When buying a used car, punch the buttons on the radio. If all the stations are rock and roll, there's a good chance the transmission is shot. - Larry Lujack
We’ve all got that default music we need when stress hits.
The tuneage that will calm the savage beast, keep the demons at bay, soothe the soul, provide ballast, reduce the nerve shimmer to serenity level.
I’ve got a couple.
“In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” works more often than not.
But when I have a week like this one past with more stuff than the law should allow, I go to the source.
Marvin, Marvin, Marvin.
Not only is Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” better than a thorazine drip and a double Martini (dry), it is — One guy’s opinion — the best album extant. Sure, “best” is a fighting word, and you have the right to disagree. But, combine the soul, the message, the funk, the lush strings and Gaye’s amazing voice, and you got top o’ the heap.
Here’s the title tune as it sounds on the album that the usually perceptive Berry Gordy didn’t want to release.
Un-buh-leev-uh-bull.
Detroit Lions Mel Farr and Lem Barney among the backup singers. The strings. The soul. Effective descriptors fail me.
Here’s Gaye doing the title tune and another live.
Gaye’s life story is tragic. Brilliantly talented. He was a drug addict. He never recovered really from the death of Tammi Terrell. He went into seclusion. Came out. Returned.
Gaye, a world class talent ended up, addicted, living at home with his parents. His father, an alcoholic, ended up killing Gaye during an argument. Can there be a sadder end than that?
But his legacy — as we are wont to say — lives on in his recordings. None more magnificent than “What’s Going On.”
If you don’t have it, get it. Even if Berry Gordy gets a cut.
There was a time — and such a time it was — when any band worth its salt would at some point during a concert, lead into a song with something like, “Let’s do some Chuck Berry.”
Then they’d rip into “Maybelline” or, more than likely, “Johnny Be Good,” and even the few folks in the crowd still sitting would get up and dance. And sing along, because everybody knew every word.
There was a time when Bob Seger, still on his way up, would come through Louisville every few months and open a show for another act a little higher up the food chain. Or he’d play one of the clubs downtown.
It may be urban legend, but local rock & roll lore says that “Main Street” is named after, well, Main Street in Louisville where Seger often gigged. I am guilty myself of perpetrating such info. And, frankly, shall continue to do so when the subject arises. It’s too late to stop now.
When Seger was ready to pay his respects to Chuck Berry, he did his own tune. “Get Out of Denver” rips and runs with the same chords and chops (and similarly clever lyrics) as the Founding Father.
Listen for yourself:
In fact, so good is Seger’s Chuck Berry song that other icons have covered it.
Like The Boss, whose rendition you can hear here. (I’d embed it, but youtube won’t let me.)
Bruce does Bob doing Chuck. It’s a good thing.
Then there’s this other guy you might have heard somewhere along the way, who covered the tune.
Bob does Bob doing Chuck. It’s a good thing.
You want lyrics. I got lyrics.
I still remember it was autumn and the moon was shinin’
My ‘60 Cadillac was roarin’ through Nebraska, whinin’
Doin’ a hundred-twenty man the fields was spinnin’ over
Headed out for the mountain snow, and we was trailin’ further
All the pipes were blazin and the screamin wheels turnin, turnin
Had my girl beside me brother, brother she was burnin, burnin
On board the Baptist preacher, southern funky school teacher
She had a line on somethin heavy but we couldn’t reach her
We told her that we needed something that would get us going
She pulled out all she had and layed it on the counter showin
All I had to do was lay my money down and pick it up
Cops came bustin’ in and man, we lit out in a pickup truck
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go, get out of Denver, baby.
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go.
‘Cause you look just like a commie and you might just be a member, baby.
Get out of Denver.
Well, red lights were flashin’ and the sirens they were screamin’.
We had to pinch each other just to see if we was dreamin’.
Made it to London Pass in under less than half an hour.
Motor started drizzlin’ and it turned into a thunder shower
The rain kept drivin’ but the caddy kept on burnin’ rubber.
We kept on drivin’ ’til we ran into some fog cover.
We couldn’t see a thing, somehow we just kept on goin’.
We kept on drivin’ all night long and dead into the mornin’.
