Got To Be There (Michael Jackson 1958-2009)

Writing about Michael Jackson's passing, I'm afraid I'm just adding to a million other rhinestone-studded obituaries. But that's to be expected when we lose someone of his stature. His appeal was so utterly universal that only the impact of The Beatles or Elvis Presley compare. You did not have to appreciate music to enjoy the music of Michael Jackson. You did not have to appreciate choreography or dancing to be awestruck by the jaw-dropping moves. You could be the most sullen kid in the universe with no interests except for dissecting cicadas and still be a fan. It takes a certain kind of genius to achieve that kind of crossover appeal.

I could quite easily focus on Michael Jackson: The Troubled Pop Star or Michael Jackson: Even Bigger In Death but I'm not going to do that. Outside the music my parents introduced me to, Michael Jackson was probably the first pop artist I seriously got into. When I was in primary school I had a friend where, as far as i can tell, the only thing we shared in common was that we both had our fair share of Michael Jackson albums on cassette. We would trade our tapes that covered the spectrum of Jackson's career at that point, from the Jackson Five through to Dangerous (which hadn't long been on the shelves) and dub copies for ourselves. We were precocious pre-Internet bootleggers with no business plan. I think we both secretly distrusted each other.

At that time, I was such a fan I even enjoyed the Moonwalker film, which is essentially a hodge-podge of the King of Pop crotch-grabbing his way through Bad-era material as the host of a futuristic TV special. The thing is, I'd probably still enjoy watching it now because the sheer scope of Michael Jackson's talent often transcended dross. Hence why he was able to get away with the monstrous statue-shipping ego-trip during promotion for History or the maudlin preach-fests of 'Heal the World' or 'Man In the Mirror'. It didn't matter what he did or whatever the latest controversy he was embroiled in, his blinding success and kinetic moves remained a constant source of fascination for me.

Yet at some point, perhaps when I was discovering acne and depressive English mid-80s vocalists, my interest in the King of Pop began to wane. The cassettes were replaced by newfangled CDs. The posters were torn off the wall (no pun intended) and replaced by Britpop idols. When Jarvis Cocker mooned Michael Jackson at the Brit awards for his predictably over-the-top performance of 'Earth Song' , it felt like the end of an era. I didn't know it at the time, but moving on from Michael Jackson signalled the end of my childhood. Yet the songs were still deeply engrained.

As soon as I hear 'I Want You Back' or 'Rock With You', I'm transported to being in Grade 5 class and I'm looking at the kid's desk next to me, realising he'd just created a dish-sized puddle of snot. Nothing to do with the subject matter of the songs, mind. When I hear 'Jam' or anything else off Dangerous, I remember my basketball obsession and am also reminded of sitting in front of the first tape player I ever owned and thinking "This is what hi-fi really means." Of course, I had nothing to compare the sound quality to, but I knew it sounded good.

Perhaps that's where the key to Jackson's success lies. There was simply nothing before him like him and unlikely to be anything since. Not having any other point of reference growing up, Michael Jackson seemed like the coolest human being on the plant. He seemed completely unshakeable. Yes, we all know the reality was different. Yes, the critics were quick to point out the irony of releasing an album called Invincible in 2001 at such a fragile, low point in his career (undoubtedly the irony was not lost on him or anyone else.) But there's something to be said about spending your childhood viewing your idols in a God-like aura. Don't know about you, but that's what true pop represents to me.

-AMCS

Obscure (but should not have been) album of the week...

THE DREAM SYNDICATE - Days of Wine and Roses [1982]

Of all the fashion faux pas committed through the decades, the 1980s undoubtedly committed some of the most brutal. Unfortunately, the music scene of this period merely exacerbates this sad state of affairs. Not only do we have to deal with spandex and mullets, we even have whole music genres named after fashion. ‘Hair metal’ would be one that “springs” to mind (though one could really see that genre as an extension of glam metal which arose in the 1970s.) Here’s another less likely name for a genre: the Paisley Underground movement.

Before you fear the worst, read on. The Paisley Underground movement was certainly one of the more curious branches of 80s alternative rock. Its key bands (The Rain Parade, The Dream Syndicate, Green On Red, The Bangles before they walked like Egyptians) were steeped in a jangly, retro sound reminiscent of The Byrds but played with a vicarious punk bite. Somewhat maligned at the time (Robert Christgau once wrote of a Rain Parade album “Smart hippies knew how dumb a lot of that music was even then. It's twice as dumb now”), the Paisley Underground proved to be quite influential and actually had noble intentions to begin with: a kind of antidote to the intimidating hardcore Los Angeles punk scene which, let's face it, was full of jocks. I guess if it were a movie, it would be called Revenge Of The (Retro Music) Nerds.

Some people say Rain Parade’s Emergency Third Rail Trip is the definitive Paisley Underground moment. While that album has prettier tunes, The Dream Syndicate’s debut Days of Wine and Roses certainly rocks harder. So, let’s get the most obvious thing out of the way here first: this album is essentially a Neil Young/Velvet Underground homage, albeit one that’s done very well. Steve Wynn gets my vote for the best Lou Reed impersonator out there, although he’s not far removed vocally from another Steve (that is, Steve Kilbey) who was also fronting his own Australian paisley popsters (at least at that stage), The Church.

