Reviews Written By: A3VZVYWCTGIEV0provided by Amazon.com |
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 | Terence Trent D'Arby - Symphony Or Damn | |
 | "excellent" | 2009-11-14 |
| Readers of mine will know I have no love for modern production--that digital sheen that covers today's music. But when an artist can make an artist can make an album like this, I am willing to spend the time to penatrate the gloss.
And Symphany or Damm has a lot under that sheen. Just on "She Kissed Me" track two, I hear maracas, solid but fluid bass playing, and Jesus-that guitar. Lenny Kravitz may do a fun Hendrix nostalgia cartoon, but D'arby has actually assimilated the influence. This may be modern music at modern volume, but the grit--notice I didn't say flash--is old school, with all the traditional blue notes, timing tentions, and chewy riffs--this is a perfect blues solo. Not a lot of people know how to use the blues for inspiration and not immitation now. But D'Arby has not just the notes, but the sawdust in the system needed to play this RIGHT! After the fireworks of "She Kissed Me" it is a little work to come down to the mistempo pieces D'arby follows it with. If you can fault D'arby here, it is only for making a track so good that it delightfully exhausts you before he even really gets started. But when you finally stop hiting the BACK button to hear "She Kissed Me" --and it could be a while before you do--you hear the same type of dynamics. All the synths and modern divices are there, but so are the acccustic guitars, the stereo seperation, the little off the cuff informalities and "mistakes" that we used to lovingly absorb over the years in the days of analouge. This music may be digital, but is far from perfect. Thank god. And thank Terrance Trent D'arby | ||
![Quincy Jones ,Ray Charles - In The Heat Of The Night (1967 Film) / They Call Me Mister Tibbs! (1970 Film): Original MGM Motion Picture Soundtrack [Enhanced CD]](product_images/1373000/1373561_thumb.jpg) | Quincy Jones ,Ray Charles - In The Heat Of The Night (1967 Film) / They Call Me Mister Tibbs! (1970 Film): Original MGM Motion Picture Soundtrack [Enhanced CD] | |
 | "Classic" | 2009-11-01 |
| On a simplistic level, you can divide the blues into two catagories, rurual and urban. That is what these two sountracks, and this CD does.
Of course, with a genius, things are never quite that simple. Quincy Jones did the soundtrack for both these films. In The Heat Of The Night, the film, transpires in a small southern town, Sparta, Mis. The soundtrack has a rural feel, with harmonicas, steel guitar and treated panio. But Jones also adds his lush arrangments, and fleshes this music out to the most polished it can be without losing its country grit. Mr. Tibbs' sountrack is urban funk blues all the way, and has all the electric flutes and driving guitars you would expect such music to have in 1970. Fantisticlly lush blues. Urban, rural, when you have Quincy Jones at the helm, the labals don't matter, the music does, and it does not get better than this. | ||
 | Lenny | |
| "excellent" | 2009-11-01 |
| This is a great film about a comic nammed Lenny Bruce, not the comic, Lenny Bruce.
Watch films of the real Lenny: he is a big framed man, a hipster with a streem of consiousness mind and a airplane gunners mouth. His humor is scattalogical and wonders through the complexities of his mind before subtley arriving on point. Fossee and Hoffman distil the comady and make Lenny seem like a crusading intellectual. The humor here is tight and to the point--excellent stand up--just not Lenny. Also, all accounts I read say by 1966, Lenny was broken by junk and waiting to die. True, he spent a lot of legal fights, but he spent more on heroin. Lenny, the film, makes it seem like he was broken more by his leagal battles than the drugs--that he was a crusading martyr ready to give all for the cause rather than a sad, broken victim of addiction. Had Lenny lived into 1968 or 1969, he would have been in a whole new era, and a lot of his leagal issues would have taken care of themselves. Comics like Richard Pryor and George Carlin made Bruce seem tame by comparison, as did the counterculture about to explode when Lennt died. | ||
 | The Last Detail | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-28 |
| Last Detail is a great little Nicholson flick from 1974. I said little, first, because it is a small on location film made when you could get a big studio to pay for a small, individuallized project. These were really "independant" films, before it was cool to be called an indie filmaker. Second, too few people know about Last Detail.
Jack Nicholson and Otis Young play two sailors assigned to take a third, younger seaman to Portsmith Millatary Prison. The crime: steeling forty dollars from a charity drive sponsered by a well connected officer. He got eight years. Randy Quiad plays the prisoner, and he is a nice, quiet, troubled kid with no confidence and deep psychological problems that manifest as kelptomania. Nicholson befriends the kid, teaches him how to assert himself, gets him loaded and takes him to have sex with a hooker; his first time. Painfully evident is this young man does not belong in jail for eight days, forget eight years. Yet Nicholson and Young are lifers, who will be ruined if the kid escapes by "accident." The realism and naturalism are striking. The hooker here--Carol Kaye who later played Simka on Taxi-is cold as any New York hooker, not a comforting angel. She is damaged too and just wants to get payed. Nicholson and Young anguish over the inevitable--they know the kid is going to get eaten alive in jail--but they are not willing to throw their lives away. Warm guys who are parts of a cold machine; they too are stuck. Set in winter, the locations are small, cold and claustrphobic. You feel the sad end coming throughout. People act in Last Detail as they probably would in real life. No heros or villians. Made by the late Hal Ashby, this film has the greatness of Hollywood story and the immediacy of televison. Ashby had been an editor before he directed, worked on Norman Jewison's In The Heat Of The Night. He is able to create quick, small scenes that make their point fast while retaining rich mileu and subtext. Young's charactor encounters offhand comments of idoits--he is black--but these exist in the real world Ashby creates, and are shown without grandiosidy. Watch the way he films a 1970s party, where liberals press the sailers about Vietnam and Nixon. These guys are not William Calley--just guys who had limited opportunity and are trying to survive, the Navy being one of the few viable options I am only forty, but I remember seeing things like this as a kid and they felt just the way Ashby conveys them. Brilliant film | ||
 | Dirty Harry | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-27 |
| When this came out in 1971, America was so polorized, people either loved or hated Dirty Harry. Doves Vs. Hawks. No need to go into who was on what side and why. We all know.
