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

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

DANGER MOUSE and SPARKLEHORSE present: DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL [2009]

This week I've taken some liberty with the concept of an obscure album. None of the artists that feature on The Dark Night of the Soul are obscure (far from it), and I'm sure I'm not the only person out there who is blogging about one of 2009's most anticipated releases. But here we have an album which is unlikely to see the light of day in physical form. If that isn't obscure, then I don't know what is....

Because this release is literally hot off the press, I will attempt to give an overview of what's on offer, rather than a detailed critical analysis. Basically, Sparklehorse and Danger Mouse have teamed up with David Lynch, a collaboration which can only be described as an artistic wet dream. Not only have they produced some music together, they will be releasing a multimedia package including a book filled with original photographs by Lynch, of which only 5000 will be printed. As for the album, it is symbolically packaged as a blank CD-R. Confused yet? Read on. Every song features a different guest vocalist and, my word, there are some big names on the list; Wayne Coyne (Flaming Lips), Julian Casablancas (The Strokes) and James Mercer (The Shins) to name but a few. It would be a safe inference to draw that appetites in the indie community are whetted for this release. And the results?

Though responses have been divided so far (one of the more amusing comments I came across went something like: "This is awful...you'd have thought it was a Beatles record", and that's bad how?), it is without doubt a unique listen. Collaborative efforts like these can sometimes lack a cohesive whole, but with the cream of alternative cool at the helm, who's complaining? The production chops are impeccable and there are some real standouts, particularly the woozy, catchy-as-hell 'Everytime I'm With You', sung by Grandaddy mainman Jason Lytle. Sonically speaking, Dark Night of the Soul isn't too far removed from the last Sparklehorse album 'Dreamt For Light Years in the Belly of A Mountain' (in which Danger Mouse also had some involvement).

I would be a fool to overlook the real selling point for everyone, however, and that is the fact that David Lynch actually sings on two of the songs. The vocals may carry a whiff of auto-tune, the lyrics might be nigh on incomprehensible but....it's David Lynch, what else do I need to say? The first, 'Star Eyes (I Can't Catch It)', is the sound of Mercury Rev and Brian Wilson doing illicit substances together while riding on horses in slow motion. OK, a bit of aural exaggeration there but I'm doing my best. But the real pearl is the title track, the finale of the album, and would fit right at home in the visions of Betty Elms' relentless nightmare in 'Mulholland Drive' or the black lodge in 'Twin Peaks.' It's eerie, dark, other-worldly and bears the distinctively batshit-crazy stamp of Lynch's universe.

Because of an ongoing conflict with EMI, The Dark Night of the Soul may never see the light of day (hence the inclusion of the blank CD-R, the buyer choosing what to do with said item as they wish.) Either this is a genuine artists vs big corporation dispute or the best publicity stunt ever. Regardless of the actual situation, we are deprived of owning some great music. For those that aren’t modem-challenged, you can currently stream the album at this address:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=104129585

Happy listening.

-AMCS

P.S - Special thanks to my friend Daniel for passing on the news of this release!

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

EAST RIVER PIPE - The Gasoline Age (1999)

I first came across East River Pipe in NME's review of The Gasoline Age a decade ago. It would be another few years before I actually bought the album, as no local record store I perused stocked any of his records and crazed Internet shopping had not quite taken off in a way that it has now. Aside from the typical hyberbole that accompanies many a favourable NME release, the first line from the article always stuck in my mind, "There is bliss to be found in emptiness." This is a neat summation of the East River Pipe approach, in which the bleak, artificial landscapes and desperate characters of FM Cornog's songs are channelled through his strained yet eerie voice, juxtaposed with lush keyboards and chiming guitars. It's a contradiction that sits oddly to some ears, but I find it strangely compelling.

Given that at least half of the subject matter concerns cars and the vast nothingness of highway-riddled america, The Gasoline Age (save for a few inconsequential moments), could almost be labelled a lo-fi concept album of sorts. Every character within the songs, despite their yearning for freedom on the open road, acknowledges the futility of the journey ahead. It's the dark side of the American dream, the sinister flipside to On the Road for the new millenium. Tracks like 'Cybercar' and 'Astrofarm' paint a lightly dystopian vision of the future without going all Gary Numan (think of a more human Kraftwerk instead), while the opening number 'Shiny, Shiny Pimpmobile' (beyond it's great title), is a twinkling delight that perfectly evokes fast cars and glittering cityscapes yet is undercut with a slice of patriotic malice:

We're all alone, just get inside

We're going for a little ride

The cherry bombs, confederate flags

Don't forget that's all you are.

