of the drums, and Fraser keeps her vocals enchanting throughout.

She really does manage to conjure up this image of herself as some sort of mythological figure, perhaps wrapped in seaweed off some obscure Scottish beach singing her songs a cappella into the night. Such an image can only be reinforced when you hear the deeper layer of her voice sing over the more sugary elements, and when the two of them collide the sound is truly stupendous.

She has a remarkable range, even if she is making nothing more than a series of bizarre vocal sounds, and it acts as a lead instrument on its own. Here it alternates from very high and mysterious to much more frightening and dark, and like a one woman Shakespeare’s Sister, she drags us through the beauty of this piece with a smile on her coquettish lips.

3. Beatrix (3:10)

Much more medieval in sound, this track makes effective use of some eerie notes played on what sounds like some guitars and synthesisers simultaneously. This refrain really sounds as though it should be played on a harpsichord, but still sounds great here on its own. The slinky bass and Fraser then enter, the latter like some mummy emerging from her sarcophagus who suddenly takes a notion to sing. The second half expands into much louder and gloomier piece with some hissy, oppressive percussion and some shouted vocals from Fraser looming down across the sparser sound which is different but no less immediate than on the previous tunes. I have no idea who Beatrix is, incidentally.

4. Persephone (4:16)

For a track about the queen of the underworld, this is surprisingly tame. The drum machine bashes in the beat instantly while the electric guitars growl around this gorgeous wall of sound. An acoustic guitar and bass provide the brooding element once more before Fraser warbles in characteristic style, just a soupcon more audible than she was on the previous tracks.

The wash of crystalline keyboard is back for the chorus, which elevates it to divine status again, while Fraser sings lines which sound like "paper chase is on" and "is what it takes," but Lord knows what any of this actually means. Her vocals are particularly impassioned over the gorgeously remastered screech of the synthesisers and guitars, whereby each an every nuance of the music has been perfectly brought back by Guthrie. The piece ends in coruscating style, with the music just gently simmering in the ear of the listener and sizzling behind their eyeballs. Luscious.

5. Pandora (For Cindy) (5:31)

Some dreamy guitars play over this repetitive track which has an incredibly catchy nonsense chorus which, as well as being a favourite of mine, is equally popular with the folks in Grangemouth asylum. The synthesisers and guitars provide nothing more than a blissful bed for Fraser here, and she is allowed to take reign over the much more spaced-out music which drifts across the speaker beautifully, despite being limited to just one chorus.

The drum machine beat is especially hypnotic and enchanting in this track, but everything else just rocks back and forth like a tortured lullaby perched precariously on the edge of a nightmare. Divided between the dreamy instrumental parts and the repeated chorus pattern, the whole track is oddly mesmerising if a touch overlong.

6. Amelia (3:28)

Much heavier in sound, this crashes in with several layers of acoustic guitars plucking away furiously over the dense wall of drum and bass which Guthrie creates. Two intersecting strands of Fraser’s vocals come together skilfully, the lower layer chirruping in a flighty bird-like style, while the former just hiccups its way through a series of "na-na" passages with aplomb. The drum machine program here is especially complex, but the track rocks back and forth with a surprisingly brighter sound than the previous tunes and is ultimately just as soothing and gorgeous, if just a wee bit more prickly on the ears.

7. Aloysius (3:25)

A much more pleasant sound is cultivated for this gorgeous tune which evokes a much brighter and sunnier landscape in one’s head. Two electric guitars jangle some lush melodies over the first minute before the drum machine boots the piece into action and Fraser is allowed to make effective use of her "sha-sha" vocal sounds. Aloysius was an Italian Jesuit nurse who died nursing plague victims, apparently, so it makes sense that a track in his name would be so pleasurable. It is the vocals and the gorgeous little phrases on the electric guitar which gives this piece its truly uplifting sound, and despite a few darker bridges, it is for the most part, of the most gorgeous and moving pieces on a truly striking and artistic record.

8. Cicely (3:26)

Possibly named after Dame Cicely Saunders who formed St Christopher’s Hospice for the terminally ill in 1967, this piece returns to the darker, more brooding sound of earlier tracks and makes use of some mysterious glockenspiel effects amid the cornucopia of screechy noise and processed genius.

The guitars and synthesisers are pushed in the mid-section to such sonic extremes that a truly deafening wall of noise consumes the listener, and almost forces the sound out through their eyes and nostrils. The duelling vocal dynamic is made use of once more to great effect, but Fraser is nowhere near intelligible as yet. A much more complex track on the whole, there is a whole plethora of curious and brilliant wizardry at play here, which perhaps makes it if not the best track, then certainly one of Guthrie’s most accomplished.

9. Otterley (4:00)

It sounds as though it has been used in some pretentious French perfume advert, and it probably has, because here over the distant warble of the synthesiser and the eerie rumbles of the guitar, Fraser whispers out random French words to spooky effect. She almost sounds tantalisingly erotic here, and if I had a more vivid imagination, this track may send me into paroxysms of adolescent bliss. There is a deliberate attempt to tie the music here to the sea or dark, eerie seascapes, as some sound effects of waves are played in while Fraser plays the blurry mermaid on the horizon. Perhaps a tad overlong, this nevertheless is completely different from all that has gone before, and is a moody and gorgeous little piece in my jaded eyes.

10. Domino (6:19)

The climax of the album is a triumph. Over some rising synthesiser and ascending pads, Fraser sings some domino-themed lyrics while the music is restrained for the first two minutes. It just broods and morphs gently in the distance, forming into the brilliant track it will eventually become, and after too long a wait, it finally erupts into the brilliant closer it is. The guitars chug heavily over Fraser’s galloping vocals, and all of the odd digitised effects come together to create another painterly and vivid wash of noise which sounds like a work of frickin’ art.

How Guthrie manages to get his cheap eighties synthesisers to wail almost like violins, and sound as though he has a ten-piece orchestra in the studio with himself and Liz is a triumph. It abounds with gorgeous little moments around each and every corner and is best enjoyed when it washes over the listener, who is rendered silent in sheer, rapturous delight. It has a much larger and more multi-stranded sound to it which makes it a really thrilling and exciting denouement to the album, and perhaps even the standout tune on this record.