The opener, ‘Tell Me When It’s Over’, is simply infectious guitar pop and gets the album off to a cracking start. Featuring a killer riff and a particularly indolent Wynn vocal, the whole thing jumps off the speakers like a Crazy Horse (sorry, I couldn't help myself). Elsewhere, propulsive, high-octane numbers such as ‘Then She Remembers’ and the title track sound like a pissed-off Bob Dylan circa 1965 if he was put in a blender with Black Flag for company.

But it’s the guitar playing of Karl Percoda that impresses the most. Whether it’s the shards of feedback he injects into the droning ‘Halloween’ which makes it all the more unsettling, or his haunting lines on’ Too Little, Too Late’ (featuring bassist Kendra Smith’s lovely vocals), he lends the songs a palpable sense of urgency and drive. Legend has it he only played cheap guitars because he ruined every other guitar that was worth something. Take that for a lesson in guitar heroics, Sonic Youth. Oh wait, you did.

Despite its derivative qualities, Days of Wine and Roses bears all the hallmarks of a snotty, garagey classic. The whole thing sounds like a bunch of young musicians who were clearly in awe of their heroes and just wanted to make a great record. For that reason alone, they had as much vitality up their sleeves as they did paisley patterns.

-AMCS

Obscure (but should not have been) album of the week...

BEDHEAD - WhatFunLifeWas [1994]

If there ever was a competition for the most low-key band in the cosmos, the awesomely understated (and now defunct) Texan four-piece Bedhead would claim the trophy. What Is Life (the first from a very fine trilogy of albums) moves at a deceptively languid pace. The soft, drowsy vocals from brothers Matty and Bubba Kane are buried low in the mix. The drummer is so restrained he might as well be shackled to his drum stool. Were it not for the fact that these songs have a tendency to suddenly detonate with guitar squalls and ocean-size cymbal washes, Bedhead would be positively horizontal.

Alas, Bedhead often get tagged to that lazy term applied to any “tempo-challenged” band in the 90s – slowcore. However, there are many elements to Bedhead that set them apart from their peers from this period. While the words are hard to decipher on almost every Bedhead track, they reveal a quirky, dark humour with repeated plays. Nowhere is this more evident than on ‘Bedside Table’, their first single they released after being signed to Butthole Surfers member King Coffey’s Trance Syndicate label in 1992:

you cut your head on the bedside table.
your temple bled as you were unable to remember
the lines of what you were reading
about someone deciding to quit speaking

‘Bedside Table’ is one of the great lost indie singles of the 1990s, a haunting slow-burner that lingers long with the listener after the climactic outro. Elsewhere, the epic, droning ‘Powder’ (clocking in at over seven minutes), is nectar for the ears, while the unexpectedly upbeat ‘To the Ground’ sounds like the Velvet Underground if they had spent more time chewing tobacco and playing in barns.

While later Bedhead releases would benefit from reigned-in production values (their final album, Transaction De Novo, was produced by Steve Albini – a great partnership), ‘WhatFunLifeWas’ is the best place to start for my money. There are also a handful of deleted EPs and singles worth tracking down on the online market, including the very literally-titled CDEP19:10, which contains a very worthy cover of Disorder by Joy Division.

-AMCS

Obscure (but should not have been) album of the week...

HOOD - Cold House (2001)

Apologies, keen readers, for the absence of last week's blog. As Lennon once sang, life is what happens when you're making other plans. Seeing winter is now upon us (at least in the southern hemisphere), I am focusing on one of the most wintry albums released post-millennium. If you want a reference point for how icy this album sounds, imagine the members of Sigur Ros getting cryogenically frozen and left in vats 12 feet under tundra. A veritable cold house, indeed.

Hood are an enigmatic, yet prolific, British outfit that have a considerable back catalogue (and one that's not easy to track down) that dates back to their first single "Sirens" in 1992. Plenty of gushing critical praise, articles and fan sites have been devoted to them. So why aren't they up there with the Radioheads or Bjorks of the music world? Perhaps it's because they lack a defined personality within the group. Perhaps they lack the lofty ambitions of their globe-conquering peers. Perhaps, more to the point, there is not a chorus in sight. In Hood's case, however, this works to their advantage. This is an austere piece of work, so don't go looking for cheerful melodies or lyrics. The irony of Cold House containing a song titled 'This is What We Do To Sell Out(s)', which happens to be the most experimental track on the album, would not be lost on the casual listener.

A beguiling mix of glitch beats, arctic synths, haunting vocals and hypnotic drums, Cold House is Hood's fifth album and most adventurous work. Superficially, the key ingredient that sets it aside from the rest of their output is the remarkable synthesis of hip hop elements into their sound, incorporating exceptional contributions from San Francisco-based hip hop artists Doseone and Why? In the wrong hands, such a combination could spell disaster but here, Hood have achieved just the right balance; using it sparingly. Two tracks that feature these artists, 'Branches Bare' and the chilling opener, 'The Removed All Trace of Anything That Happened Here' are a testament to this (the garbled rapping almost indecipherable in the latter, which only adds to the song's power).

Hood vocalist Chris Adamson's may not have an especially distinctive or dramatic voice, but the detached feel of his singing suits the feel of the songs. The interplay between the musicians is subtle and shifting, recalling Talk Talk at their most unconstrained. Hood also have a masterful drummer in Stephen Royle, who I sometimes wish would feature more in the mix. But that's just a quibble. If you ever need confirmation that isolation from the cogs of the music industry is good for the creative blood, the proof is in the Hood in this frost-bitten minor masterpiece.

-AMCS