Album Reviews

Penguin Cafe Orchestra (1981)

Moments of sheer idyllic bliss along with quirky weirdness. A lot of albums could be described in this way, but this is probably the most fitting. It’s got a sentimental and calm feel to it, forcing you to think about happy things. It’s almost as if the album is made up of a group of people you know, rather than a group of songs. Some of them are delightfully innovative; they charm the hell out of you, like ‘Telephone and a Rubber Band’ – which samples a telephone signal – sounding like some pleasant dream that makes you chuckle as you wake up. Each track has its own personality, be it thoughtful and calm or lively and energetic but there are rarely any sad moments. It may be relaxed, but it’s a very conscious record; you can’t fall asleep to it, which is a shame because it’s a kind of record that’ll put you into a really good dreamy mood for it, although, ‘Yodel 1′ and ‘Numbers 1 – 4′ could supply that. It’s also so much more of an organic record than its predecessor ‘Music From The Penguin Cafe’. That record sounds more like black and white kitchen floors compared to this natural-sounding wonder.

With this album, the Penguin Cafe Orchestra achieve something higher than cheefulness and/or dreaminess and achieves it with personality and charisma. An almost universally likeable record. —Joe

Wire “Behind The Curtain” (1995)

Where haaave you been hiding this, life?! Uhh, Behind The Curtain. Heh heh.

Believe it or not, we had no idea this lil’ corker existed until the other night, when after already extending the gentlemanly gesture of giving us a lift, our buddy lays this one on us for the ride home. Sand In My Joints! Map Ref 41 N 93 W? Underwater Experiences, and a bunch of other songs we’d never heard?!?! Driver, you really know how to talk to a girl.

Behind The Curtain, it turns out, is a collection of demos, live, and, unreleased Wire material from 1977-78 – i.e., songs that would wind up on Pink Flag, Chairs Missing, and 154, a near-flawless triumvirate of albums if ever there was one. Rawer, and even more urgent than their album versions, some of these takes may actually get a leg up on their better-produced counterparts. While some of this stuff has surfaced here and there over the years, there is a lot of material that hasn’t, with 13 tracks unreleased in any form. Even this compilation seems to be in short supply, having only seen release in the UK, and languishing in out-of-print purgatory for years.

Collections like these often serve little purpose beyond the label’s ongoing compulsion to get more product into the market. With Wire though, it’s an essential document (and eyewitness) of a band’s all-too-brief formative stages. Unlike many of their peers, Wire’s progression from the trappings of punk into a bolder, more experimental sound occurred at a staggering clip. It’s mind-boggling to think that this band went from the 1-2-XU, barely-holding-it-together snottiness of the early live tracks here to the stark and nuanced ambient mood pieces of “A Touching Display” in a span of 18 months. Which makes this material all the more crucial. After Pink Flag, one of the more cohesive statements to come out of punk, Wire would tear up the map, never to return for the most part. Behind The Curtain puts this in perspective, connecting the dots for those that care to follow. This is how it started, and how they got to where they were going. —Jonathan

The Masked Marauders (1969)

An album that caused much curiosity as well as controversy when it was released late in 1969. The entire concept and mystique of The Masked Marauders (many would call it a hoax) was the brainchild of a then-staff writer at Rolling Stone magazine. From the beginning, the writer only intended it to be a joke, and pushed it to the extreme by printing a phony article about the band in Rolling Stone, as well as touting the upcoming release of the album. The joke obviously worked from the writer’s point of view, but apparently, the record-buying public didn’t get it.

The Masked Marauders were rumored to consist of Paul McCartney, George Harrison, John Lennon, Mick Jagger and Bob Dylan, all of whom supposedly performed on the record anonymously and without photos to preserve the “secrecy” (hence the group’s name). This caused the rumor mill to churn, and public anticipation of the album was so high that people lined up in droves at record shops to buy it on the day it was released. But as it turned out, the Masked Marauders were indeed not the “supergroup” everyone thought them to be, but actually a group of struggling studio musicians calling themselves “The Cleanliness and Godliness Skiffle Band”. Confused? Don’t feel bad, everyone else was, too!