Music about tough mythical creatures sung to nonsense vocals over an incredible canvas of electronica has never sounded so brilliant as this. Cocteau Twins were a singular band, much along the lines of such acts as Dead Can Dance, who manage to incorporate bizarre leftfield genres and turn them into highly enjoyable and accessible albums.

This act take Scottish folk and pretty much drag it backwards through several hedges, and the end result is masterpieces like this or Heaven or Las Vegas. Although their obscurity and the oddity of the sound may be off-putting to some, this is highly recommended to those who appreciate bands who sound utterly unlike any other act who has ever walk the face of the earth and who make music which is very much their own, and nobody else’s. Their finest hour, and now my dead doctor friend’s favourite group.

Rating: 10/10

Johnny Cash: Sings the Ballads of the True West (1965)

#7

The Finest Cowboy Album Ever Recorded

It is hard to believe, looking at those leather-lined cheeks and suntanned, golf-bag skin, that country legend Johnny Cash was a mere 33 years of age when this staggering album was released.

Despite this difficulty, I’d like y’all to believe it, since it happens to be quite veracious. Of all the American history lessons recorded by Cash in the 1960s, this album eclipses most of his valiant efforts. Here the wildest musician ever to set foot in San Quentin Prison and rouse a bunch of murderers and rapists, sings a collection of traditional numbers and tunes reinterpreted (and thus improved) by him.

Since Cash felt closer to the feral, dangerous spirit of the outlaw, it isn’t much of an effort for him to summon up the ghosts of great cowboys and wild west figures, and channel the spirit of the true west through him as though it was mixed into his very blood. It is difficult to think of a country singer closer to the spirit of the wild west than the indestructible Man In Black.

Sings The Ballads of the True West is perhaps the most personal, wrenching album ever recorded by the great man, and is a blend of classic country and folk music, spoken-word narrative and mournful balladry from the deepest and rawest baritone ever to give his soul to the land. The mixture of these components is sublime, and unlike some of his spoken-word lessons, such as Ride This Train or Bitter Tears: Ballads of the American Indian the blend of these components is absolutely perfect.

What is quite incredible about this album is that Cash was at the time addicted to amphetamines, involved in a divorce and legal cases, increasingly violent in his behaviour and touring America more than Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen put together. Midst all this mess came this beautiful record, sparked from an idea by legendary producer Bob Johnson, and it is one of the best albums about wild west mythology, the endurance of the land, death and the spiritual wonderment of the American desert.

Selections

The Shifting, Whispering Sands Part 1 (2:54)

Instead of the pretentious undertones that a spoken-word piece implies, this narrative tale is beautifully assembled with glorious (and anonymous) string arrangements and sublime backing vocals from The Carter Family. Like so many of these tunes, they are personal ruminations on death, and when he wrote the lyrics Cash was on the site of an Indian burial ground, gazing up at the stars in one of his sulkier moods (by his standards, in good spirits).

The solemnity and beauty of that introspective and spiritual night way out west is perfectly captured here, and it is a wonderful evocation of the endurance of the land reminiscent to me of English folk music at times. The strings sound just like the wind passing and flowing across a tranquil and mournful desert, and the romanticism oozes from the speakers like in some old Scots kailyard novel.

The Ballad of Boot Hill (3:48)

Written by Carl Perkins, like so many great tunes from Cash, this has another short spoken-word intro and is about a graveyard in Arizona commemorating the fallen and forgotten dead of a town called Tombstone. This piece is a 3/4 country shuffle with emotive vocals from The Anita Kerr Singers and gentle piano accompaniment help to comfort the hauntingly bleak vocal from Cash about a whole lot of needless slaughter.

This tune, like so many ballads the album, gets under your skin after several listens, and its emotional impact is probably among the most visceral and powerful I have heard on a record of late. The universal nature of the subject matter, especially the pieces on death and the forgotten dead, make it a tender experience and doubly moving through the gravel-toned otherworldliness of Cash.

Mr. Garfield (4:35)

The record serves up gallows humour in spurts as well. Cash places his allegiance at times so closely to the outlaws that up tempo pieces such as this almost appear mocking and vicious in their tone. It is an enjoyable traditional piece adapted from a separate tune from folk singer Jack Elliot about the shooting of a President named after a spotted ginger kitten. The verses veer from bouncy speech-singing over acoustic guitars to pieces of humorous and rambling narrative.

The presence of The Statler Brothers as well as The Carter Family makes it impossible to dislike, and these lighter pieces help break up the weighty subject matter of the album before it gets too gloomy. Luther Perkins provides most of the electric guitar on the album, and although it is harder to spot than the other instrumentation, his skills are worth a quick mention.

The Streets of Laredo (3:39)

A traditional British tune, adapted for the wild west, this is tailor-made for Cash, a mournful number about a cowpoke approaching his death and looking back on his many, many wrongs. The liner notes on the 2002 remaster here include the original track-by-track notes from Cash, far superior to these meagre opinions, as well as a three paragraphs from music journo Jonny Whiteside. He deserves italics as well, believe me.

Western lingo is also explained, some of which is absent from the songs but fun to know nonetheless. The chorus boasts perhaps the lowest note on the musical scale and Cash makes the most of the emotive twist towards the end as he sings (practically in the grave himself): "Beat the drum slowly, play the pipe lowly, we bitterly wept as we tore him along."

The Blizzard (3:53)

Perhaps my favourite ballad on the album, this is a lingering piece with some wonderful harpsichord work (yes, that’s right) from Bill Pursell and perfect backing as always from June and co. Cash had just started his infamous relationship with June Carter around this time which no doubt explains some of the romance he let creep into songs like this. It is the increasingly troublesome lament from the moribund trekkers at the chorus that makes this so emotive and sumptuous, and once more the backing vocals lift the piece into divine territory.

As expected, things don’t end with a happy resolution but Cash serves up the bitter dramatic irony which is probably more realistic in the wild west. It is a beautiful tune about the kinship of the cowboys on the trail – and indeed friendship – although it’s perhaps not very sympathetic towards Marianne, poor lass. She’d better dial up Wild West Widows at once.