Forty-five and fifty when we looked to see where we were at,
We’re starrin’ at a Colorado state policeman trooper captain.
He said…
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go, get out of Denver, baby.
Go, get out of Denver, baby. Go, go.
‘Cause you look just like a commie and you might just be a member, baby.
Get out of Denver.
It’s a great tune. Satisfies all the major food groups: Sex, Drugs and Rawk & Row.
My buddy Bill says it’s the best guy film ever made. Who am I to disagree?
What especially resonates every single time I experience it is Shrevie’s (Daniel Stern) rant about the importance of his record collection. I’ve been known myself to keep my music cataloged in alphabetical order. And to relish the arcane factoids that embellish the experience for all of us prisoners.
To refresh your memory, here’s what Shrevie laid down to his wife Beth (Ellen Barkin) when she put one of his LPs back on the shelf out of order: “Every one of my records means something! The label, the producer, the year it was made. Who was copying whose style… who’s expanding on that, don’t you understand? When I listen to my records they take me back to certain points in my life, OK? Just don’t touch my records, ever! You! The first time I met you? Modell’s sister’s high school graduation party, right? 1955. And Ain’t That A Shame was playing when I walked into the door!”
I’m especially taken with songs that acknowledge the history of rock & roll and exalt it. I loves me that allegiance.
Perhaps my favorite is “Written On A Subway Wall” by Dion. No last name necessary. “Those Oldies But Goodies (Remind Me of You)” by Little Caesar & The Romans is a solid second.
The New Yorker is smooth and reverent. Midway through, he works in some “Little Star,” a classic by The Elegants. That Paul Simon sings that part makes it even better.
It’s simply a great rock & roll tune by a legit Hall of Famer.
So I was locked into Football Saturday Night. The Cats were coming back. My Oregon Ducks were going quack on Arizona.
The Film Babe announced ceremoniously, “I’m going to watch ‘The Last Waltz‘.”
It’s something she does periodically. The lady’s got taste.
I’m not sure how many times she’s watched it or how many times I’ve seen it or how many times we’ve watched it together. Several, at least. (For the record, she guesstimates she’s watched it a dozen times.)
My buddy Knuckle — Don’t ask, just understand it’s a fitting moniker — saw it 17 times when it was playing at his local theater. After ten or so viewings, the manager just waved him in.
It’s always a worthwhile endeavor. It is — and there can be no argument about this — far and away the best rock & roll concert movie of them all. Those Talking Heads fans in the “Stop Making Sense” contingent, please sit down. That one is good. Martin Scorcese’s film about The Band’s last concert is transcendent. Take a look.
You know the deal. Dylan’s buddies from Woodstock, those hippie hosers from north of the border along with that one helluva drummer and and singer from Helena, Arkansas — simply The Band — had been on the road for years and years since they started backing up Ronnie Hawkins. They finally wore out. At least that was the storyline at the time. Levon’s revisionist history is that Robbie Robertson alone wanted to park the bus. Anyway the group hung up their rock & roll shoes.
You’d never feel tension from the interviews in the movie. though they have surfaced and festered since.
So the group and Bill Graham ended it in style. In San Francisco on Thanksgiving night ‘76. $25 got you turkey dinner and arguably the greatest collection of rock royalty ever. Certainly the best music ever at one of these conglomeranzas. (Though I’m looking forward to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame concert premiering on HBO this coming week.)
So, along with Levon, Robbie, Garth, Rick and Richard, you had a boffo horn section, the Staples singing backup, and Dylan, Neil Young, Van Morrison, Dr. John, Eric Clapton . . . take a breath . . . Joni Mitchell, Muddy Waters, Ronnie Hawkins, Neil Diamond and a few others whose names escape me for the moment.
The tunes in the film, as they usually were with The Band, are immaculate.
The ensemble had the facility of capturing Americana zeitgeist. Their songs were incisive and they rocked. Top score on the Dick Clark American Bandstand scale. And the fivesome lived the life, “getting laid more than Frank Sinatra,” and harvesting deserved acclaim. Even if they often blanched in the spotlight.
The interviews are intimate, and explain why the road doesn’t go on forever.
