Rock

Tim Buckley had already begun to alienate his folkie fanbase with “Lorca” a few months earlier– what the hell was up with this golden-voiced disciple of Fred Neil? Why would he release an album filled with meandering free jazz-like structures and vocal gymnastics that made it sound as though he was being disemboweled? Well, if they wuz bewildered by “Lorca,” “Starsailor” musta felt like a kick in the groin. Not only was it a continuation of the avant garde themes which in hindsight, he’d barely scratched, it was a full-on operetta revolving around the pit of anguish that burned in his guts; he also began to fully utilize the five and a half octave vocal range he had at his disposal.

I’m gonna hazard a guess that Buckley had been listening intently to Leon Thomas– particularly his work with Pharaoh Sanders on “Karma.” He liberally borrows Thomas’ conventional-croon-to-absurd-yodel on several tracks, most notably “Monterey,” a dissonant Voodoo Blues that conjures a vibe equal parts atavistic ritual and sleazy mating call. Bunk Gardner, late of the Mothers of Invention, provides some Ornette-esque sax squawk, further pushing the song into uncharted territory– at least for the early 1970’s zeitgeist. “Moulin Rouge” is a brief slice of Franco-Pop that coulda easily been recorded by Edith Piaf– I only mention it as it is one of the few cuts that provides a respite from the suffocating melancholy and bordering on psychedelic experimentation that makes up the rest of the LP. For instance, the ethereal title track is akin to smoking far too much DMT, only to discover that instead of encountering the promised elves hiding in the artificial netherworld, you find yourself surrounded by bloodthirsty, shapeless abominations far outside the realms of HP Lovecraft’s worst nightmares. Lee Underwood’s stellar guitar work also deserves a nod. His connection with Buckley borders on preternatural– be it the spare, mournful licks he uses to accompany Tim’s wounded wail on the oft-covered/butchered “Song to the Siren,” or the majestic, fleet-fingered riffs that double Buckley’s vocal on “Come Here Woman.”

If you’re new to the elder Buckley, this may not be the best place to start. I’d recommend “Dream Letter: Live in London” for virgins, as well as for fans of his offspring, a certain Jeff. –Jake P

Not your every day live album, 801 Live captures the supergroup featuring ex-Roxy Musicians Phil Manzanera and Brian Eno in one of their few performances. Featuring all the sonic detail, colorful guitar and synthesizer tones, and high-class musicianship you’d expect from such a lineup, another pleasant surprise here is the excellent recording, which almost sounds more like a studio album. A subtle, delicate style informs many of these performances, highlighting tracks from Eno and Manzanera’s early solo albums, the Quiet Sun album, and skewed reworkings of “Tomorrow Never Knows” and “You Really Got Me.” Brainy and electronic, but warm and human as well, 801 Live is an essential purchase for fans of the musicians involved, or seventies art-rock in general. –Ben

And so, the dazzling beauty of Court and Spark carries on with The Hissing of Summer Lawns. Musically, it continues in a similar vein – an all-star lineup effortlessly shifting between Pop, Folk and Jazz, playing rich, multi-layered arrangements which never overpower Joni, whose main concern is always the song and its words. The lyrics have become more intimate, more melancholic on The Hissing of Summer Lawns and so has the music. Again, one or two songs don’t meet my undivided approval (Shadows and Light and The Jungle Line, even though the song marks the beginning of a lasting Pop format, the attempt to create a multicultural world music, ten years before Peter Gabriel, Sting and others), but the rest is again of celestial beauty. Even Joni, who would go on to record important albums until today, wasn’t able to match the artistic consistency and beauty of Court And Spark and The Hissing of Summer Lawns until many years later, with Turbulent Indigo and Travelogue. –Yofriend

“Good evening, we’re the Velvet Underground…” It’s a far cry from another intro uttered that same year: “Ladies and gentleman, the greatest rock and roll band in the world…” Lou Reed’s intro is obviously more understated and, coming from a notoriously prickly New Yorker, surprisingly cordial. And it goes on for awhile… After asking the audience if they would prefer a one-long-set or two-set performance, we get a recap of a Dallas Cowboys game. Almost a full minute and a half has passed when, out of nowhere, Reed casually states, “This is a song called I’m Waiting for My Man”. The band then wastes no time locking into an historic, rock-solid groove.