Green Grow The Lilacs (2:47)

Cash sounds the most worse for wear on this jaded lament, with his voice moving from a lovesick tremble to a heartless croon wrapped in a veil of bitter tears for love lost. Maybelle Carter plays the autoharp which is a fabulous instrument with button-control dampers that allows it to be controlled with the foot and plucked with a plectrum. Rather like a zither, but a much more high-class piece of equipment. This piece shuffles along with a palpable sense of despair and hope, erring somehow to the latter but ending on a woozy perfect cadence.

The Rest

The spoken-word pieces which bookend the album are both of equal magnitude, with the first-rate poetry of Reflections perhaps surpassing the historical clout of Hiawatha’s Vision, taken from a Henry Longfellow poem. Mean As Hell is a stranger piece on the whole, something that flirts with becoming a song but remains entirely spoken-word for its duration. It is an affectionate sketch of the west, nonetheless, and has finer characterisation than the entire back catalogue of Sam Peckinpah.

The Road To Kaintuck was composed by June Carter and is one of the more enjoyable and fun-filled pieces on the record, with its winding and bouncy chord sequence, eclipsing the brooding dirge Hardin’ Wouldn’t Run; the lone Johnny Cash composition on the album. I Ride An Old Paint is well known in American songbooks, I believe, and this version one of the most breathtaking ballads on here, especially with the unaccredited strings backing the melancholic lead vocal.

Johnny Reb is about the American Civil War (1861-85, North vs. South) and would seem to feature an unmentioned keyboard tingle which is odd, as well as Bob Johnson on a four-string lute and some fine military drumming from W.S. Holland. A Letter From Home and Stampede are more conventional wild west pieces but importantly sketch the side of the prairie from the side of both women at home and cattle drivers.

The nastiest moment of the record comes from the viperous Sam Hall, sang from the first-person perspective of a psychotic gunman; whom Cash portrays with just a little too much realism. It’s a pretty frightening listen, especially with that rattlesnake hissing up his throat.

25 Minutes To Go is the epitome of the expression gallows humour. The hangman’s pleas before his death waver in this song from amusing to deeply disturbing within a few seconds. It is worth pointing out that the preoccupation with death on this album might spook off some listeners unused to Cash’s literate morbidity. Rodeo Hand is added as a bonus track here, and is similarly hell-raising fare.

Bury Me Not On The Lonesome Prairie is a contender for the finest threnode on this album, with its lavish instrumentation and more of them anonymous strings, provided by some faceless cats in Hollywood. Sweet Betsy From Pike is kind-hearted country waltz which Cash introduces so innocently that the listener is rendered speechless at the malicious twist he plays on us at the end. Old, cantankerous devil.

The Shifting, Whispering Sands Part 2 is less spectacular than the first half, but this album is a lot of work and The Carter Family are a permanent joy to listen to. Stampede (Alternate Instrumental) is the second bonus track; a minute of superfluous banjo-plucking from Bob Johnson. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

Johnny Cash Sings The Ballads of the True West is a tremendous achievement and one of the most essential records in a back catalogue that could easily fill the Grand Canyon. For those who favour their Cash mournful, impassioned, heart-rending and grittier than a whole sackful of hominy, this is the perfect album for you.

It also happens to be one of his finest albums of all time (lucky that), and consolidates what is so wonderful about the man. He was a true American wild man, a romantic, a poet and a visionary songwriter with a heart made from igneous rock but a soul as pure as the desert. This is a brooding, beautiful and timeless album.

Rating: 10/10

Nick Drake: Five Leaves Left (1969)

#6

An Angel Once Walked Among Us

There is a legitimate reason the mournful, brooding folk music of Nick Drake has earned him cult status as one of the most important musicians who ever walked the earth, and that reason is thus: his music has absolutely everything a listener could wish for.

His debut album Five Leaves Left, frequently cited as one of the finest albums ever made, radiates with a redemptive melancholy, a gentle, earthbound humour, a hopeful and jubilant resignation in the face of personal despair and an empathetic chill which burrows deeper into the human experience in one song than most artists manage in a lifetime of recording.

His voice husks through the stereo assisted by the finest string arrangements on any album from Robert Kirby and it is the otherworldliness in his voice that is responsible for his present-day angelic status. That and his impressive tombstone, no doubt, which looms high over the small church of St. Mary Magdalene’s in Tanworth-in-Arden where he is buried.

Looked upon for what it was, a masterful debut album from a reluctant but undeniable folk talent, it is incredible how well Five Leaves Left (released in 1969) manages to stand up, in spite of all the critical praise and decades of commercial neglect drubbed upon it. Although I favour the picturesque diorama of Bryter Layter, his understated follow-up album from 1970 – a work of unmatchable artistic genius in this opinion – this album is a masterful collection of timeless music in its own right.

Time Has Told Me establishes the jazzy inflection to some of Nick Drake’s work, with a woozy (and rare) lead bass line, performed by Danny Thompson over the trademark acoustic guitar and lightly ruminative opening verse from a cheerful Drake. Although the electric guitar and piano flourishes help diminish the intensity of the music, towards its chorus the piece has a deeply affecting little modulation, and bows out with some of the most painfully simple couplets in musical history: "Time has told me not to ask for more, for some day our ocean will find its shore."

River Man is another of Drake’s most well-known tracks and perhaps one of his most powerful through its tremulous string arrangements from Harry Robinson (only credited for one tune). Whatever special nuance Mr. Robinson had for this tune, it worked, since the strings form a melancholy swirl around the sorrowful lead guitar and contemplative verses about the passing of time from Drake, in his most pensive and introspective mood here.

Although Drake is a subtly poetic lyricist, making it difficult to claw beneath the meaning of his words, the intensity of this music conveys a deep loss and a sadness that is often quite difficult to bear. This is a tune of quite staggering proportions, however. His education in classical music (he often practiced violin for fun with his parents) explains how he is able to attain these heights of emotion.