Remember The Band. But, if you can’t recall the singer, you can still recall the tune.
When you’re 13 years old and male and pubescence has grabbed you in your comfort zone, any song with sexual innuendo resonates.
So it was with this rock & roll/ R & B classic that has stood the test of time since its release in 1958. My buddies and I may have interpreted this a tune back then as one about chokin’ the chicken back, but it remains good rockin’ tonight.
“Way out Willie/ Gave ‘em all a treat/ When he did the Hand Jive/ With his feet.”
Johnny Otis is an interesting study. Born of Greek parents in California, he lived in a black section of Berkeley, where he learned to play the drums. He married an African American woman, and was perceived by many color-coded folks in the entertainment biz as being black himself. He started making rhythm & blues music when it was referred to as Race Music.
Otis never seemed to mind about how folks interpreted any of that. He was a big band leader, a rock & roller, a producer, a perceiver of talent, a disc jockey, a recording artist, an entertainer, etc, etc. At a time when interracial ensembles were still viewed with a jaundiced eye, Otis would have none of it. The world of music is much the better for it.
With a wink at the novelty of the number in an era where the next dance craze was what the record execs were looking for, Otis fashioned the tune. That the eminent Earl Palmer is on drums, and Jimmy Nolan — later with James Brown’s band — plays the famous guitar riff helped make this one a classic.
Plus the whole tale had a happy ending.
‘Willie and Millie got married last fall/ They had a little Willie Junior, and a-that ain’t all/ You know, the baby got famous in his crib, you see/ Doin’ that hand jive on TV.”
At some point during the septuagenarian’s marathon three hour concert in Nashville Thursday — two sets, multiple encores — I turned to the Film Babe and offered how glad I am that I never saw Leonard Cohen until this late stage of his career.
There is something more palatable about this satyr’s poetic sexual musings, something kind of quaint, now that he’s a bit hunched at age seventy five. And never doubt that this man is a sybarite to the core. A grand poet, genius actually, he is first and foremost a sensualist. Janis Joplin wasn’t the only one you know. Rebecca DeMornay . . . oh the list goes on and on.
Some of the songs were probably harder to swallow when Cohen was still young and on the prowl. Now presented with an abiding sense of humility for a life well lived all in all, the tunes come across with a sweetness.
But I digress.
Leonard Cohen stands tall among the great poet/lyricists of our time.
More after this little interlude of “Everybody Knows.” (The scenes from ” A Man From U.N.C.L.E.” are kind of strange. I’m not sure what they have to do with the song.)
That is one of those what I call list songs that Cohen does so well, starting or ending most lines with the same phrasing. It really works here.
“And everybody knows that it’s now or never/ Everybody knows that it’s me or you/ And everybody knows that you live forever/ Ah when you’ve done a line or two/ Everybody knows the deal is rotten/ Old Black Joe’s still pickin’ cotton/ For your ribbons and bows/ And everybody knows.”
The concert in Andy Jackson Hall at the oddly designed Tennessee Performing Arts Center was truly a cut above. Backed by implacable musicians playing impeccable arrangements and stunning back up singers, the performer didn’t disappoint on any level. I’m hard pressed to think of a song somebody might want to hear that Cohen didn’t do. His voice a foggy resonance, he was a most gracious performer.
I’d love to post a rendition here of Cohen singing “First We’ll Take Manhattan,” my favorite of his songs, but there isn’t one worth the trouble available on You Tube. Understanding that ofttimes Cohen’s tunes are best presented by others, I found this version by the Joe Cocker. Enjoy.
“They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom/ For trying to change the system from within/ I’m coming now, I’m coming to reward them/ First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin.” I love that beginning.
I remember my first Leonard Cohen moment, hearing Judy Collins sing “Suzanne.” Who is this Leonard Cohen guy who wrote these lyrics, I wondered?
“There are heroes in the seaweed/ There are children in the morning/ They are leaning out for love/ And they will lean that way forever/ While Suzanne holds the mirror/ And you want to travel with her/ You want to travel blind/ And you know she’ll find you/ For she’s touched your perfect body with her mind.”