The album’s hilarious liner notes alone showed that it totally reeked of farce, with the aforementioned Rolling Stone writer composing them under the pseudonym “T.M. Christian”. For those of you who don’t understand what that means, “T.M. Christian” is a play on words for a Peter Sellers movie from that same period called “The Magic Christian”, which also featured Ringo Starr. That probably explains why Ringo didn’t have time to appear on the Masked Marauders album (tongue firmly in cheek there!) The best bits of the liner notes are, and I quote: “leading experts now estimate that the music industry is 90% hype and 10% bullshit”; and “in a world of sham, the Masked Marauders, bless their hearts, are the genuine article” (are you getting the picture now?)

Now if all of THAT wasn’t enough to send you into hysterics, here’s the lowdown on the music: many of the songs on the album are every bit as tongue-in-cheek and performed the same way. For example, the lead track “I Can’t Get No Nookie” comes complete with a nearly dead-on vocal impersonation of Mick Jagger, and the classic “Duke Of Earl” is given another hilariously accurate impersonation, this time of Bob Dylan. Also included is a 10 minute-plus version of Donovan’s “Season Of The Witch”. This could qualify as the only “serious” track on the album, and it’s actually performed quite well; one of the best versions I’ve heard next to the one on the album “Super Session” by Mike Bloomfield, Stephen Stills & Al Kooper (yes, they were a REAL supergroup!)

If you got the “joke”, then get the album; for what it is, you’ll enjoy it! —Chuck

Tuxedomoon “Half-Mute” (1980)

Seductive, repetitive and wholly original for its time, Half-Mute is a brilliant fusion of punk sensibilities with arty self-indulgence. Moody, depressing and suicidal equally describe the bleak atmospheres this San Francisco trio create with a host of instruments, ranging from synths and pianos to saxes and violins. “What Use?” is a remarkable distillation of the group’s arty aesthetic of ennui and isolation–a veritable sonic anatomy of the apocalyptic fallout of the American landscape in 1980. Engagingly eccentric. —Hawklord

John Cale “Paris 1919” (1973)

It’s telling that Warner Brothers tags John Cale’s Paris 1919 as ‘classical’ music. While most would consider it rock or pop, it certainly is a genre defying album. With assistance from the UCLA symphony orchestra, Paris 1919 is heavy on strings juxtaposed with piano and guitar. Though, no particular instrument dominates the proceedings. In fact, all nine tracks are seamless, which is a small miracle anytime rock musicians recruit orchestras. The lyrics, seemingly about Western European aristocrats, are deeply impressionistic. Rarely is a clear story told, but the imagery is vivid.  The tone of the entire album – excepting the rocker “MacBeth” – is melancholic, as Cale is an observer of these characters milling about and passing through his sights. However, Cale doesn’t seem to have a favorable view of the upper crust of Western European society. I like to think “Half Past France,” the second to last track, represents Cale’s exit from this society, though it’s not clear who Cale thinks is after him (“If they’re alive then I am dead.”). The last song, “Antartica Starts Here,” which Cale whispers, seemingly is about a woman’s fading appeal, perhaps a metaphor for a stagnant and dying culture, or maybe just another composite sketch, part of the greater whole. —m patton

John Lee Hooker & Canned Heat “Hooker ’n Heat” (1971)

There have been a number of albums produced over the years which match a legendary figure from blues music with some his admirers in well known contemporary rock or blues bands. Blues and other music critics often lambast these efforts and hold them in utmost contempt. Some of these sessions are truly awful but some come off well, such as “Fathers and Sons” with Muddy Waters and the Paul Butterfield Blues Band. “Hooker ‘N’ Heat,” released on Liberty Records in 1970, stands as possibly the best example of generational meeting of the minds. Canned Heat was at the top of their popularity and Hooker was fading from the public eye somewhat. This record helped to revitalize interest in Hooker’s music. Most of Hooker’s best work, out of hundreds of recordings, many under assumed names, is solo, just “The Hook,” his left foot and his guitar. On albums where he recorded with full bands or other accompaniment his rough, often uneven style, with a measure count that often varied, didn’t mesh well with musicians accustomed to playing arrangements or standard blues classics. Sometimes the clash detracted from the product. The band Canned Heat had no such problems. It was obvious that he loved the band and they loved him! Bob “The Bear” Hite, the band leader, who usually provided the gruff vocals on much of the band’s material, was a blues collector and historian and was well acquainted with Hooker’s music and the band itself was rough hewn and unpolished but played with feeling and a respect for the music. Hite is not heard on the album. He wisely stood aside and gave the spotlight to Hooker. No band ever backed the Hook better. This was the last album for ‘Heat member Alan Wilson, who plays harmonica and piano. Wilson would soon after be dead from poisoning and choking on barbituates while on a camping trip. Wilson plays inspired harp on this album and gets special recognition from Hooker for it. Wilson is one of the under rated harmonica players of our time and this stands as his memorial. With the recent passing of John Lee Hooker this album could be considered among his best work as well. —Dick