Three Hours is the most traditional folk piece Drake has recorded, a lengthy and complex piece with shifting time signatures, brooding moments of real searching on the acoustic guitar and gentle bongo accompaniment from Rocki Dzidzornu. One of the darkest pieces here, this one has more in common with age-old folk and even Delta blues than some of the more contemporary arrangements on the album, and Drake almost sounds preserved in a small dark cave performing this one.

Way To Blue is arranged just for strings and vocals, which works to an interesting effect in spite of the lack of melodic flare or a basic tune. To me the strings have often sounded a little too showy and intrusive at times, although Drake sounds even more angelic, especially as he drawls out: "Tell me all that you may know."

Day Is Done debunks such an unfair criticism, since the arrangements lift what is a simple and poignant folk tune into a little nugget of unfettered genius. The sound of a sombre evening coming to its end, this tune rises and sinks with a gentle world-weariness, perhaps even futility, and as such leaves goose bumps on the skin no amount of solvent shall displace.

‘Cello Song follows, used to tremendous effect during a crucial scene in Lynne Anderson’s coming-of-age drama Ratcatcher, and abounds with a pastoral beauty and one unforgettable cello performance from Clare Lowther. The tune coasts along on its ruminative brilliance and crackles with an unspoken sadness, and once more those bongos are used to fine effect. Why there is an apostrophe before this song title eludes me, but it is printed as thus on the album. Strange.

The Thoughts of Mary Jane is beautiful, despite being clearly imprinted in the period with its more saccharine arrangement, but its understated softness and unique sound lends to its power. There are verses and modulations in this tune that prick the same peaks of emotion his strongest music manages to achieve.

Man In A Shed is an important example of the humour in his music that is often overlooked, and although the lyrics here are loaded with a sense of resigned despair, without the gentle optimism in his music, we would have little of modern day reincarnations such as Belle & Sebastian to take his baton. Paul Harris adds some stellar piano to this one.

Saturday Sun closes the album on an upbeat and jazzier note which provides a perfect denouement after what can be an often intense album to sit through time after time. There is a certain ambiguity in his closing sentiment: "Saturday’s sun has turned into Sunday’s rain."

Fruit Tree precedes, perhaps the most wrenching tune he ever composed; given his own increasing legacy thirty-odd years after his passing. It can be difficult when musical figures who die too young write prescient tunes about themselves, since it can make it a strangely ethereal listening experience. This is one of these pieces, an extremely mournful rumination on fame with some of the most stirring string arrangements from Kirby and introspective song writing from Drake.

The entire piece is a perfect artistic triumph, one of the most terrific marriages of a gentle acoustic tune to strings; lifted into immortality by the sheer power of its dramatic arrangements. I challenge any soul not to shed a tear as he sings: "No-one knows you but the rain and the air, don’t you worry, they’ll stand and stare when you’re gone."

Five Leaves Left is not going to wow everyone upon a first listen. It is a dark, challenging, articulate and often bleak album dealing with profound and emotive subjects; full of often haunting and powerful tracks which connect on an immediately visceral level. However, it is the universal nature of this music, its profound transcendence, which makes it impossible to ignore for those seeking first-class song writing of an unmatchable pedigree. All those with no Nick Drake in their collection ought to bow their head in despair.

Rating: 10/10

Belle & Sebastian: Tigermilk (1995)

#5

In Possession of It

This album merely confirms what most of us knew anyway. Belle & Sebastian have always possessed it. In fact, they hoard it for themselves and share it around like stolen merchandise from a bicycle raid on some nearby branch of Halfords. As such, they have wormed a special place into my heart and record collection.

This LP was knocked out in 1995, just a few weeks after the band first met in some notorious Glasgow cafe and was unavailable to most folks for a long time, before their reputation as cult favourites was cemented. Subsequent masterworks such as If You’re Feeling Sinister and The Boy With The Arab Strap convinced those with ears that this bursting Caledonian sextet had been raiding bike shops for outrageous supplies of it. But the authorities never convicted them, since they too love a good solipsistic pop ditty. Which fool doesn’t?

Tigermilk, replete with mandatory obscure front cover shot, achieves the same staggering heights as the rest of their albums and carves out their gleefully anachronistic niche with skill, melancholy and panache. Except the one misfire, the over-the-top mess I Could Be Dreaming, this as perfect debut as any young band could hope for. It conveys years of experience and personal pain, despite the fact there might have been very little as of yet in their short lives, and soars to staggering heights of pop classicism worthy only of their idols Felt & The Smiths.

Expectations (3:32)

Stuart Murdoch, principal songsmith, has never really recovered from school. This much is commonplace when listening to any B&S release. With subsequent tunes such as If You’re Feeling Sinister, Dirty Dream Number Two and Lord Anthony he shows candid appreciation of the kind of psychological scars that our time at the chalkface can cause. This tune is about one of his many fictional schoolgirl protagonists, loosely modelled on himself, and once suspects he was the loner inside "making life-sized models of the Velvet Underground in clay" more than his fictitious female.

With their signature acoustic guitar sound and rapid-fire vocals, this demonstrates such effortless mastery of the twee pop tune it seems as though it was imbedded in Mr. Murdoch from birth. The highlight here includes the typically fabulous trumpet solo from Mick Cooke and that uplifting chorus in the face of despair: "Soon you will know that you are sane... you’re on top of the world again!"

She’s Losing It (2:20)

Perhaps the snappiest piece on offer here, this makes states of debilitating consciousness sound rather appealing. With its jazzy trumpets and indelible chorus, it all sways beautifully despite the fact his second fictitious girl is making coffee from "washing up" and their appears to be a touch of unsolicited bed-hopping going on somewhere as well. Or perhaps that is just wishful thinking on my part.

It is precisely this sort of snappy and neat pop sensibility, coupled with lyrical sharpness that makes Murdoch et al so appealing. If they did indeed ram-raid Halfords, then the it they made off with seems evenly distributed in this instance. Although Murdoch perhaps was dropped into a great steaming vat of it when he was a nipper. That would explain the talent seeping from his each and every orifice.