This cultural split has gone the way of rotery phones. When you look at the film now, it poses quetions more ambiguous than anyone might have seen through the dove v. hawk smoke of 1971 How do we, as a rational society, deal with serious social pathology? The question goes back to Moses, and we have not yet answered it. Now, Harry Callahan is one dangerous dude. He actually means well, such as when he breaks up a robbery, or runs from pay phone to pay phone to try to save the life of a kid abducted by a sniper/ kiddie rapist, Scorpio. But he also shoots first and then asks questions. He sure does like that gun. He tortures Scorpio to get the location of the adolesent rape victim. Harry knows you can't reason with evil. Yet, you see in the film that the girl dies anyway, so his torture did not do any good. Let's look at this both ways. I am a card carrying member of the ACLU and a proud lefty. I relaize that these tactics don't work, and usually are used on the wrong guy. But i am a person, too, and if it were my little girl in that hole, you bet I'd want Harry dancing on Scorpio's wounded leg until the SOB sang. Any mom or dad would, I don't care how liberal they are. Either way, these are not cut and dry questions, and this is the point I think Seigal and Eastwood were trying to make. When everyone was taking sides in 1971, both the actor and the director were smart enough to see the ambiguities and leave them unanswered. Harry may have become a action hero in sequals, but for this film, he is not a Hollywood commodity as much as a channel for issues America was, and still is, grappling with. One more point: in 1971, Miranda had only been law five years. There was little forensic psychology, no use of DNA. Police did not have many of the techniques we see on Law and Order or NCIS today. Police who could have strongarmed suspects before Miranda were at a loss of how to handle all this, which brings us back to my initial question: What DO you do when a madman has a child? Oh yeah. I LOVE Harry's suits. | ||
 | Dirty Harry | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-27 |
| When this came out in 1971, America was so polorized, people either loved or hated Dirty Harry. Doves Vs. Hawks. No need to go into who was on what side and why. We all know.
This cultural split has gone the way of rotery phones. When you look at the film now, it poses quetions more ambiguous than anyone might have seen through the dove v. hawk smoke of 1971 How do we, as a rational society, deal with serious social pathology? The question goes back to Moses, and we have not yet answered it. Now, Harry Callahan is one dangerous dude. He actually means well, such as when he breaks up a robbery, or runs from pay phone to pay phone to try to save the life of a kid abducted by a sniper/ kiddie rapist, Scorpio. But he also shoots first and then asks questions. He sure does like that gun. He tortures Scorpio to get the location of the adolesent rape victim. Harry knows you can't reason with evil. Yet, you see in the film that the girl dies anyway, so his torture did not do any good. Let's look at this both ways. I am a card carrying member of the ACLU and a proud lefty. I relaize that these tactics don't work, and usually are used on the wrong guy. But i am a person, too, and if it were my little girl in that hole, you bet I'd want Harry dancing on Scorpio's wounded leg until the SOB sang. Any mom or dad would, I don't care how liberal they are. Either way, these are not cut and dry questions, and this is the point I think Seigal and Eastwood were trying to make. When everyone was taking sides in 1971, both the actor and the director were smart enough to see the ambiguities and leave them unanswered. Harry may have become a action hero in sequals, but for this film, he is not a Hollywood commodity as much as a channel for issues America was, and still is, grappling with. One more point: in 1971, Miranda had only been law five years. There was little forensic psychology, no use of DNA. Police did not have many of the techniques we see on Law and Order or NCIS today. Police who could have strongarmed suspects before Miranda were at a loss of how to handle all this, which brings us back to my initial question: What DO you do when a madman has a child? Oh yeah. I LOVE Harry's suits. | ||
 | Dirty Harry | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-27 |
| When this came out in 1971, America was so polorized, people either loved or hated Dirty Harry. Doves Vs. Hawks. No need to go into who was on what side and why. We all know.
This cultural split has gone the way of rotery phones. When you look at the film now, it poses quetions more ambiguous than anyone might have seen through the dove v. hawk smoke of 1971 How do we, as a rational society, deal with serious social pathology? The question goes back to Moses, and we have not yet answered it. Now, Harry Callahan is one dangerous dude. He actually means well, such as when he breaks up a robbery, or runs from pay phone to pay phone to try to save the life of a kid abducted by a sniper/ kiddie rapist, Scorpio. But he also shoots first and then asks questions. He sure does like that gun. He tortures Scorpio to get the location of the adolesent rape victim. Harry knows you can't reason with evil. Yet, you see in the film that the girl dies anyway, so his torture did not do any good. Let's look at this both ways. I am a card carrying member of the ACLU and a proud lefty. I relaize that these tactics don't work, and usually are used on the wrong guy. But i am a person, too, and if it were my little girl in that hole, you bet I'd want Harry dancing on Scorpio's wounded leg until the SOB sang. Any mom or dad would, I don't care how liberal they are. Either way, these are not cut and dry questions, and this is the point I think Seigal and Eastwood were trying to make. When everyone was taking sides in 1971, both the actor and the director were smart enough to see the ambiguities and leave them unanswered. Harry may have become a action hero in sequals, but for this film, he is not a Hollywood commodity as much as a channel for issues America was, and still is, grappling with. One more point: in 1971, Miranda had only been law five years. There was little forensic psychology, no use of DNA. Police did not have many of the techniques we see on Law and Order or NCIS today. Police who could have strongarmed suspects before Miranda were at a loss of how to handle all this, which brings us back to my initial question: What DO you do when a madman has a child? Oh yeah. I LOVE Harry's suits. | ||
![The Temptations - Psychedelic Soul [US]](product_images/222000/222519_thumb.jpg) | The Temptations - Psychedelic Soul [US] | |
| "Classicq" | 2009-10-26 |
| By the end of 1967, Motown could never be the same. The year flew by: hair was different, dress was different, politics was different, EVERYTHING was different. "All I Need" or "My Girl" was fantastic in 1964--really, among the few American sounds that gave the Beatles a run for their money. But now, as Sly said, there was a riot going on. Maybe more.
So, take the Motown dance sound, add Hedrix wha whas, thicken the drums, add eccho, and let the artists talk about what is really happening out there. No one did it better than the Tempations, and its all here for you on this CD. Most know the songs: "Cloud Nine," "I can't get next to you,"; we all know the numbers, because AM radio was smart enough to play them. This is just masterful stuff. The production changed, but the Temptation's talent only grew stronger. Those voices were the perfect, heavenly chorus to imbue this new, rich, complex sound. Listening now, this stuff works even more perfectly. Hearing it after years of absorbing and after hearing P-funk, Hendrix, and a thousand other bands, you reallize just how acidy, funky, hard and amazingly assembled this music was. It sounds as fresh now as it did in 1968, and has aged better than most top 40 music of the era. Removed from its long ago context, it still dominates as soul, funk, acid rock, and works on so many musical levels that music lovers in 2068 will no doubt be dancing to, and learning from, this wonderful music, made all those turbulent years ago. | ||
 | Miles Davis - Black Beauty: Miles Davis at Fillmore West | |
| "Excellent" | 2009-10-25 |
| Improvised as they may seem, Miles' sets from 1970 were planned. Listen to any of the shows released, and it is the same tracks in the same sequence. The spontanaity came in how they were played.