Spellbinder “Gabor Szabo” (1966)

Take a Latin rhythm section and add a Hungarian immigrant with formal musical training and a love of Jazz and Gypsies. Then place in a recording studio in 1966 with a producer with the courage and deep pockets to let the music happen largely unplanned. Now add a touch of genius and a sprinkling of bad taste and you have Spellbinder. I have to say that I can easily forgive the vocal because it is so charming. It really is disarmingly silly. And the overdubs are out of place. BUT Spellbinder and Gypsies Queen are well worth the price of admission, and most of the other tunes are very moving as well. This is one of the most enjoyable, spontaneous and heartfelt guitar albums of the 60s. No, Gabor Szabo is not Jimi Hendrix or Johnny Smith. Let’s say he is to Hendrix or Smith as Scriabin is to Brahms. It is a wild and magical trip complete with an occasional Hungarian guttural. Relax. Close your eyes. Let it happen. Take the trip. —Mitchell

Warren Zevon “Warren Zevon” (1976)

You all know him as the “Werewolf in London”, but beyond that infectious radio hit, Warren Zevon has always been an ‘if you know you know’ kind of artist. The shadow cast between Zevon’s work and public appeal is no mystery. The guy doesn’t really look cool or attractive, he’s not edgy in any kind of an outsider way, and he doesn’t seem to have an angle. Yet, all these things seem to contribute to the charm once you’re in on it. Sort of cheesy arrangements placed over very well crafted, very mainstream LA sounding songs drenched in black humor. Almost lounge-y style of vocal delivery, which only seems to fit because he was such a known porn-addict/party dog that even when the songs are sad you kind of chuckle. He spent years as a loved session musician before calling on his friends to return the favor, so this album is loaded with guest appearances including some of the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Jackson Brown (also the producer), Bobby keys, Bonnie Rait, and many more, all lending some talent to this wonderful, and wonderfully overlooked record. —Alex

Nick Mason “Fictitious Sports” (1981)

One of the best Pink Floyd solo albums, but it’s not really fair to characterize it as such as it’s really a Carla Bley album that Mason agreed to put his name on in the hope of shifting more copies. (We can see how well that worked! Maybe if they had thrown a flying pig on…)

Anyway, it’s a superb record, and considering Wyatt was in sort of semi-retirement at the time this was recorded (he did very, very little between the ’75 Henry Cow gigs and the Rough Trade singles that formed the basis of “Nothing Can Stop Us”) it’s a great pleasure to hear his voice on the majority of the album. “I’m A Mineralist”, a simultaneous parody of sexual perversion and Philip Glass, is often cited as the highlight and indeed it is a very good song, but there’s honestly not anything bad on tap anywhere. Recommended to Wyatt and Bley fans. For anyone buying this hoping to hear some of the excitement and thrills of “The Grand Vizier’s Garden Party”… WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? —David

Rosebud “Discoballs – A Tribute to Pink Floyd” (1977)

Being neither a massive fan of Pink Floyd OR Disco at the time I discovered Rosebud, you’d have been hard-pressed to convince me of this record’s genius based on description alone.  But holy crap – this record goes beyond likes and dislikes, preferences and prejudices.  Throw this sick puppy on the turntable once and JUST TRY to deny the power.  I defy you to.

Like nearly all Disco success stories of the day, Rosebud was a studio project, strategically assembled from the cream of French session musicians of the era.  The group lineup here is as impressive as it is confounding, featuring two members of the esteemed prog outfit, Magma, and a future Oscar and Grammy award winner in producer/arranger Gabriel Yared.  Yared would go on to future triumphs with highly-acclaimed scores for “The English Patient,” “Cold Mountain,” and “The Talented Mr. Ripley,” but Discoballs made his name as a world-class producer/arranger, hinting at his bright future in composition.