You’re Just A Baby (3:40)

This keeps the momentum going and indulges in those West Coast Beach Boys harmonies which my real-life brother finds so abhorrent about this group. Well, all I can say to that is he enjoys the solo work of Donald Fagen. End of discussion. There are also some neat techniques played with echo here, which lifts the coy vocals from Murdoch from their resigned slump.

The guitar skills of Stevie Jackson are also demonstrated from the powerful shuggle into the tune. The lyrics are more repetitive here, but this one more adequately displays quite how neat a synthesis the band achieves, and how they can build to a neat climax around that catchy chorus of: "There must be a reason for all the looks we gave, and all the things we never said before."

Electronic Renaissance (4:43)

Very unique in the B&S canon, this is one of their more experimental pieces demonstrating their eclecticism perfectly. Spoken-word interludes such as A Century of Elvis or A Space Boy Dream often proved some experiments to be a bad idea, but somehow it works for this very odd but compelling sojourn into electronica. The keyboards are thick, the drum machine thumps in over the rich wash of the music and the whole thing sounds as thought it was recorded underwater. Which reminds me, I once found a treasure trove of it while swimming in Naples, but Isobel Campbell pinged past and stole it for herself.

We Rule The School (3:25)

A sublime forerunner to such poignant piano/violin duets as Fox In The Snow or You Made Me Forget My Dreams, this sounds painful to listen to knowing that violinist Campbell and Murdoch are no longer collaborators. Together, they demonstrated so much it, the listener was just rendered ill at the ludicrous levels. Here, a soft and beautiful little urban ballad is plonked out, and elevates itself into transcendent classic with the gorgeous and unbeatable chorus: "Do something pretty while you can, don’t be a fool, reading the gospel to yourself is fine." No man alive conjures up adolescent heartache quite like Murdoch, and he keeps his lyrics as cryptic as mentor Morrissey for this runaway album highlight.

I Don’t Love Anyone (3:54)

For me, any tune that boasts the chorus "if there’s one thing that I learned when I was still a child it’s to take a hiding" gets the triple thumbs up. This is a beautifully dispassionate tune, gleefully combining the witty, battle-scarred lyrics with lush melodies in that way only this fabulous group can. Note also the neat little flourishes from Jackson and the throbbing bass support of Stuart David.

Tigermilk may be a lesser known album from B&S but it certainly does not skimp with the magnificent tunes. Opener The State I Am In appeared as a B-side in slowed down form on the Dog On Wheels single but this is the definitive version, replete with tropical guitars in the intro and some very nifty harmonies indeed. My Wandering Days Are Over unfolds into a forlorn piece across a rather haywire bed of guitars and squidgy keyboard accompaniment, but retains its cool for its duration.

The same cannot be said for the one clunker I Could Be Dreaming which fumbles its way through awkward time signatures, irritating guitars and a misjudged spoken-word part from Campbell in the fade-out. Closer Mary Jo is the very definition of twee-pop with its classic-folk approach and throwback flute. However, it does swirl into a sublime ring of sixties nostalgia which is never off-putting. Unless one loathed the decade. No one does. It was brimming with it.

A terrific debut from this exceptional outfit. Long may they live and flourish with their back-of-the-class cool, their stellar pop credentials and stunning radio looks. I love ‘em all.

Rating: 8/10

The Fall: Grotesque (After the Gramme) (1980)

#4

The North Rises Again

With a clang-clang here and a thump-thump there, out spills The Fall – a Northern grin on the faces of all those members not named Mark E. Smith.

I believe these to be the primary stages of another musical obsession. It started with Lou Reed. Then moved to Joe Strummer. Then hopped to Nick Cave. It is always the misanthropes with me, damn it! If I endeavour to re-read this review in one year’s time, I will look back upon how uneducated in the ways of the band I was, then spin another of my forty LPs with a cockeyed grin on my face. I will also promise myself to get a sodding life.

What attracts me to this unit is that they are apotheosis of all experimental post-punk acts, rampant experimentalists and barbed wordsmiths of mouth-watering proportions. For someone who likes his music ramshackle, his lyricism literate/cryptic and his oeuvres bountiful with brilliant albums, The Fall seem like my dream band. On top of this, their leader has a pleasantly apocalyptic vision rooted in despair, intolerance and personal hypocrisy. Which is nice too.

Grotesque (After The Gramme) was pushed out in 1980 and has been spinning like a overzealous ballerina in the old CD turntable for nigh on a month. It is an addictive blast of bewitching cult music, abound with thunderous rhythms and lyrics spikier than Davy Jones’ cutlass. The appeal of this band is their wicked combination of coiling hooks, mesmerising experimental musicianship and the distinctively sardonic bile of head honcho Mark E. Smith. The band kept itself fresh through its “revolving door” policy of replacing members to keep the sound alive.

Pay Your Rates, lead-off track, is a fine example of the band firing on all cylinders; a broken-down, leftfield attack from the belly of the proletarian beast at the very beginning of Thatcher’s Hell. With a rampant lead guitar from Craig Scanlon and hounding rhythm section from Marc Riley, this blast of noise crumbles after the first minute, silting into a nightmarish cradle like a Northern tower block nestling in rubble. It surfaces into a sort of drooling nirvana of garbled mantras such as “debtors retreat escape” before building into the defiant crash-thrash of common sense in the final minute. Why is this wonderful? Ask the heavens.

English Scheme is a two-minute snapshot of race war in Britain, delivering a swift and infectious blow over the sickening hurl of disjointed keyboards and the bullet-sharp drumming of Paul Hanley. The rapid-fire build-up of vitriol creates a fine picture of Britain in the grip of mounting turmoil, and this tune sounds close to furious eruption on several times, bowing out with the unsettling truth: “If we was smart we’d emigrate.”

New Face In Hell is a classic, lead by a jangling guitar which throttles through a distasteful yarn about the government planting evidence to frame an innocent man and boasts an outrageous lead hook buzzed out on the kazoo. If ever one tune captured the rapturous sound of disrespectful young people sticking their tongues out at the powers-that-be, it would be this addictive and lengthier kick in the pants.