Black Beauty is the counterpart to Live at Filmore, recoreded at Filmores West and East repectively. While the sets are the same, the New York shows are slower in tempo, and more contemplative, and feature more free form jamming, at least as edited by Marceo. The habit of jazz musicians playing the same music at faster tempos as a tour grinds on goes back to dixiland, and while there is nothing wrong with this, it makes Black Beauty inferior to At Filmore. This music has so much happening in it, why rush? This was a new type of music in 1970, and listening this, you loose the sense of pobing, of discovery, that you get on the East Coast gigs. That said, this would probably be a classic album in my book if I had not listened to At Filmore, and this is still some of the best improvised music out there, so I would advise Milesphiles and acolytes alike to get this. | ||
 | Gil Scott-Heron - Reflections | |
| "excellent" | 2009-10-24 |
| In a sense, this is more of the same, but with Gil, this is a good thing. The poetry jazz construct he always uses works like a charm, particularlly when you have players like the Midnight Band. If this unit had been used for top 40 session back up, it would have beens hits every time.
This does have modern touches like raegee, and the production is more polished. But the music never loses its guts, and Heron had an ability to make his themes fresh and relevent, even when they are similar with every album. | ||
 | Steely Dan - Aja | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-24 |
| Very little pop music is self-consiously high art. All of the Beatles work is after Revolver, as is the Beach Boys Pet Sounds. It is not that there are not a lot of classic pop albums out there. But there are not a lot that are so so perfectly made, you get both pop and art of the absolutly highest order. Sgt. Pepper, Pet Sounds, a few more I am not thinking of, and Aja, by Steely Dan.
It is one thing to make complex music, another to make good pop, but quite another to make the MOST complex music sound like the BEST pop. Listen to ToTo or the Little River Band or any of the more "adult" AM radio stuff of this time, and it does not even approach this level. There are wannabes, and then there is Steely Dan, and the differance is glaring. People give me great albums by great musicans and say "it is, you know, like a Steely Dan thing." Well, I get the idea, but NOTHING is like a Steely Dan thing, except for Steely Dan. Obviously, the complicated time changes of the title track are not the best place to start making my arugment. But if you listen to "Black Cow," "Decon Blues" "Home At Last" or "Peg" --or better yet if you are a young musician trying to play the songs- you will quickly realize how much more advanced this album is. I tried and gave up in a few bars. Yet out of all these chords and time changes emerge beutiful melodies. You may not be able to PLAY the songs, even if you are very good, but you can absolutley sing along. "Black Cow," "Aja," "Deac........well, anything on here is radio ready material that lodges in your head and stays there. It takes years to really process, a little cowbell here, a guitar slide here, a time shift here, how much is really going on, and just when you think you have heard everything--well trust me, you have NOT heard everything. None of us have. These guys pack more layers into a bar than most do in a song, and like being married to a beautiful man or women, decades pass, and yet there are more surprises. As if this were not enough to last from your childhood to your grandkids old age, Steely Dan have used the best technology available, so the studio becomes another instrument--not really to invent, not to try new ideas like the Beatles did, but to add to the glow, the absolute perfection that radiates from this music. Music just does not stound like this. But it does. And the audio works on two, almost contradictory levels. On one, it is just part of the overall perfection Becker and Fagan have always demanded of themselves. On the other, it actually serves to obscure the complications and intricate structures of this music. It gives the art a pop sheen, which you dive into to find the art. | ||
 | The Beatles - The Capitol Albums Vol. 1 | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-18 |
| This little box seems quaint given the massive Beatles reissue that has just taken place, be it the officals or Dr. Ebbits. But from the 1980s until this came out in 2004, Americans could not get the albums they grew up hearing, as the English versions were issued, not the American. Can you imagine going into a shop, asking for a Beatle album, and hearing "it's out of print."? I'd beleive little green jazz players from Neptune making love in my bed--when I am in it--before that. But it happened, for 20 years. With this and the second volume, you get everything up to Revolver in both mono and stereo, and yes, the stereo versions ARE the albums you grew up with.
When the Beatles took over in 1964, the BBC did not have a lot of rock, and the Beatles releasded clean, folk, rockabiliy blues albums in England. American had AM top 40 stations and a less traditional, more consumer oritented youth. Capitol added eccho and bottom to the British albums so they could thrust out of AM transister radios, America's 1964 model of the I-pod. These radios ware not stereo-the record were- and it didn't sound good, but it did compete with the booming voices of top 40 DJ's, and almost fifty years on, we are still lapping it up with outstreched puppy tounges. Now if you are a progressive rock and jazz guy like me, the mistaken tendancy is to always listen to the Beatles from Revolver-maybe Rubber Soul-up. But buy these sets--or the new reissues if you are REALLY ready to go back to school-- and you'll realize for the 1546th time just how good these good these guys were from day negative one. Even the first records blast fouth with what was then hard rock--remember Frankie Avalon and Fabian--but hard rock with clean hollow body guitars, harmonicas, maraccas, melodic drumming, loping bass, bell clear riffs--well, I only have 10,000 words here and I am already running over budget--which always happens when I review the Beatles. Let's just say all the reasons we started listening as babies and still listen as middle age men and women are right here, gleeming on the discs in this little box. The boxes also have the albums in mono, and personally, I like this better. You hear more of the clear nuances of this clean music. The whole idea of the early work was to strip rock back to essentials, and when you hear the guitars and drums and voices sans the electronic sheen Capitol placed on the albums in 1964-65, you are more aware of the magic the fab four are working with their playing, and reminded how crisp, fresh and genuine all this must have sounded in 1964, when pretty boys, strings and harps were being used to, well, let's face the ugly truth--make rock more White. Fortunately, these four lads were not about to let the buggers get away with THAT! | ||
 | Yohimbe Brothers - Front End Lifter | |
 | "good" | 2009-10-18 |
| I love both Living Color and DJ Logic. And when Vernon Reid worked on DJ Logic's albums, like Anomly, true magic took place.