The bottom line is this. Cohen’s voice has never been much, but it now soothes like a fine aged wine. He sang every song we wanted to hear. And more. The imagery, subtle, incisive, affective, filled the auditorium.
Leonard Cohen is one of the pop music giants of the last fifty years. How invigorating that he’s on his game now as never before.
It may very well be that the phenomenon I’m going to talk about happens only to pubescent boys. But, since that’s a category in which I was once included, it happened to me.
So, I’ll start with this premise.
For people with a serious inclination toward rock music, there will come a time when their first big guitar song blasts though some radio speakers. And, if you’re alone, or even if your mom is driving you to Bar Mitvah class, you crank up the car radio — with impunity. The song hits you in the loins. The bass drum is always a major kerthink. You turn into the bad boy you see all the cute girls ogling. Then you scream “Yeahhhhhhhh!!!” at the top of your lungs.
Making sure you don’t miss the DJ announcing the name of the song and the group.
Which is to say that all music lovers — at least those who once were pubescent boys — have a big guitar song. And it never loses its luster. No matter how sophisticated one’s musical taste might become with the onslaught of maturity. Which is to say you might evolve to Ellington and Strayhorn, but your soul is always gonna save a place for “Mississippi Queen.”
If you know what I mean?
More on Mountain, the group formed by the “fourth member” of Cream, Felix Papilardi, in a moment. First this:
Papilardi, a Bronx native, was quite the rage in the late 60s and early 70s. He produced Cream. Like I said. Not to mention softer groups like Lovin’ Spoonful and the Youngbloods. Plus sweet Joanie Baez. But he obviously loved the thunder, falling for the guitar thrump of Long Islander, Leslie Weinstein (Leslie West to the public) whom he first heard in a group called the Vagrants.
When they broke up, Papilardi and West formed Mountain. The group’s fourth gig: Woodstock. One of the group’s sweeter sings is “For Yasgur’s Farm.”
I could prattle on about the group, how West ended up playing with Jack Bruce, etc, etc. But we’re not about rock & roll trivia here. Just the visceral thunder of the song. For the academicians among you, I share the lyrics. Not that they matter.
Mississippi Queen, If you know what I mean/ Mississippi Queen, She taught me everything/ Way down around Vicksburg /Around Louisiana way/ Lived a cajun lady, Aboard the Mississippi Queen/ You know she was a dancer/ She moved better on wine
While the rest of them dudes were’a gettin’ their kicks/ Boy I beg your pardon, I was getting mine
Mississippi Queen, If you know what I mean/ Mississippi Queen, She taught me everything/ This lady she asked me, If I would be her man/ You know that I told her, I’d do what I can/ To keep her looking pretty/ Buy her dresses that shine
While the rest of them dudes were making their bread/ Boy I beg your pardon, I was losing mine
Of course I have a personal anecdote. The group played Louisville Gardens. A friend was a part time DJ at LRS. We ended up back at the hotel room of Corky Laing, the group’s drummer. I was hoping for West or Papilardi to talk some rock & roll. No dice. So I watched as Laing did a lot of drugs, not offering to share a bit with my pal, myself or this other couple that was there. The girl was cute. Laing kept hustling her while apologizing for not sharing the drugs, and for hustling this guy’s girl in front of him.
I don’t know if Laing was successful with the gal or not. I split.
Actually, rereading that, I realize it’s a pretty lame, not very illuminating tale. But I left it in anyway. Some rock & roll stories never fire. Just like some songs.
Let me start with a personal anecdote (as if that’s something unusual that I haven’t done before . . . too many times.)
I attended the New Orleans JazzFest for the first time in 1976, and made it down there once again before that decade ended. Then I had some personal life changes that made it unwise for a number of years to tempt myself with the treasures of the Crescent City. But, in 1988, I was lured back by the prospect of experiencing the Little Feat reunion. With Bonnie Raitt, sitting in on slide guitar, be still my beating heart. On the marvelous Steamship President no less, always a boffo experience on the Mighty Mississippi.