C ‘n’ C – S Mithering is the most experimental number to be savoured. One repeated hook on the acoustic guitar, the swirling melody is kept interesting through creative drumming and elegant bass work while it segues through its delayed music biz observations into a stream-of-consciousness rant which touches upon everything from “the upstairs Jewish girl” to “a circle of low IQs.”

The Container Drivers is a breakneck rattle through the motorways of Britain; an often incomprehensible look at life through the eyes of the humble truck driver. All romanticism of the road is stripped away in favour of a clamouring rockabilly attack on the transience of technology. Once more, this an exhilarating and informative rush.

Impression of J Temperance builds over a swirling bass line and underground synthesisers into a disconcerting science fiction tale of some beast being born from some gooey mould, culminating over a tin-pan throb with the repeated chant of “this hideous replica.”

Oh, it is addictive. Ever lesser moments such as the crass filler In The Park or the bizarre homemade garbage of primitive drumming via four-track WMC – Blob 59 have a probative curiosity afoot. Likewise, the bouncy Gramme Friday makes for a howling treat with its Tantric hook and garbled vocal loopings.

The NWRA concludes the original album, a nine-minute trek into some inner-city dystopia which endeavours to imagine the north/south divide gone haywire. With its swirling guitar hook and stomping synthesiser, it shifts from a music-hall-in-hell sound into a disturbing wash of sound over which Mark E. Smith is given free reign to narrate a story of violence and uprising. Here, Edinburgh is used as the base of operations for the north of Britain to seize the south, and Smith predicts the subsequent riots and upset in Britain. The guitar starts to splinter like falling bombs or shards of glass and towards the end, it wages a war on your eardrums. A hypnotic piece de resistance.

Castle Records in 2004 re-issued five or six albums in deluxe format, and this edition collects crucial singles from the era, including the paean to writer’s block How I Wrote ‘Elastic Man’ and the obnoxious stomp of City Hobgoblins.

There are no real missteps on this album, but the bizarre looseness of Totally Wired makes for a weak single. B-side Putta Block fuses a vampiric demo of The NWRA before it splices the actual tune (rather crudely) into the mix. There is also a Self-Interview with Mark E. Smith recorded at the time, and without music to hide behind he makes less sense than he does in the songs. A strange curio for die-hards only. Which is soon to be me, I’d imagine.

Grotesque (After The Gramme) is another terrific effort from The Fall in a canon chock full of them. A focussed effort in wonderful thrash-bash and literate melody twisting, it deserves a place in the collections of all those in love with experimental rock music par excellence.

Rating: 9/10

John Cale: Sabotage (Live) (1979)

#3

A Punch of Salt

Although John Cale’s time in the Velvets was not phenomenally long-lived, his name will forever be tacked onto that revolutionary rock outfit. The majority of people will only become aware of him via such gems as their & Nico debut album, or the classic White Light/ White Heat LP. It is a badge he wears with pride, presumably, although you wonder how peeved he is that it might have overshadowed his own fantastic solo work.

Perhaps not too peeved. John Cale has always been a splendid contradiction, recording more or less the type of music he wants to without chasing the trends of any decade. During the late seventies at the height of punk, Cale returned to rock music, and went touring with his band recording angry songs against the Vietnam war and the social decay of the time. He also joined in with the on stage anarchy and mayhem, allegedly hacking a chicken to death during one evening and joined Patti Smith for several dates as well, of course.

This album, partly live, captures the rock songs he recorded during this period. Since they are Cale’s own works, they are more sophisticated than the sloppy three-chord punk from many bands, and err more on the side of prog rock, with occasional poppy flourishes peaking through. Cale famously spent most of the seventies in the company of such men as Brian Eno and Phil Manzenera, and worked on crafting pop gems and classical songs, the fruits of his labours perhaps best captured in the The Island Years double disc set or the Paris 1919 LP.

These tunes still pounce and throb with power today, and he has a superb bunch of young punk guitarists playing with him, who join in with his rip-roaring solos. It is these which make this album a success and one of his strongest artistic statements as far as rock music is concerned. The set starts off with explosive rock tracks, before settling into a dark and progressive middle half, then ultimately is brought down to earth with a sane conclusion, Cale not completely surrendering himself to reckless abandon, pushing forty around this time.

Tacked onto the original album is the Animal Justice EP, which contains some quirky rock songs, and drags the album off into a long series of more convoluted and indulgent pieces that bring the release down somewhat, especially the gothic closer Rosegarden Funeral of Sores (later covered by Bauhaus).

The majority of tracks here, however, are hugely impressive, and this is the only real album of rock Cale ever recorded, and as close to the brutal assault of White Light/ White Heat as he ever really pulled off himself. I would recommend this to all those who want to hear Cale rocking his hardest, something he rarely did on his albums, or a record which almost matches the power of Lou Reed’s Rock N Roll Animal live disc.

The songs were recorded at the legendary punk venue CBGB’s in New York, in case more authenticity were needed that this is full-on stuff. The stage was decorated with a television screen showing some unpleasant explosions behind the gig. Cale was also made out in a hard hat and camouflage gear which hammered the message home.

1. Mercenaries (Ready For War) (7:54)

Gentle rumbling from the crowd begins this blistering opener. The brutal bass line throbs, establishing the song’s militaristic beat. Cale kicks proceedings off in style with his opening rant: "Mercenaries are useless! Disunited, unfaithful. They have nothing more to keep them in a battle, other than a meagre wage, which is just enough to make them want to kill for you, but not enough to make them want to die for you!"

His original Welsh accent still trickles through here, with a much more American tinge, then the guitars and drums blast in noisily with the first of the many screeching and strangled solos. "I’m just another solider boy! Looking for work, looking for war!"

Cale begins while the guitars jangle to the sneering lyrics. The whole song emanates the punk swagger of the time, with enough reckless tinges to convey anger and enough sarcastic humour to please the crowds. The most appealing moments of this song are the truly thrilling solos between each verse which set the fret board ablaze.