But where those albums took old school blues and bogaloo and modernized the forms, this is more about the beats. It is like Reid and Logic are trying to make modern dance music, and conceptually, there is nothing wrong with this. It just feels that these two major talents are working beneath their capacity here. There are too many beats and not enough stomp. Too much dance and not enough music. In their attempt to work with a modern form, they dilute their true abilities. It is not that they are not good enough for pure dance music. It is that pure dance music is not good enough for them. Nice idea, but this is boring. | ||
 | Ornette Coleman Double Quartet - Free Jazz (A Collective Improvisation) | |
| "Excellent" | 2009-10-18 |
| To me, this album had a louder bark than bite. It must have scared jazz lovers in 1960 for Ornette to come a long and say "we are going to work without meters or chords," and I have to admit, a lot of young lions made some powerful music with this concept.
And this music is pretty good: it strolls along reletively melodically, thanks to great players like Dolphy, Cherry, Blackwell, and of course, the mastermind himself. Listening without the title in mind, this is pretty likeable. But this is not the untamed beast you would think by reading the press on Free Jazz. There is no madman like Cecil Taylor or Pharroh Sanders to rip heads off. Dolphy and Cherry were fantastic musicans, but their instincts melodic, not atonal. John Coltrane's Ascension Now if you truely want your skull rattled,........... | ||
 | John Coltrane - Giant Steps | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-17 |
| It made sense for John Coltrane to record Giant Stpes in 1960. After spending years recording standards and hard bop, Coltrane was finally able to write music that matched his technical abilities.
Let's talk about that technical ability for a minute. The theme to remember, always, with Coltrane, is that he studied so hard, he internalized every scale, every inversion of every chord. Down to the nuance. He could take the most complex chords, 13ths with a flat fourth in the bass, and rocket around them as if it were do-ri-mi. He knew every detour and back alley. The western musical encylopedia was not in his head, it was in his fingers. When he mastered this, he went to eastern modalities, and I am sure got full command of those. Finally he writes Giant Steps. Music that matches this massive ability. He stoped trying to lead the listener into the solo, and blasted through the intros, heads, in jazz terms, so he could spin his magic, and the more he played, the more direct he became. Coltrane does not go to you, you go to him, if fortunate enough. Take the title track. The complex chords change each beat, yet Coltrane moves though them at 1000 mph. weaving his endless permutations. His ability is beyond stunning, and if there is any critisism, it is only that he is moving so fast you don't realize the technical magic of what he is doing. Even on a blues like "Cousin Mary," he is more interested in moving through the intro as quick as he can so he can get to work. If you can't keep up, though, check out his spare playing on "Niama" which later became one of his best avant gaurde vehicales. For jazz purists, a little blasphamy: the only equal Coltrane had as a solo player was Frank Zappa. The music is almost unrelated but let's deconstruct this for a second. Both men refused to rest, even for a beat, and worked as many notes into their solos as they could. Yet they could make so many permutations, the playing never got boring. Both understood the blues on a primal level, and was able to take their solos and spin the form into endless permutations. Both even have intersting little sounds they make getting from note to note, and are the only players that, after all these years, have me cuing my CD to the second, trying to answer "what the hell was that." After this, Trane went to Impulse, and threw out chords for modes, where he could spin his web in open spaces without having to anticipate the next bar. It is almost as if he had to move beyond his own musical expertise to find the next step. | ||
 | Tricky - Nearly God | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-16 |
| Happy is not a word that applies to any of Tricky's music, but Nearly God brings the creep factor to a new leval.
This is an emmaculately produced techno album, filled with tar pit layered eletrionics, frightening merky synth textures, and sounds that draw you further and further towards that fobidden door that is on the cover. You do NOT want to see what's in there, but your feet keep moving stedly towards it. And the music draws you in as such. Tricky is a master producer, and knows as well or better than most how to spin the mood he wants, and on Nearly God, this is not lovemaking, champaign and flowers. His synths are thick and fever dream. Wierd time shifts and jump cuts-music that jumps off time to another phrase-fill this album. If you think of Tricky here as killing you and not taiking you to heaven, or taking you on a REALLY, REALLY bad acid trip, you get the idea of Nearly God. Modern as this album is--you probably could not have technically made it before 1985--Tricky has a bone deep understanding of old school jazz, blues and funk. Listen to either the Nina Cherry or Alyson Monet tracks, and this proves indisbutable. Cherry's track especcially has that funk blues openess that goes back to Led Zeppilen jamming on the Lemmon Song. The production is modern, but the groove has a deepness no one really conveys anymore. If Tricky had been around in 1970, he could have worked with Howlin' Wolf AND Tangerine Dream and made hits for both. Since that will never happen, get this. Keep the lights on, and whatever you hear, DO NOT OPEN THAT DOOR! | ||
 | Roberta Flack - First Take | |
| "Excellent" | 2009-10-16 |
| Unfortunately for many deep funk fans, Roberta Flack's reputation is as a velvet voiced balladeer. Ask most people who know anything about her and they'll either mention "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" or "Where Is The Love." Of course: that is what got onto AM radio.
But the fact is, Flack could rip it with the hardest of funk singers, and this Eugene McDaniels collaboration debut is ample proof. This album features jazzy funk with tough racial themes. Both accustic and electric bands are used, but what is consistent is funk as genuine as any in 1970 Flack is not quite a belter, but with a voice like her's, that is an asset. What makes her a great singer is her voice itself, not what she does with it. She maintains a natural tone and even when she climbs to the high registers, her singing is simple and clean--why do you think her ballads were never sappy. Listen to "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," and it is what Flack DOESN'T try adding that keeps it from becoming a MOR sap session If you know the hits congradulations--now get this. If you are a deep funk fan who has dismissed Flack, you, yeah you, you get this too. | ||
 | The 5th Dimension - The Magic Garden | |
| "Excellent" | 2009-10-13 |
| The Fifth Dimension were smart. If you have great pipes but don't write, hook up with great songsmiths. You could not find better than Jimmy Web in the late 60s.