A project like this could easily have slid down the treacherous slope into novelty, but the performances and arrangements are too combustible and visionary to dismiss.  The dance floor incinerating transformation of “Have A Cigar” checks all of the boxes requisite for a disco track, while managing to sound fresh and exciting, building steadily to an ecstatic finale.  The band play in such a tightly-coiled and controlled funk pocket that it almost sounds looped, and Yared’s subtle touches – hand claps on the breaks, cowbells dropping where the conga line would be,  swooping string stabs – capitalize on the tension the band builds, whipping it into a frenzy of aural sensation by track’s end.  All of this without the musicians ever breaking, or even varying from the initial vamp set up at the outset of the track.  Even if there wasn’t an entire album of Floyd standards to ice the cake, “Have A Cigar” would be a legendary statement in and of itself.  This is one of those tracks that feels like a total genesis moment – pointing the way forward to the House, Techno, and Electro movements of the ’80’s.  I’d wager to guess there’d be no LCD Soundsystem without this record as well.

As my uncle always says whenever he hears this – “Man, when this song would play at Circus people would go crazy – dancing, fighting, pushing…” —YouTube comments for “Have A Cigar.”  Nuff sed.  —Jonathan Treneff

Moby Grape “20 Granite Creek” (1971)

I’ve come to realize two things about Moby Grape: one is that they are very much the sum of five very different songwriters, preventing a certain cohesiveness to their records.  The other is that their good songs are so good that they make having every record worth it just to use as mix tape secret weapons. “20 granite creek” was recorded after the bands first split as sort of a last attempt to mend the original Grape during that era, and it’s certainly the most solid album since their classic self-tiled debut. Most people (record nerds I mean) will jump straight to Skip Spence when referring to Moby Grape’s music of deeper conscience. This is understandable since he’s kind of the U.S. version of Syd Barrett; your classic “acid casualty” who split from the Grape due to insanity, relocating from groovy california to nutty Bellevue Hospital in New York for a stint, followed by the classic head-damaged solo album “OAR”. But even after a resume like that, Spence’s contributions of dark emotion fall flat to the songs of over-looked member Peter Lewis. where Lewis gets his muse is beyond me. He seems far more boring of a 60’s dude than Skip, however, his songs, “Apocalypse” and “Horse out in the Rain” are not only the best of “20 Granite Creek” but the best Moby Grape songs period. Apocalyspe is sort of a Byrds or Neil Young like tune, in which its very rocking and electric guitar based, but with a mellowness in the vocals that spans across the paced hook of the drums. The last track on the record “Horse” is something else all together. A short dark little folk tune laced in echo and reverb string arrangements. Very, very haunting.  And the rest of this rockin’ little record is pretty good too, especially with aid of doobie smoke or incense to paint the mood. But again those two afore mentioned songs are more than worth what modest amount this LP costs, because both possess that rare, magical thing that the best psychedelic music of late 60’s/early 70’s possesses: a timeless quality. —Alex

Patti Smith “Horses” (1975)

During the late 1990’s, in my young teenage years, I fell deeply into your standard “punk” phase. Naturally I was well aware from day one that “Horses” stood as some sort of ultimate classic among the genre’s first outpour. Teachers would tell you this, parents, Rolling Stone magazine. As a young idiot, i would agree. Maybe out of guilt for not “getting it”. I realize now that that’s total bullshit. “Horses” is not a great punk album. Not anymore. Not to a kid. It is, however, one of the finest rock albums ever crafted. Perfect 70’s, in-the-pocket, electric guitar music stretched across unchained, stream of conscience song writing. It’s so genius in the way that Patti Smith seems to understand that the groove of rudimentary rock music is in itself high art. No need to delude it with prog timing or bloated arrangements. Yet as organic as the record sounds, it still comes across like some wild audio painting with no concrete rules or limits. The way that the band speeds up and slows down through tracks like “free money” or the title track, is so natural, so jammin’, that i find myself uncontrollably shaking my hips with every listen, including right now behind the counter at Jive Time. Now that’s a true monument to American culture, counter or otherwise. For fans of The Stones, The Velvets, or American high art in general. Not for punks. —Alex