Having been away from the festival for years, I couldn’t get enough. Even with music playing simultaneously on 10 stages in the Fairground’s infield from noon til dark on three consecutive days. It was as if I needed to hear every group. From Al Green to Hank Ballard & Midnighters to Los Lobos to Earl King to Hackberry Ramblers to Fairfield Four to John Mooney to Salif Keita to Exuma to Henry Butler to Famous Rocks of Harmony to Leo Nocentelli to . . . okay, you get the picture.
As has become tradition, the Neville Brothers closed the festival on the Fess stage Sunday afternoon.
Early in the set, Brother Aaron broke into a song I’d never heard him sing before, “Arianne,” with just Brother Art playing simple keyboard chording in the background.
What came out was this:
The song isn’t especially complicated or unique. The lyrics are more than a bit mundane, even silly. But when Aaron’s voice started swooping and soaring about halfway through, I was stunned beyond comprehension, my spinal cord turned to jelly.
When the song was over, even though the Nevilles hadn’t really kicked in gear yet, even though I had hoped to slip over to a couple of other stages for a taste of Dr. John and Willie Tee, I had had enough. For the first time in my life, I was sated. Totally. I did not need nor did I want at that moment to hear another note.
I walked to the car, and sat in quietude, savoring the glory of what I’d just heard. When my pals arrived an hour or so later, I was still smiling, knowing I’d been transported somewhere beyond anyplace I’d been before.
The existential query is this: How many times in life is a column by Camille Paglia going to remind you of a song you want to hear at all, let alone immediately?
Well, kids, you’re looking at it right now. Correct answer: Once . . . at the very most.
She mentioned “Hypnotized,” the Bob Welch penned and sung tune from Fleetwood Mac’s ‘73 album Mystery To Me in a recent column. Frankly I don’t remember her point. I seem to recall how some of the lyrics refer to Carlos Castaneda.
For those too young to know, he was one of the inescapable gurus of the drug infused 70s. You’d be at a pal’s pad, smoking some weed, and they’d be talking effusively about finding your place in the circle and what it meant and how spiritual it was (Castaneda stuff), and you’d just want them to roll another joint, put Janis on the stereo and shut up.
Actually, as soon as I read Paglia’s reference I stopped reading the column — which I obviously never got back to — and went to the stereo where I cranked up the ol’ turntable and put the album on.
I smiled, realizing again after all these years what a sublime, beguiling song this is.
Of course, there are way too many folks — many of whom should actually know better — who think Fleetwood Mac began (and maybe ended) with the Lindsay Buckingham/ Stevie Nicks lineup. Which of course is not only poppycock, but foolish, given that Mick Fleetwood and John McVie have hooked up with more musicians for a longer period of time than anybody in rock.
(It is at this point when I must mention, as any rock raconteur with the slightest bit of inner Lester Bangs would, that the original lineup included one fabled guitar player named Peter Green. Who, besides being well schooled in the blues as all alumni of the John Mayall school were, wrote “Black Magic Woman.” Yes, that song, the one stolen forever and always by the Santana Band.)
But more on all this in a second. You want to hear the song don’t you?
As I was saying, there have been many, many incarnations of Fleetwood Mac. One history of rock diagrams out 11 different lineups. And that’s only through . . . 1987.
Of another Slim Harpo song, no less an authority than Mick Jagger had this to say: “What’s the point in listening to us doing “I’m a King Bee” when you can hear Slim Harpo do it?”
True.
As it is for “Shake Your Hips,” which most rock & rollers know from Exile On Main Street. It’s time to set you right, kiddies.
Slim Harpo is one of the lesser known mid 20th century bluesmen, and one of the more interesting. Because, well, his life wasn’t that interesting. No selling his soul to the devil at the crossroads. No prison terms. No famous liquor infused incidents. He did grow up Negro in the Huey Long south, but, well, other than that, nothing out of the ordinary.
Let’s hear his original rendition of “Shake Your Hips,” then we’ll talk more. (Alas, I’ve never seen any footage of Slim Harpo live. If you know of some, do tell.)
He always showed up for his gigs. He never appeared to have any drinking related episodes. He was pretty fair businessman, managing himself for the most part. He worked construction and as a longshoreman, mostly near his home in Baton Rouge, where he was born in January, 1924. (Unless it was up the road in Lobdell in February, 1924) He lived in New Orleans for awhile.