This is not just a collection of great songs, all by Webb who also produced. In post-Sgt Pepper fashion, the 5D organized Magic Garden into a concept album--if not a story a general sense of optimisum. The hippie movemet was all love and flowers. Altamont, Manson and Kent State had not happened yet. Magic Garden is a good album if no masterpeice. It is orchestated pop, and the thread holds through the disc. Webb was never one to rock and some of the songs-"Worst That Can Happen"--can assume a heaviness that is undeeded for a pop piece. Still, listen to "Girls Song." You cannot beat Webb's unique sense of cadence. No one sounds like him. I perfer the next album, Stone Soul Picnic. It is more diverse and has a lighter touch. The ornate pop songs are treated as such, not given the classical grandure that at times overweights Magic Garden. But this is a fine peice if not a magic one, defiantely worth buying for the music, and a snap of that post-Pepper world, where anything seemed possible. | ||
 | Brian Wilson - SMiLE | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-12 |
| Smile being magic music is undebatable. In 1966, Brian Wilson said he was crafting a "teenage symphony to God," and those listening may agree there is something otherworldly happening in this music. This is an album that makes you cry, tingles the spine. I have to get ready when this goes on, because I blubber like a baby all the way through.
Wilson's blessing and problem in the 1960s was that he was a genius compsoer in a top forty band. The Beatles were gifted rockers who slowly took on a classical grandur. The Beach Boys were a vocal group from day one. They did straight rock early on, but even this was texured and arranged with a composers care. But as Wilson's music became more advanced and the times psychdelic, the rest of the boys did not have the courage of Wilson, or the progressive Beatles, who moved forward as one unit. They even balked at Pet Sounds, and by the time work commenced on Smile, then called Dumb Angel," the band was clearly out of their depth. Wilson had the talent but not the strong ego of a Lennon or McCarteny or Harrison; he was gobbling moutians of LSD: it was the era, but Wilson was also trying to deal with a worsening mentel illness he did not understand. LSD may have fuled both him and Smile for a time, but by the time Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band came, both Wilson and Smile imploded in the glory of the fab four. Both the Beatles and Wilson knew music was changing in 1966 and the race was on to define it. Smile would have come out in early 1967 had things been different. So I thought it would be interesting to write about--speculate, really,- how Smile and Pepper would have compared had both had come out in '67. The Beatles started to record Pepper with no concept and even when they came up with the idea, they soon abandoned it. Pepper was a collection of SONGS, the only thread being the electronic layering, and that thread transformed rock. The writting on Pepper really was not that complex; it was the techniques the Beatles imbued into their songs that made the album transformative. If you listen to the backing tracks of Pepper, you still have rock and roll songs; the best in the genre, but rock and roll none the less. Wilson was listening to Gershwin and wanted to do a suite about America. "Hereo's and Villian's" is a fantastic rock song, but it does not rock as "Lovely Rita," or "Good Morning." Wilson was trying to write and record classical music with a rock context, where the Beatles were putting classical music into rock. Listen to "Wonderful" or "Cabinessence" and they sound more like they belong to a classical mass than a rock and roll record. Call me if you have a time machine, because there is no way to tell what would have happened if the Beatles and Brian had their horserace in 1967. My guess is that SMILE would have gotten the massive critcal praise it deserves, but been seen more as a concept-art peice from than the leader of the revolution. Even Pet Sounds did not sell well. The Beach Boys, stupidly, were seen as a singles band, and the Americana themes on SMILE were the the last thing American teen record buyers wanted in 1967. With the exception of "Fire"-which probably never would have made the album in 67'- SMILE has a child-like quality: a cartoon vision of America past and present. A strange album to make with a couter-culture insurgancey going on. Regardless, we now have the music, and the happy ending. Brian is now a national treasure, well and working. We also have Smile, ok, a little past the deadline, but here in all its prettyness, meloncholy and royal music. That is what counts. Look at the cover. The sun is out. SMILE!!!!!!! | ||
 | The King of Comedy | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-08 |
| Rupert Pupikin is no king and this is no comedy. The 34-year-old jobless narsacist has spent years honing his stand-up in mommy's cellar. This gives him the idea that he should go on Jerry Langford's--who is for all practical purposes Johnny Carson--late night network show and eventually get his own gig.
Pupkin barges into Langfor's limo one night and is given the ultimate show-biz blow off: send me a tape. Anyone else might, but Pupkin takes out his high school crush the same evening, convinced he has made it to the big time. When rebuffed, he and a cohort kidnap Langford, and Pupkin gets his fifteen minutes, then goes to jail. This plot sounds interesting enough and it is. But what makes this movie so memorable is the viceral discomfort other people feel around Rupert and we feel watching. He walks around New York City, asking to use phones, barging where he is not wanted, and mugging for camaras that are not there. He is pushy, arrogent, and, at first, more of a local nucance than a sociopath. Rupert is either totally oblivous to his impact on other people or simply does not care. Watch the way his date looks away from him and asks for another drink while rolling her eyes. Watch how Lengford's assistant first uses corperate manners with him, then gives a professional, stuffy rebuff when Pupkin questions her judgement. Look at the disconfort when he crashes Lengford's house. Even when Langford is undisputably livid, Pupkin does not get it. Most people would be ashamed at invoking these reactions in people. We all know or have encountered someone like Rupert, and the only thing worse than being embarressed for yourself is being embarressed for someone else. That involuntary tensing you feel in your body you get that just makes you want to evaporate. That is what we experiance watching this. You want to look away but look further in. King Of Comedy in a sense is not about empathizing with Rupert--ill as he is and he is quite ill--but empathizing with all those unfortunate enough to have to deal with him. The film is such a classic due to its ability to convey this in a viceral way and not an intellectual one. The movie is also interesting in the way it shows how the misfit can become quite dangerous quite quickly. \ Please do not misunderstand: I am not talking about the local eccentric you meet and like for his uniqueness, his ability to say what no one else will, his different outlook. These people are a gift from the Gods. I am dealing with the adult baby with no social IQ and no sense or regard for anyone's needs but his or her own. You never know what anyone is capable of, and the village idiot can become the village menece very fast. The ending. When Rupert gets out of jail he becomes a star on TV. For years, the debate on this film is if this really happened or if it's an extention of this screw-up's narsicistic fantasy. When he walks on stage, the announcer says "wonderful, wonderful, wondeful." TV does not sound this way. Rupert the star? Highly unlikely | ||
 | The King of Comedy | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-08 |
| Rupert Pupikin is no king and this is no comedy. The 34-year-old jobless narsacist has spent years honing his stand-up in mommy's cellar. This gives him the idea that he should go on Jerry Langford's--who is for all practical purposes Johnny Carson--late night network show and eventually get his own gig.