Marc Aaron is on lead guitar here and provides many of these fine moments but Cale is no slouch on guitar either. A modulation in the fourth minute keeps the song blazing and full of fury, and the playing here is nothing short of awe-inspiring and probably put many aspiring punk bands to shame. Lyrically, Cale seems to be attacking the gung-ho attitude of western troops in search for war, captured with the sentiment: "Trying to separate me from my money is like separating me from my life!"

The climax of the song keeps the relentless pace going and it is difficult not to be shocked when Cale starts to sing with increasing panic as if a bomb is about to explode. He begins a countdown and ends the refrain with his unique screech, immortalised in the legendary song Guts from one of his early albums: "Five thousand feet and closing… visibility zero!"

George Scott’s bass playing is razor sharp here, and Doug Bowne on drums also keeps things loud and uncompromising. There are a few plonks on the keyboard throughout, played by Joe Bidwell, but his contribution gets lost amid the glorious chaos. The song ends with a wash of feedback, and they somehow make their guitars sound like bombs a few moments after detonation. A quite unbeatable opener.

2. Baby You Know (4:01)

The keyboard is given more reign on this track and it plays the slightly less punky and more synthesised melody, overtaken by the gloriously seventies solo. The assault is less intimidating here, giving the audience some time to catch their breath after the dazzling opener. The keyboard plays more of an integral part in the melody, although the guitar still drives the song forward, along with the drums which are pushed into the back of the mix. Cale falls onto safe lyrical territory with a song about relationship problems, and the pace of the opener is matched when the song leaps into some wonderful guitar solos and a joyous solo on keyboard as well.

The instrumentation does seem raspy and squished in places, but the pace of the song is just as aggressive, in a more subtle way, especially Cale’s repeated cry of: "The more the get you want, the get the more you want!" The crowd’s response afterwards is slightly disappointing but perhaps there were few people in that evening.

3. Evidence (3:32)

The guitars growl and the confident, noisy pace is re-established for this thrusting track. The bass is dangerously unhinged throughout the song and the solos leap in and out of the verses with impunity. Cale enters with: "This is the morning after, the one the night before. Come crawling through your window, come crawling through your door." The final minute of the song is abound with solos, which screech dangerously at the highest notes of the fret board. Lyrically the song is haywire, but the words are slick and cool enough for this type of music, and he doesn’t have to perform spoken-word Dylan Thomas for it to kick ass.

The structures here, although at odds with the less tuneful ethic of punk rock are still impressive. All in all, the songs here are more impressive than the often sloppy melodies of punk, as these are professionals who know how to craft an engaging rock song. One problem with these tracks, however is that they all seem to bow out without a great deal of racket, and this one in particular has a slightly weak ending.

4. Dr. Mudd (3:54)

Perhaps the closest to Cale’s pop influences, this is fiendishly enjoyable song with an indelible hook and some unexpected ‘do-do’ backing from his players. The bass and drums keep the tune’s catchy melody going here, and it almost detracts from Cale’s confrontational lyrics. "What you gonna do, when China drops a bomb on you?" he asks, shot down by the irreverent backing of his snot-nosed band.

The solos are pushed out of the mix here, sounding more tinny and the bass and drums have the overall dominance, along with Cale who is very coherent throughout. This is actually a surprisingly upbeat track, irrespective of its lyrics, which suggest they were maybe on the wrong tack as far as tone is concerned. If the opener made you sit up and take notice, then this would have the opposite effect. As it stands, it is a skewered piece of rock where Cale just can’t shake off his Brian Wilson fixation long enough to make his points.

5. Walkin’ The Dog (4:08)

Written by Rufus Thomas, this propels the album further away from the aggressive territory towards a lighter, catchier and friendly sound. Just as likeable as the previous song this has another fine chorus which is impossible not to enjoy. "Baby’s back, dressed in black, silver buttons all down her back," he sings, accompanied on gang chorus by the rest of his band. Deerfrance, a punkier version of Nico joins in on backing vocals here before her star turn later on.

There’s a splendidly splintered solo towards the end, and the keyboards keep the tune fresh throughout, taking some of the menace from their sound. The bass is just as raspy as in previous songs and the drums are finely in sync, but this is far too cheerful to be filled with the fire-and-brimstone of punk angst. If anything the assault of the album has been diluted by this stage of the album, but it shifts in a darker direction anyway, so these songs are mainly huge fun.

6. Captain Hook (11:27)

"Take it with a pinch of salt," Cale mutters as this song opens. This comment seems to capture the entire feel of this album and their sessions here, and puts everyone’s mind at ease with regards to their intentions. With that cleared up, this song is free to be enjoyed for the mini-masterpiece it is. This is a large piece of arty prog rock, more akin to the lengthy voyages of Tom Verlaine’s Television than the thrust and power of the Pistols.

For all its indulgence and length, this is a hugely impressive centrepiece. The guitars tingle and screech together, creating these grand waterfalls of noise which are as enchanting as they are mysterious. The drums uncertainly thump and the bass puffs like some gentle waves, creating a choppy sound, perhaps supposed to capture the feeling of being lost at sea.

As a piece of musical imagery, this idea is powerful and makes this track something of a classic in Cale’s oeuvre. A very affecting song indeed. The lengthy intro fades at the end of the third minute, and the keyboard slowly plays the funereal melody. This song then becomes a bleak, mid-tempo voyage and Cale takes us into the gorgeous but despairing landscape he has created.

Deerfrance provides backing vocals which are powerful over the coughing bass and dark guitars, sounding more and more distant and out of reach. "I lost my memory today, the day my ship set sail," Cale begins. The track is at its most powerful after the choruses where Cale sings: "I can’t keep living like this no more, can’t you see you’re losing me… again."

The sudden emotional intensity of this song is unexpected, but it is wholly appropriate given the decaying climate of the time, and the uncertainty that dogged people’s lives during the recessions of the late seventies. Bearing that in mind, this is a strong snapshot of the times and still a strong piece by today’s standards. Another lengthy solo moves the song towards its luscious and powerful climax, and the track has an almost hypnotic quality, with its shimmering guitars and increasingly intense harmonies.