1969: The Velvet Underground Live with Lou Reed has always been a VU fan favorite, but it’s overshadowed by the band’s iconic studio catalog. Misguided marketing and lame packaging are also to blame for its somewhat limited cult status. Released in 1974, during the most lucrative period of Lou Reed’s solo career, Mercury’s insistence on using his name in the title implied that other members of the VU were little more than his backing band, which couldn’t be further from the truth. The inner gatefold spread is also misleading, depicting an earlier and different (in both sound and appearance) incarnation of the band. Finally there’s the cover itself, which, in the immortal words of Patti Smith, “eats shit”. Despite this indifferent misrepresentation, this record is the first and last word in any discussion about the Velvet Underground as a live act. Almost all of the band’s classics are here, given new life—sometimes even bettered—by Reed’s remarkably expressive vocals (one pines for the days when he actually sang), Sterling Morrison’s precision guitar work, Mo Tucker’s majestically simplistic drumming, and the melodic bass-playing of the most under-appreciated VU member, Doug Yule. Surprisingly large amounts of live VU performances were recorded, but this collection—the bulk of which was culled from a multi-night engagement at a tiny club in Dallas—has the best sound quality of any that have survived. It’s a different sound than the sharp and crackly production of the 1967 “Banana” LP: bluesier, and with a bottom that rattles the windows and shakes the floors. It’s the sound of a band that’s been honing its craft in divey clubs and ballrooms across the US for over a year, and which, during the last few months of the ’60s, delivers the best live rock and roll show on either side of the Mississippi. –Richard P

J.J. Cale’s fourth album Troubadour is a mixed stew of everything from country, jazz, arena rock, blues, folk to funk; and that’s just in the first song. He manages to whisper like Nick Drake, growl like John Lee Hooker and wine like Dylan…did I mention he’s an extremely adept guitar player as well? Cale’s songs have been covered by many artists, the most famous being “Cocaine” by Eric Clapton, but here we have the original; stripped down, but somehow fuller, with funky jabs and clumsy power chords. There’s also some simple love songs as well, “Hey Baby” never gets too corny with jazzy horn phrases intertwining with country style chicken-pickin.’ “Travelin’ Light” is an intense study of the driving song with guitars and vibes throughout, pulsing like highway lines in the corner of your eye. This record is about the groove, while brilliant arrangements and clever instrumentation provide the texture, making everything unclassifiable. –ECM Tim

Rush’s first truly definitive release, 2112 kickstarts a run that would vault the power trio to the top of the heap among Canada’s rock exports. Sporting an iconic sleeve and crystal- production values, the album has come to define Rush’s early sound, featuring traditional hard rock retooled with progressive precision, while lyricist Neil Peart’s mix of philosophy and fantasy would ignite the sci-fi dreams of pimply-faced rockers for years to come. The epic title suite covers the whole of side one, and credits it’s dystopian storyline to author Ayn Rand’s Anthem, whose individualist outlook would fuel the lyrical fire of many a Rush classic. The track tells it’s Saturday afternoon story of futuristic rebellion with an interwoven set of songs ranging from the complex “Overture” section and barnstorming “Temples of Syrinx,” through the delicate “Discovery,” tortured “Soliloquy” and tear-down-the-walls “Grand Finale.” The remainder of 2112 in no way pales in comparison to it’s flip side, boasting the fan favorite wacky-tabaccy ode “A Passage to Bangkok,” supernatural imagery of “The Twilight Zone,” and self-reliant rocker “Something For Nothing.” As the critics looked on in dumbfounded disbelief, the sounds of 2112 filled the bedrooms and basements of suburban exiles worldwide, who from then on would live in anticipation of the next time they could lay their comic book ink-stained fingers on a new Rush album. –Ben