Pupkin barges into Langfor's limo one night and is given the ultimate show-biz blow off: send me a tape. Anyone else might, but Pupkin takes out his high school crush the same evening, convinced he has made it to the big time. When rebuffed, he and a cohort kidnap Langford, and Pupkin gets his fifteen minutes, then goes to jail. This plot sounds interesting enough and it is. But what makes this movie so memorable is the viceral discomfort other people feel around Rupert and we feel watching. He walks around New York City, asking to use phones, barging where he is not wanted, and mugging for camaras that are not there. He is pushy, arrogent, and, at first, more of a local nucance than a sociopath. Rupert is either totally oblivous to his impact on other people or simply does not care. Watch the way his date looks away from him and asks for another drink while rolling her eyes. Watch how Lengford's assistant first uses corperate manners with him, then gives a professional, stuffy rebuff when Pupkin questions her judgement. Look at the disconfort when he crashes Lengford's house. Even when Langford is undisputably livid, Pupkin does not get it. Most people would be ashamed at invoking these reactions in people. We all know or have encountered someone like Rupert, and the only thing worse than being embarressed for yourself is being embarressed for someone else. That involuntary tensing you feel in your body you get that just makes you want to evaporate. That is what we experiance watching this. You want to look away but look further in. King Of Comedy in a sense is not about empathizing with Rupert--ill as he is and he is quite ill--but empathizing with all those unfortunate enough to have to deal with him. The film is such a classic due to its ability to convey this in a viceral way and not an intellectual one. The movie is also interesting in the way it shows how the misfit can become quite dangerous quite quickly. \ Please do not misunderstand: I am not talking about the local eccentric you meet and like for his uniqueness, his ability to say what no one else will, his different outlook. These people are a gift from the Gods. I am dealing with the adult baby with no social IQ and no sense or regard for anyone's needs but his or her own. You never know what anyone is capable of, and the village idiot can become the village menece very fast. The ending. When Rupert gets out of jail he becomes a star on TV. For years, the debate on this film is if this really happened or if it's an extention of this screw-up's narsicistic fantasy. When he walks on stage, the announcer says "wonderful, wonderful, wondeful." TV does not sound this way. Rupert the star? Highly unlikely | ||
 | The King of Comedy | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-08 |
| Rupert Pupikin is no king and this is no comedy. The 34-year-old jobless narsacist has spent years honing his stand-up in mommy's cellar. This gives him the idea that he should go on Jerry Langford's--who is for all practical purposes Johnny Carson--late night network show and eventually get his own gig.
Pupkin barges into Langfor's limo one night and is given the ultimate show-biz blow off: send me a tape. Anyone else might, but Pupkin takes out his high school crush the same evening, convinced he has made it to the big time. When rebuffed, he and a cohort kidnap Langford, and Pupkin gets his fifteen minutes, then goes to jail. This plot sounds interesting enough and it is. But what makes this movie so memorable is the viceral discomfort other people feel around Rupert and we feel watching. He walks around New York City, asking to use phones, barging where he is not wanted, and mugging for camaras that are not there. He is pushy, arrogent, and, at first, more of a local nucance than a sociopath. Rupert is either totally oblivous to his impact on other people or simply does not care. Watch the way his date looks away from him and asks for another drink while rolling her eyes. Watch how Lengford's assistant first uses corperate manners with him, then gives a professional, stuffy rebuff when Pupkin questions her judgement. Look at the disconfort when he crashes Lengford's house. Even when Langford is undisputably livid, Pupkin does not get it. Most people would be ashamed at invoking these reactions in people. We all know or have encountered someone like Rupert, and the only thing worse than being embarressed for yourself is being embarressed for someone else. That involuntary tensing you feel in your body you get that just makes you want to evaporate. That is what we experiance watching this. You want to look away but look further in. King Of Comedy in a sense is not about empathizing with Rupert--ill as he is and he is quite ill--but empathizing with all those unfortunate enough to have to deal with him. The film is such a classic due to its ability to convey this in a viceral way and not an intellectual one. The movie is also interesting in the way it shows how the misfit can become quite dangerous quite quickly. \ Please do not misunderstand: I am not talking about the local eccentric you meet and like for his uniqueness, his ability to say what no one else will, his different outlook. These people are a gift from the Gods. I am dealing with the adult baby with no social IQ and no sense or regard for anyone's needs but his or her own. You never know what anyone is capable of, and the village idiot can become the village menece very fast. The ending. When Rupert gets out of jail he becomes a star on TV. For years, the debate on this film is if this really happened or if it's an extention of this screw-up's narsicistic fantasy. When he walks on stage, the announcer says "wonderful, wonderful, wondeful." TV does not sound this way. Rupert the star? Highly unlikely | ||
 | The King of Comedy | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-08 |
| Rupert Pupikin is no king and this is no comedy. The 34-year-old jobless narsacist has spent years honing his stand-up in mommy's cellar. This gives him the idea that he should go on Jerry Langford's--who is for all practical purposes Johnny Carson--late night network show and eventually get his own gig.
Pupkin barges into Langfor's limo one night and is given the ultimate show-biz blow off: send me a tape. Anyone else might, but Pupkin takes out his high school crush the same evening, convinced he has made it to the big time. When rebuffed, he and a cohort kidnap Langford, and Pupkin gets his fifteen minutes, then goes to jail. This plot sounds interesting enough and it is. But what makes this movie so memorable is the viceral discomfort other people feel around Rupert and we feel watching. He walks around New York City, asking to use phones, barging where he is not wanted, and mugging for camaras that are not there. He is pushy, arrogent, and, at first, more of a local nucance than a sociopath. Rupert is either totally oblivous to his impact on other people or simply does not care. Watch the way his date looks away from him and asks for another drink while rolling her eyes. Watch how Lengford's assistant first uses corperate manners with him, then gives a professional, stuffy rebuff when Pupkin questions her judgement. Look at the disconfort when he crashes Lengford's house. Even when Langford is undisputably livid, Pupkin does not get it. Most people would be ashamed at invoking these reactions in people. We all know or have encountered someone like Rupert, and the only thing worse than being embarressed for yourself is being embarressed for someone else. That involuntary tensing you feel in your body you get that just makes you want to evaporate. That is what we experiance watching this. You want to look away but look further in. King Of Comedy in a sense is not about empathizing with Rupert--ill as he is and he is quite ill--but empathizing with all those unfortunate enough to have to deal with him. The film is such a classic due to its ability to convey this in a viceral way and not an intellectual one. The movie is also interesting in the way it shows how the misfit can become quite dangerous quite quickly. \ Please do not misunderstand: I am not talking about the local eccentric you meet and like for his uniqueness, his ability to say what no one else will, his different outlook. These people are a gift from the Gods. I am dealing with the adult baby with no social IQ and no sense or regard for anyone's needs but his or her own. You never know what anyone is capable of, and the village idiot can become the village menece very fast. The ending. When Rupert gets out of jail he becomes a star on TV. For years, the debate on this film is if this really happened or if it's an extention of this screw-up's narsicistic fantasy. When he walks on stage, the announcer says "wonderful, wonderful, wondeful." TV does not sound this way. Rupert the star? Highly unlikely | ||
 | Eric Dolphy - Eric Dolphy at the Five Spot, Vol. 1 | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-07 |
| Like any other genre labal, avant-gaurd or free jazz is an empty term. There is so much lumped under the heading that it defines nothing. Cecil Taylor sounds nothing like Archie Shepp or late Coltrane.