"By hook or by crook, I am the captain of this light!" Cale screeches over the polished solos, refined as the band toured with these songs over the years. This, and the other songs began as improvisations, and from that process this masterpiece grew. The true highlight of this album, this receives the rapturous applause it deserves afterwards from the crowd, and makes the album something more than a collection of rock songs from Cale to keep his oar in.

7. Only Time Will Tell (2:26)

A gentle ballad, sung by Deerfrance, someone almost as uniformly odd as Nico. Her voice is gentle and pretty, with more of an emotional range than the Velvets chanteuse. It is a better voice overall, and works well with the moving viola, played by Cale, and plonks from the keyboard. The song seems an afterthought from the previous monster, looking at the current state of affairs and making the assertion that only time will tell if things shall improve from the unpleasant state they are in at the moment. A bleak sentiment perhaps, but 1979 was no picnic for New York or London, the two hotbeds of urban decay and punk. A gorgeous track, and an almost necessary addendum to the last song.

8. Sabotage (4:25)

The groggy bass and haywire passages on the guitar keep this song fresh, if much harder to like at first. The structure is less conventional here, and the improvisatory feel is obvious as no real song evolves from the mad burps and screeches on the bass and guitars. The drums thud whenever they feel like it and the music is essentially a bed for Cale’s rants. "Read and destroy everything that you read in the press/ It’s a waste of time it’s a waste of energy, whatever you read in books, leave it there!" he yells. This is first and foremost a rant and Cale makes sure that his point is clearly made, without resorting to layers of feedback and more primal assault favoured by groups of the time.

His repeated yells of "Sabotage!" at each chorus, along with sweeping statements as "Human intelligence isn’t what is used to be!" slams the message home nicely. This is another snapshot of the times, and by the time the song finishes, you can almost feel the entire fabric of society splitting completely as the music stops and he’s left alone on stage repeating that buzz word of the time just once more and once more, while the crowd remain mesmerised and palliated. Oddly powerful. It was later ripped off in To The Kill by the Violent Femmes.

9. Chorale (3:45)

The set bows out peacefully, in a forward-looking way. This track which seems to suggest that religion is the answer. The guitars use feedback in a powerful manner, creating a more sweeping sound while Cale’s voice takes centre stage. "The chorale of the living and the chorale of the dead, hand in hand from the beginning to the end," he sings, accompanied on backing vocals by Bidwell and Scott, who also play brief flashes of harmonica.

His verses are slightly unclear here, and unfortunately drag on without much point and reach their powerful conclusion without need of a second verse. Towards the end, the drums play a militaristic roll which makes this sound like some elegy for the fallen in a war, furthering the militaristic imagery but carrying it off with less success. Unsurprisingly, nobody in the audience claps this.

10. Chickenshit (3:34)

The songs on the Animal Justice EP are nothing special at all, and actually bring the album down somewhat. It is always hard to complain about bonus material, however, as it can be ignored by wishy-washy jerks like me. The first of these songs is an average rocker, cut through with kooky snippets of people muttering hearsay about the protagonist who has, by the sounds of things, done something rather bad.

Opening with the declaration of: "Hi, my name’s Arthur and I quit!" the tone here is at complete odds with the more serious material of the album, and this crosses the gap between genuine anger and self-parody. This hasn’t stood the test of time very well, and given how plenty of Cale’s material sounds camp anyway, this does him less favours. Still, there are some neat solos here on a par with those during the live set, but the track is too whimsical to merit repeated listens, except for picky, meticulous pedants like me.

11. Memphis (3:24)

The last rocker, this comes off more successfully than the previous track. The sound is cooler and more detached, with a bouncier melody and some surging bass. The chorus also makes use of the top guitarists with some very screechy solos indeed which sound like they’re being played on a violin and not a guitar. The lyrics have nothing to do with the themes of the album, and are frustratingly about relationships again but plus points go to the acoustic guitar solos. The western influence of the song which is obvious in the title, is pleasing. The finest song of the bonus material.

12. Hedda Gabler (8:10)

The final two tracks are far too long and don’t have anything except interest for rock historians and those interested in sub-par material. Which isn’t a huge amount of people, I think. This track is either about the 1890 play by Henrik Ibsen, a Norwegian dramatist whose work has influenced modern drama hugely, or someone else of the same name Cale knew. Given his previous literary references, I’d imagine the former is nearer the truth.

This is a long and bleak song which opens up into a great landscape, akin to a particularly indulgent Eno composition. The use of sonics here is impressive and it has a lengthy and almost hypnotic charm when the organ and drums slam in for each chorus. Given how it takes over two minutes for the first rendition of the chorus, this is far too long to wait, and given the topic is consciously arty and literate Cale is clearly just taking a chance with this song. Sometimes these types of tracks can be incredibly relaxing and enchanting but this is unfortunately just soporific and overlong.

13. Rosegarden Funeral of Sores (5:43)

The album closes with this odd and unintentionally amusing track, where Cale affects his finest gothic drawl. The bass grunts with its finest menace, and the synthesisers keep the slow, crawling track going as he casts one eye towards the dark, dark times of the eighties. It’s not very entertaining but there is an immeasurable joy in hearing Cale sing: "A paralytic stream of whores, in the rosegarden funeral of sores." It needs to be three minutes shorter, and that drum machine grates slightly after a few seconds. A poor way to round things off, but the song found life after being covered by cult act Bauhaus.

This live album has been touted as one of the best live rock albums of the seventies, and it certainly ranks up their with the finest live testaments of the punk era. Lou Reed’s Take No Prisoners effort was nothing short of dire, and with such classics as the Clash’s From Here To Eternity to compete with, this holds its head high as not only one the best rock albums of the late seventies, bit one of Cale’s most enjoyable efforts.

The original nine tracks here all have their merits and among these songs there are very few problems. The tone of the music is at times slightly off-kilter, but the majority of material here is nothing short of exceptional, and I would certainly recommend this to those looking for life after the Velvets or some of Cale’s most edgy and uncompromising work. The bonus material mires the final portion of the album down, but if one skips these tracks, then one is fine and dandy. Recommended.

Rating: 8/10