Albums I Love, Part III: Marah “Kids In Philly”

Posted: July 29th, 2009 | Filed under: Music, Ruminations | 1 Comment »

Few American cities have as resonant a sense of itself as Philadelphia. Call it Philly, thank you very much.

The baseball team’s nickname — Phillies — is simply a redux of the city’s name. That’s keeping it homie.

It’s a town that was a major player in the country’s genesis. Liberty Bell, right? Ben Franklin. Even some major conventions early on. Then there’s the David Lynch connection. “Eraserhead” anyone? Not to mention the original “American Bandstand.” and the home of Legionnaire’s Disease. How’s that for some yin and yang?

It’s got the meanest fans in all of sports. Southsiders, hell, allsiders, are inveterate lovers of the town’s teams, but they’re diehards who will turn on their heroes in a nanosecond. A tough town? You betcha. Ask Donavon McNabb. Their favorite hockey teams was nicknamed the Broad Street Bullies. Oh yeah.

You gotta be Chuck Bednarik/ Rocky tough to make it in the City of Brotherly Love. One second you’re a hero, the next, the guys in the bleachers are ready to haul you off to the abattoir.

Philly is famous for cheesesteaks, but the town’s signature dish is a combination of pork scraps and cornmeal and flour and other remnants turned into a mush then fried. It’s name — scrapple — says it all. Scrapple . . . indeed.

Philly’s that kind of town. Marah is the Philly band that’s all Philly all the time.

And “Kids In Philly” is the band’s pledge of love for all they adore in their town, its follies, foibles and faux pas. You can hear and feel the city’s grime and heat, the rhythm of its streets, the personalities of its characters, the nature of its soul.

If what is often lost in rock & roll is a sense of place, Marah found it for this rockin’ statement.

The Bielanko brothers — David and Serge — are Marah, with a fluid continuum of sidemen/women. The songs on the album feature Mummers’ banjos, classic Philly deejays and enough references to the town to serve as a funky travel guide.

The album starts with a siren and banjo strum, then travels the city’s littered boulevards. “The Catfisherman” tells the tale of guys who fish in the tough parts of town. You can feel the heat. “It’s 83 degrees/ And I’m pissin’ in the river.” It features an incredibly evocative instrumental interlude.

But the pièce de résistance is “Round Eye Blues,” one of the most compelling songs in all of rock & roll.

(At this point I advise I wanted to inset a link to the album version of the song. It is stunning and anthemic. My web guru/ legal advisor warned against it. Copyright problems you know. Instead here’s a link to a page with two versions, one a live acoustic video version with some amplifier squawk, and an audio of another live version that’s pretty good. Find it here.)

Here’s a video of a more raucous version of the tune. (Marah is nothing if not a classic bar band. With a little more discipline and little less brewski, they coulda been contendas. Instead, they continue to toil the tavern circuit with various lineups when they oughta be the Stones. They traded fame and fortune for groupies and another helluva night in Steubenville. Which is why, on given nights, they’re as good a rock & roll band as plugs in. On others, they are, simply, sloppy.)

My hope is that tasting menu will spur you to get the album and hear the recorded studio version.

Because the tune’s lyrics ring so hard, pay such endearing homage to rock & roll itself, are as true to the Vietnam experience as you can get on vinyl,  and cut to the quick like few others, I’m going to share them in their entirety:

Last night I closed my eyes
And watched the tracers fly
Through the jungle trees
Like fireflies on a windy night
Pulled up and onward by the breeze
I can still hear the far off tin-canny sounds
Of their machine guns come unwound
And I was shakin’ like Little Richard
And I was sweatin’ like ol’ James Brown

Over by my window sill
The moon was still
On my cigarettes and wine
Sometimes there’s wear I pray to Jesus
Sometimes there’s where I pray to die
But I could still sense the circling danger
Of those invisible bastards of a piss-hot day
I was shakin’ with ol’ Proud Mary
I was sittin’ on the dock of the bay

Take the hits boys take the hits
Don’t smoke your bible and don’t lose your wits
Because the sky is filled with shrapnel
And your eyes are filled with tears

Hold your breath boys hold your breath
Finger your trigger and welcome death
Because the chopper’s filled with your gut-shot friends
Your hearts are filled with fear

Fables tell of men who fell
With swords dangling from their chest
The old guys down at the taproom swear
The Japs could kill you best
But late at night I could still hear the cries
Of three black guys I seen take it in the face
I think about them sweet Motown girls they left behind
And the assholes that took their place

Take the hits boys take the hits
Don’t smoke your bottle and don’t lose your wits
Because the sky is filled with shrapnel
And your eyes are filled with tears

Hold your breath boys hold your breath
Finger your trigger and welcome death
Because the chopper’s filled with your gut-shot friends
Your hearts are filled with fear

This is the great Phil Spector song the convicted felon never wrote. But the insinuation of “Be My Baby” throughout is a godsend. The coda on french horn is sublime.

“My Heart is the Bums on the Street” is my other favorite on the album.

Anyway, “Kids In Philly” has something to say, Much more than your average rock & roll album.

Plus it’s got a beat and you can dance to it. Which would make former Philly Dog Dick Clark smile.

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