Eric Dolphy was placed beneath this umbrella, and to a small degree, this makes sense. Listen to Out To Lunch and hear that Dolphy was not afraid to indeed play "out." Good a player as he was, his work was based on composition as much as improvosation. He loved chords, and lining these up in ways that created peices with an almost classical musicallity. Both Five Spot sets show this in spades: listen to "Bee Vamp," "Number Eight," any of the numbers on the set. You will hear waltzes, almost ethnic flavored minor tonics, all kinds of wonderful writing. Dolphy's playing is mostly what got him into avant gaurde circles, and yes, you can hear him moving further in this direction on his last great album, Out To Lunch. Dolphy tragically died in 1964. This was a year before Coltrane's Ascention gave the young upstarts the mandate to go out as far "out" as they liked. The master gave his endorcement. Dolphy was conspicuosly absent, and not hearing where he would have taken his music in post-Ascention jazz is a great loss to the music. But at least we have this. It is more than enough to remind you of how great Dolphy was and of what may have come next. | ||
 | Toadies - Hell Below/Stars Above | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-06 |
| I would propose Rubberneck, the Toadies album before this, would be impossible to top. And I would be wrong.
Hell Below Stars Above showcases the riff-twist southern rock Rubberneck does. It also packs the midnight tar pit anger and revenge odes that made Rubberneck such a wonderfully, nakedly uncomfortable listen. This album will creep you as much if not more. But the Toadies here have improved here subtlely. The songs are longer, and segue better around their unexpected cornors. The choppy rhythms here are as inventive as ever, but more punchy and ressonent. The production on Hell Below adds a thickness that tops Rubberneck's. Production also helps this album beat its pappy because it is more complex, but in the most subtle of ways: the singers vioce flanges for a word or two at just the right point-"did I just hear that?" Guitars grind and suddenly drop into the back of the mix, then pop forward again. A coda comes when least expected. This band is good. REAL good. If you can't see why, you are just not listening. | ||
 | Frank Zappa - Make a Jazz Noise Here | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-03 |
| There is a ridiculous urban legend that lingers to this day, even among smart music people: Zappa's best, or only good music, ended when the origional Mothers broke up in 1969. Sure, that is plauseable. And there is a nice little man in my CD changer who rotates the discs when I play this double set.
True, the first Mother's were virtuosos, and Zappa did stoke the comady and sexual hijinks after this. But the dadaism never left the music. Hearing Make A Jazz Noise here should impress any open-minded person how strong all of Zappa's work was and how the musicians he used through the 70s and 80s got better and better. This hefty live set features treatments of numbers from the earliest Zappa to compsitions he wrote for this tour. Cutting edge digital equiptment, sampling, and master players made this band some of the best interpraters of Zappa's entire catolouge. Listen no further than the horn-driven version of "Stinkfoot" which opens the album--and where Zappa gives Jimmy Swaggart the verbal drive by this waste of DNA so royally deserved--and still does. The digital onslaught here, with heavy drums and horns, is so large, the Apostropie version sounds completely malnourished. "When Yuppies Go To Hell," I would submit, is one of Frank's last great compositions--with its samples and quicksilver parts, it is far more sophisticated than anything he had done in the alleged days of yore. I could go track by track extending my argument, but you get the idea. Zappa's guitar work throughout the set is also taking on astonishing new demensions; yes, processing allowed him to be louder and have more ressonece. But the playing itself is evolving. Listen to "Star Wars Won't Work." Zappa was never a player to rest during a solo, but here, he is using such wonderfully odd rythmic sculptures, his axe work seems to be taking on new, surreal shapes. It is almost sad to listen to this given what was in store for Zappa. Had the master lived to a ripe old age, I think this album is a precurser to the digital brilance Zappa would have taken as his next major direction. If only. But thankfully there is this. It is not enough, but is more than ample. | ||
 | Toadies - Rubberneck | |
| "Classic" | 2009-10-02 |
| The Toadies were a band just too good for their time. When no talent bands like Local H were canabalizing the last of what Nirvana began on Nevermind, the Toadies were making riff based southern rock.
And talk about southern: Rubberneck is completely and creepily so. The album is filled with referances to virgin brides, incest, strange religous rituals, snakes, swamps-- all the weird backwoods culture that scares New Englanders when they stereotype the south. If you have seen the film Deliverance and absorb the wierdness of the rednecks, the viceral repulsion it produces is what the Toadies exude, and I am not sure they are kidding. Is daddy gonna give you a whoppin? You bet he is. Bring the belt to the woodshed. What a striking ability this band has to invoke mileu. All this would mean little without the music. These guys are tight, tight, and tight. Usualy, hard rock on CDs sounds wartered down, the highs to crisp and the lows too vibrating. But the Toadies are so looked together, their riffs so hooky, the passages hammer out of the speekers. Frankly, I have not heard a rhythm section lock together like this other than Noel Redding and Mitch Mitchel; beleive me, I have heard a lot of rhythm sections Get this. | ||
 | Barton Fink | |
| "Classic" | 2009-09-30 |
| Even the most avid fan of Joel and Ethan Coen can watch Batron Fink repeatedly over a lifetime and not figure the ending out. It is a funny film, but certianly not the comedy of Big Lubowski or Fargo.