He met his wife in 1949 while helping to build a church. They stayed married until his sudden death of a heart attack in 1970. She traveled with him on the road.
Harpo — born James Moore — didn’t become a professional musician until the 50s. At first, he called himself Harmonica Slim before switching to the more resonant and appropriate Slim Harpo. He had a few hits during the Top 40 era: most notably “Rainin’ In My Heart” and “Baby Scratch My Back.”
His voice was unique, slithery but smooth and diffuse. His tunes are laid back in the way that many from Louisisana are. It’s the nature of the beast, the combination of heat, humidity and home cookin’.
Anyway, now you’ll have an answer if somebody asks, “Whattaya know/ About Slim Harpo?”
Okay I don’t know a whole lot about this guy except that his new album is very good and very eclectic. Reggae. Calypso. Folkie.
And of course, the immediate thought is how does some guy who comes from Italy morph all these different sounds? Then you find out he’s not from Italy, though his father’s family came from there . . . four generations ago. So you ask how come some guy who was born and raised in Scotland can morph all these different sounds? Which I guess you could ask about Tom Jones who is from Wales, or Van Morrison, etc, etc.
Which is not to mention that the kid’s only 22, but sounds like he grew up in my era, and on this song, hangin’ around the Stax Studios in Memphis. Nutini is an old soul.
Speaking of soul and this song, there’s something so old school, so passionate, so deliciously retro about it that I had to share it with you.
Ellie Greenwich, one of the true queens of the Brill Building rock & roll era, passed away yesterday. Not only did she help pen my featured song, but also such classics as “Leader of the Pack,” “Chapel of Love,” “Da Doo Ron Ron,” “Hanky Panky,” “Baby I Love You” and “River Deep Mountain High.” She also helped arrange and produce some early Neil Diamond tunes.
Of course, she worked with Jeff Barry on most of the songs. They later married and divorced. And on “Be My Baby” worked with Phil Spector, a musical genius despite his personal failings.
The Ronettes were centered around the incredible voice (and exotic looks) of Veronica Bennett, later known to all in the music world as Ronnie Spector. She ended up marrying her producer, from whom she eventually escaped — literally — as he kept her locked and guarded at his mansion on the hill.
The Supremes and Shirelles notwithstanding, one guy’s opinion is that the Ronettes were the greatest of the girl groups. I heard Ronnie Spector do a show as part of the Ponderosa Stomp during New Orleans JazzFest week last year, and it was ‘63 all over. That gorgeous, effective, brittle voice of hers — the greatest in all rock & roll — still works its wonder. I saw the group one other time, when they opened for the Beatles at Chicago’s International Amphitheater on the first stop of their last American tour.
Enough drab gab. Enjoy this deliciously evocative of “Be My Baby” when they appeared on Shindig. It’s actually a live version. Unlike the Dick Clark TV shows, where all the performers lip synced their songs.
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We’ve all got that default music we need when stress hits.
There was a time — and such a time it was — when any band worth its salt would at some point during a concert, lead into a song with something like, “Let’s do some Chuck Berry.”
The Film Babe and I watched “Diner” last night.
Revised 11/23 9:50 a.m.
When you’re 13 years old and male and pubescence has grabbed you in your comfort zone, any song with sexual innuendo resonates.
At some point during the septuagenarian’s marathon three hour concert in Nashville Thursday — two sets, multiple encores — I turned to the Film Babe and offered how glad I am that I never saw Leonard Cohen until this late stage of his career.
It may very well be that the phenomenon I’m going to talk about happens only to pubescent boys. But, since that’s a category in which I was once included, it happened to me.
Let me start with a personal anecdote (as if that’s something unusual that I haven’t done before . . . too many times.)
The existential query is this: How many times in life is a column by Camille Paglia going to remind you of a song you want to hear at all, let alone immediately?
Of another Slim Harpo song, no less an authority than Mick Jagger had this to say: “What’s the point in listening to us doing “I’m a King Bee” when you can hear Slim Harpo do it?”
Okay I don’t know a whole lot about this guy except that his new album is very good and very eclectic. Reggae. Calypso. Folkie.
This one’s for you, Ellie, may you rest in peace.