The more I listen to Randy Newman, the more I’m impressed. It’s not his voice, even though his nasally vocal has a pleasant, relaxing quality. It’s certainly not the music which on Little Criminals is particularly one paced with a soporific, dozy aspect. It’s not even the lyrics. They can be incisive, biting and sardonic but they also are simple and endearing with a homey feel. No, it’s none of that. What it is, is the subjects he choses to write about and the subtle twists he puts into the stories. Take the title track as a prime example. Start listening to “Little Criminals” and you have this picture of indigant locals determined to rid their town of a small-time drug dealer. But, as the song progresses, you suddenly realise his protagonists are themselves criminals worried about a newcomer taking away their business – or, even better, lowering the tone of the neighbourhood because they’re into armed robbery and consider that a higher calling than drug dealing. Brilliant! Or how about “Rider In The Rain” which subverts the myth of the lone cowboy wandering the plains by reminding us of the wife he’s abandoned and the fact he’s “raped and pillaged” his way to the place he is now. Or “In Germany Before The War” which conjures up a picture of a old guy shutting up his store every day to wander down to the banks of the Rhine to gaze out over the river. Only this guy is (I think) Peter Kurten, a real-life serial killer, preying on defenceless children. And all that’s without mentioning Newman’s dig at psychiatry in “Sigmund Freud’s Impersonation Of Albert Einstein In America” or how appearances can be deceptive with “Jolly Coppers On Parade”. And another example of how satire can backfire in “Small People” which a great many people took offence to because they believed Newman was deadly serious. Although, thinking about it, I suppose it wasn’t technically a backfire as the song became a massive hit! As you would expect there are a couple of tender love songs – “Kathleen (Catholicism Made Easy)” and “I’ll Be Home”. Plus the song “Baltimore” is particularly affecting as I visited the city very recently. I think there must have been a great deal of urban regeneration since that song was written because Newman’s Baltimore is a far bleaker and darker place than I saw. I don’t think Newman will ever release a classic album because of the way he writes. The uncertainty of the does he mean it? is he joking? is unsettling and uncomfortable and makes it impossible to like everything. But I’m equally convinced that, after hearing just two of his albums, there will always be something for me to enjoy on all his others. –Ian

There he is again. That Blue Space Alien staring out, empty-eyed from my LP collection. As if using telepathy, he beckons me to reach out for him, pull out his vinyl body and put him my turntable. It’s funny how after all these years since I first saw him in the record bins at Peaches Records in Ohio, he still has that effect on me. But I know the real lure of this LP is not the Alien, but the Space-Fusion Prog of the band, that brings me back to play that album. Automatic Man’s debut LP, in my opinion is on the best of the fusion/prog era, perhaps equaling Return To Forever’s classic Romantic Warrior.
Automatic Man was a super-group of sorts. The self-titled debut album featured a stellar lineup: Keyboard player and singer Bayete, whose voice eerily resembles Jimi Hendrix, played with Stanley Clark. S.F. Bay area musician Doni Harvey, ex-Gong, played bass. Pat Thrall, was a member of Stomu Yamashita’s band Go, was on guitar. Formerly of Santana, legendary percussionist Michael Shrieve blazed on drums.
This isn’t a loose jam session or self-indulgent doodling, this is an album driven by strong songwriting. The opening “Atlantis Rising/Comin’Through” displays a sound that manages to keep its footings firmly in the here and now, whilst simultaneously oozing an air of futuristic soundscapes that render it ripe for evoking mental imagery. Power number “My Pearl”, with its driving funk/synth vibe, demonstrate that Automatic Man had the chops to craft a pop single. Pat Thrall’s riffs even give you the impression that Hendrix has been transported back from the dead to appear, or even cloned! You got to check out Thrall’s the guitar solo on the title track. It’s got to be the best solo that no one has ever heard! The lush keyboard arrangements add a reverberating layer of an almost alien-like displacement to the overall sound of the proceedings. Meanwhile, breezier numbers such as “One ‘N One” and “Newspapers” exhibit a more other-worldly, cold sound, as if lying on a beach on Pluto (does Pluto have beaches?)

Space references aside, this album really rocks. There is no filler on this LP and is truly a satisfying listen. If you see the Blue Alien, let him beam you aboard for the ride. –Ed