A quick and inaddaqute summery: Barton Fink goes to 1941 Hollywood to write for the old studio system. He stays at a fleabag hotel, and befrineds his neighbor Charlie Munt. The morning after a trist with another writer's wife, she is found dead in his bed. He is questioned by the police, but before the crime is solved, the police are killed by Barton's neighbor. You really need to see the film, but for those who have, let's poke at meanings of the ending. When Munt kills the detectives, he runs down the hallway, followed by flames. He bellows "I'll show you the life of the mind" when blowing the cops away with a double barrel. Has Barton gone to hell? Certianly his enslavement by the studio system and the flames at the murder suggest that. He seeks to write for "the common man" but is trapped because he has no empathy with his intended audiance. He cannot even see the stories of those around him--in one part, Munt could have given him the whole story for the screenplay, but Barton rambles about the life of the mind. Is Munt the devil, walking Fink through hell, showing him with butchery what he is too self-involved to grasp through everyday experiance. Look at it another way: Barton Fink is set during the Holocaust. Fink is American and Jewish, but does not seem to pick up on the anti-semitism thrown his way. Munt kills the detective, who had insulted Fink ethnically, saying "Hial Hitler." This is a dig on the cop, but it may also be a way of bringing bigotry to Fink's attention. Fink has big ambitions, but wastes them on self-agrandizment and b-movie scripts. When Munt yells "I will show you the life of the mind" while killing the police, he is really talking to Fink. Fink holds a box which most likely contains his dead lover's head, but he carries it without opening or finding out what is in there. He CHOOSES not to know. Like America during this time, Fink is too wrapped up in himself to see evil until it is in flames outside his door. When asking Munt why he picked Fink, Munt shouts "BECAUSE YOU DON'T LISTEN." Is the Hotel or the studio a concentration camp? It is rare Fink is seen outside either. I am not this brilliant: the hell idea was mine, but the alternate holocaust theme I'll freely confess has been around for years. The filmmakers have not been forthcomming with the meaning of the ending, leaving it subjective for the audiance. But since the end of the film has events that could not happen--the spontainous fire which Munt carries with him--it is not a streach to argue that the ending takes place in Hell, Nazi Occupied Europe, Fink's mind--or in any number of places at the same time. The common thread of possible themes is not in real time or physical space, but in Fink's self-involvement and apathy and how they return to haunt him. The Coen's have meanings here, but they are liquid meanings, that can absolutely co-exisist. Oh yeah. Great flick. | ||
 | Barton Fink | |
| "Classic" | 2009-09-30 |
| Even the most avid fan of Joel and Ethan Coen can watch Batron Fink repeatedly over a lifetime and not figure the ending out. It is a funny film, but certianly not the comedy of Big Lubowski or Fargo.
A quick and inaddaqute summery: Barton Fink goes to 1941 Hollywood to write for the old studio system. He stays at a fleabag hotel, and befrineds his neighbor Charlie Munt. The morning after a trist with another writer's wife, she is found dead in his bed. He is questioned by the police, but before the crime is solved, the police are killed by Barton's neighbor. You really need to see the film, but for those who have, let's poke at meanings of the ending. When Munt kills the detectives, he runs down the hallway, followed by flames. He bellows "I'll show you the life of the mind" when blowing the cops away with a double barrel. Has Barton gone to hell? Certianly his enslavement by the studio system and the flames at the murder suggest that. He seeks to write for "the common man" but is trapped because he has no empathy with his intended audiance. He cannot even see the stories of those around him--in one part, Munt could have given him the whole story for the screenplay, but Barton rambles about the life of the mind. Is Munt the devil, walking Fink through hell, showing him with butchery what he is too self-involved to grasp through everyday experiance. Look at it another way: Barton Fink is set during the Holocaust. Fink is American and Jewish, but does not seem to pick up on the anti-semitism thrown his way. Munt kills the detective, who had insulted Fink ethnically, saying "Hial Hitler." This is a dig on the cop, but it may also be a way of bringing bigotry to Fink's attention. Fink has big ambitions, but wastes them on self-agrandizment and b-movie scripts. When Munt yells "I will show you the life of the mind" while killing the police, he is really talking to Fink. Fink holds a box which most likely contains his dead lover's head, but he carries it without opening or finding out what is in there. He CHOOSES not to know. Like America during this time, Fink is too wrapped up in himself to see evil until it is in flames outside his door. When asking Munt why he picked Fink, Munt shouts "BECAUSE YOU DON'T LISTEN." Is the Hotel or the studio a concentration camp? It is rare Fink is seen outside either. I am not this brilliant: the hell idea was mine, but the alternate holocaust theme I'll freely confess has been around for years. The filmmakers have not been forthcomming with the meaning of the ending, leaving it subjective for the audiance. But since the end of the film has events that could not happen--the spontainous fire which Munt carries with him--it is not a streach to argue that the ending takes place in Hell, Nazi Occupied Europe, Fink's mind--or in any number of places at the same time. The common thread of possible themes is not in real time or physical space, but in Fink's self-involvement and apathy and how they return to haunt him. The Coen's have meanings here, but they are liquid meanings, that can absolutely co-exisist. Oh yeah. Great flick. | ||
 | Corrosion of Conformity - In the Arms of God | |
| "Excellent" | 2009-09-29 |
| I am not a metal student: beoynd basics I know little about the genre. But if I had to pick a horse like a novice gambler at a racetrack, I would assuredly put my money on Corrosion Of Conformity.
Hearing this album, what strikes me most is the genuiness of this band: you sure as hell won't confuse them with Poison or Loveboy. The monster vocals take getting used to if you're a progressive rock or jazz fan like me; but then again, listen to Ian Gillan and then play this, and the leap is really not that big. Second, I like the writting. COC may play metal. But like metal of very old, it is based on the blues. These are not the standard 12-bar riffs that you would hear on an old Blue Cheer album, but this music has the decending scales, minor tonics and sting riffs that are blues derived if not blues itself. I don't know if these guys had a lot of exposure to 60s blues based metal--listen to Blue Cheer's "Dr. Please" to hear what I am talking about-or if COC have dug Muddy or the Wolf for themselves. But it does not matter: they get the job done. COC's songs also have many parts and suprises. They know how to weld chunky riffs to create what is more than the sum of the pieces. This is not a progressive rock band, but if progressive heads want to delve into metal, COC will more than fit the bill. If these guys are head bangers, they have banged their heads in all the right places. Check them out. | ||
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