Other songs take the lonely highway chancer to familiar American pastimes, in the epic (and just a mite overlong) Atlantic City (Gonna Make A Million Tonight) where the gambler, after recounting his history of family neglect and poor choices, is convinced he is a "big time player" and will finally hit the jackpot and turn his life around.

Being modestly home-recorded, with nary a session musician or record producer in sight, the majority of East River Pipe's output tends to feature a rather cheap-sounding drum machine and/or drum samples. One can choose to be frustrated by this minor sonic setback or adopt the view that were East River Pipe's songs given the full band treatment and production, they would lose something in the translation. These are deceptively simple songs; intimate, warts-and-all but also full of pathos and quirky humour that is deeply ingrained in FM Cornog's lo-fi aesthetic.

Sadly, FM Cornog rarely performs live, which one could argue has limited his exposure somewhat. Nonetheless, this hasn't stopped other artists (Lambchop, for instance) recognising his singular talent and covering his works on stage and on record. So, in the absence of any future East River Pipe tour dates, if you do find a copy of The Gasoline Age in a record store, you won't regret the purchase. The album that followed this after a four year gap, Garbageheads On Endless Stun, is equally as impressive, filled with more of FM Cornog's slanted tales, so be sure to invest in that should you find a copy as well.

-AMCS

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

THE OCEAN BLUE - Cerulean

Writing accessible pop with a subversive edge is tricky. A handful of artists (Steely Dan and Randy Newman, for example) have managed to pull it off successfully throughout their careers, often with such deftness that you barely notice the satirical leer underneath the words.

Could there be another argument that writing innocent and wistful pop, free of cynicism yet also free of saccharine, is equally as challenging? Many bands fall under the unfortunate banner of "twee" when attempting this or write 60s bubblegum songs in the vein of The Archies. Surely there must be some exceptions....

Perhaps it requires a bit of youthful vigour. The Ocean Blue (hailing from Pensylanvia U.S), enjoyed a mild amount of homeland success when they had barely graduated from high school, after releasing their debut self-titled album in 1989. This was due in no small part to their heavily British-inflected jangly sound, as UK groups of this ilk were a considerable influence on the American college rock scene at the time. Little wonder then, that many listeners were surprised to discover they weren't British. But despite the naive charm and strong hooks of the debut, they had matured a bit two years on by the time of their second album, the majestic Cerulean. It's a far less derivative, less dated effort.

The shimmering 'Ballerina Out of Control' is an exercise in chiming three-minute pop mastery, an American indie classic every bit the equal of 'There She Goes' by The La's or 'Bizarre Love Triangle' by New Order. The instrumentation is so sparse it's almost jarring upon first listen but repeated listens reveal its potency. It's a song so effortless and weightless it floats off the speakers. Or off your headphones. Did I mention this is a perfect headphones album?

Other highlights include 'When Life Was Easy', a yearning for simpler times but without a hint of angst or self-pity. It's just what it is, a piece of nostalgia performed and written with sincerity. And yet, I struggle to think of many other bands who have written songs like this without belabouring the point.

The final song is called 'I've Sung One Too Many Songs For A Crowd That Didn't Want To Hear' and belongs in the ranks of Greatest Extended Song Titles list. It just so happens to be a great tune as well.

Strong melodies and crystalline guitars are The Ocean Blue's butter and bread, so the lyrics seem like a bit of an after-thought. Many might find the American wholesomeness of singer/guitarist David Schelzel's words a bit cloying. I find only 'Questions of Travel' and 'Marigold' grate slightly with lines that stray a little too close to Hallmark territory ("Pockets full of posies" and "Swiss alps in the snow" should give you some idea of what to expect).

It's somewhat ironic that an American band release such a sunny, optimistic pop album in the year of grunge and an increase in flannelette shirt sales. They would not have sounded more out of place. In a way, they still do sound out of place. Cerulean is a collection of 12 blissful guitar pop songs and nothing more. Why can't it always be that simple?

-AMCS