Jive Time Turntable

Eurythmics “In the Garden” (1981)

Eurythmics 1981 album ‘In the Garden’ is a fascinating and generally forgotten record. Recorded with Kraftwerk producer Conny Plank and featuring Blondie’s Clem Burke and Can’s Holger Czukay ‘In the Garden’ was the first record they recorded after the demise of The Tourists and before they had major commercial success. ‘In the Garden’ failed to chart and, sadly, remains largely ignored to this day.

‘In the Garden’ is new wave, no wave, psychedelic, experimental and pop, if pop comes from outer space (and it’s good when it does). Themes include dreamy reverie (English Summer), Kraftwerkian love songs (Take Me To Your Heart), desperate housewives who behave like calculators (She’s Invisible Now), female body image (Caveman Head), and, that’s just for starters. Annie sings in French on the bizarre and catchy ‘Sing Sing’ and most tracks are punctuated with all manner of sound effects, animal impersonations, trains, crickets and sirens. Vocals are processed, mixed up, mixed down, sound like they were recorded underwater, surrounded by cushions, or beamed in from another galaxy, or era, or mental state.

‘In the Garden’ is a great example of the sound of a band experimenting with an Everest of ideas. They wisely stop short of overloading the album though, as it could have been a complete mess. I’ve been finding new things in this album every time I hear it, and that is an awful lot of times. From here came Sweet Dreams and later, it must be said, a general move away from experimental pop towards a generally more commercial direction (which is where I become a little less excited about their music). —Wayne

Oliver Nelson “The Blues and the Abstract Truth” (1961)

This is one of those jazz recordings that managed to capture lightning — that is to say, recording magic — in a bottle. Its pacing is perfect, its arrangements sublime, and the first-rate players, all of whom would be worth listening to on their worst day, offer inspired work.

Nelson, a fine tenor player in his own right, is surrounded by extraordinary talent: Eric Dolphy, Bill Evans, Freddie Hubbard, Roy Haynes. But this is Nelson’s album: not only does he play beautifully himself, he contributed the compositions and the arrangements, all of which have a note-perfect quality that could only be achieved by an artist in absolute command of his material.

Each tune is a joy in its own right, but the highlight for me (just ahead of the joyful “Hoedown”) is “Stolen Moments,” which has rightfully become a jazz standard. It’s a tune that never fails to remind me of the difference between a true jazz composition and a blowing session. In the latter, solos are taken for their own sake. In “Stolen Moments,” the solos are flawless, but each player extends on the previous statement. For example, the transition chord that Bill Evans plays between Oliver Nelson’s solo and his own is a perfect reply that shows how carefully he was listening to Oliver’s playing. The communication deepens the pleasure of listening to the performance.

Like Miles’ “Kind of Blue” and a handful of other jazz albums, “Blues and the Abstract Truth” could be put into a vault for listeners a thousand years hence to find. I’m sure they’d be just as impressed as the rest of us have been. —Tyler

Punk \ˈpəŋk\ (adjective)

Punk \ˈpəŋk\ (adjective) 1. Falling short of a standard. 2. Extremely unsatisfactory. 3. Temporarily suffering from a disorder of the body. 4. Relating to or being a style inspired by punk rock. First known use of PUNK: 1896.

T. Rex “Electric Warrior” (1971)

On the shortlist of records that are so disarmingly likable that they make me temporarily forget how awful the world can be. What does the line “The President’s weird, he’s got a burgundy beard!” mean? I don’t know, but I’ve never been able to forget it.

This is probably the most stoned-sounding of the old glitter rock classics. Over half of the album is thoroughly chilled-out and spacey, mellow enough for the 4 AM drive home after a long night out. Along with that, Marc Bolan’s lyrics are some of rock’s greatest sexually charged nonsense. I can never tell if Bolan worked hard on these lyrics or if he just tossed ’em off (I like to think he tossed ’em off, too cool to care) and, really, that’s exactly what rock lyrics should be like—funny, mysterious, and beamed in from another dimension. —Jason

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

Updated! Seattle Helix Cover Gallery

Check out the covers from our small but rapidly growing stash of Seattle’s first underground newspaper, The Helix.

The paper was founded and edited by Paul Dorpat in 1967. Many of the covers were illustrated by Walt Crowley who also served as a writer and co-editor. Its articles were wide-ranging featuring anti-war stories, philosophical ramblings, poetry and artwork. The Helix didn’t just cover the scene, it also organized and promoted concerts and festivals including the legendary, three-day Sky River Rock Festival. A total of 125 issues were published before the the paper folded in 1970. Additional issues and/or information would be greatly appreciated and posted here and on Jive Time Records’ blog. Visit the Gallery›