Flawed, yes, but Shot of Love is one of the more compelling Bob Dylan albums for quite a stretch both before and after. It has a sound resembling a lot of commercial rock of the day, like Pete Townshend‘s Empty Glass. It is music recorded in high contrast, stripped of subtle shadings and grainy texture. The major problem, as with Dylan’s next album Infidels, is what was left off the album. “Property of Jesus,” “Lenny Bruce” and “Dead Man, Dead Man” all should have been dropped in favor of the much superior tracks “Angelina,” “Need a Woman,” “Caribbean Wind,” and, especially, “You Changed My Life” all left in the vault (but later released on Biograph and The Bootleg Series Volumes 1-3: (Rare & Unreleased) 1961-1991) — a demo version of “Every Grain of Sand” with Jennifer Warnes adding vocals rivals the official version and might justify a swap too. Also, the single B-side “The Groom’s Still Waiting at the Altar” tacked on to later versions of Shot of Love bolsters the album. With those changes, this one would be secular enough, more emotionally bare and open, and would maintain an immediacy throughout. Dylan is engaged on just about everything here, and his vocals reflect considerably more effort than fans would find in most of his albums for at least a decade or so to come. This one may not be essential, but if the final tracklist had been done properly it very well could have come close.
Dylan’s albums from his “christian” period have aged surprisingly well, considering how frequently they are overlooked entirely or dismissed as unworthy. Saved is definitely the most dogmatic and preachy of the batch, and probably the least regarded. For sure, the religious content is rather drab. It doesn’t offer much. But taken in the context of where gospel music was around 1980, this is actually a very fine example of it. The highlights are “Satisfied Mind” and the title track. Dylan evokes some of the choir style (reference the “crown prince of gospel” Reverend James Cleveland, The Edwin Hawkins Singers, etc.), which was still one of the most popular styles in gospel, while at the same time giving this a more contemporary rock sound. [But who would have thought that Dylan would use the riff from The Allman Brothers Band‘s “Midnight Rider” for “Solid Rock,” on a gospel album?] It works fairly well.
Keith Richards quipped that Dylan only cynically got into his “christian” phase to sell records. But compared to what Dylan was doing just prior to and just after this period, it’s hard to deny that he was quite enthusiastic about this music. Not even in his later career critical resurgence did his music have the kind of energy it had at this time.
This one certainly is NOT the most compelling offering Dylan has put forth. But it’s a respectable album, and far superior to some of the dross the man would dump on the world a few years down the road.
Before landing a major-label record deal, Jeff Buckley spent time doing small gigs at coffee shops and other mostly small venues in New York’s lower east side. He referred to these as his “cafe days”. After inking that contract, the label recorded him (in hi fidelity) live in July and August 1993 at one of his favorite “cafe days” venues: Sin-é (a Gaelic phrase pronounced “shin-aye”). The venue was tiny. As pictured on the album cover, Buckley was basically set up in a corner, without any kind of stage riser, so close to the audience that he might hit somebody with his guitar neck if not careful. Originally released as a four-song EP in late 1993, a little less than a year before his full-length studio debut album Grace, this was kind of a tribute document to an important phase of Buckley’s career that was coming to an end, as well as a teaser to drum up interest in what was to come. In 2003, an expanded “Legacy Edition” was posthumously released, featuring two full CDs and a short DVD (only some of the DVD content is from Sin-é, though, recorded in 1996).
The performances are as intimate as the venue. This is just Buckley, alone, playing electric guitar and singing. His performances have all the wistful romanticism that would make him a cult star in the coming years — before his untimely death by drowning at age 30. In the Legacy Edition liner notes (all quite well-composed and informative, incidentally), Mitchell Cohen calls Buckley’s approach a “daredevil’s cabaret”. It is precisely the right term. Buckley has a very earnest — almost naïve — ambition that totally undermines what would otherwise be called pretension. Yet he still puts himself in the spotlight and strives for recognition. He is going for a kind of intuitive and personal bohemian ethos that, above all, is driven by emotion. But he relies on a curious kind of pensive and introverted feeling, looking as much to the future and its possibilities as it does the vagaries of the immediate present. It may not be the sort of thing that appeals to everyone, but Buckley’s fans tend to find his style uniquely appealing.
Buckley’s music cut against the commercial trends of the day. At a time when morose and almost nihilistic rock, with “raw” vocals was dominant — think “Grunge” rock acts like Nirvana — Buckley was instead developing a repertoire that looked backwards to pop, folk, blues and religious music of the by-gone past, combined with his own songs that leaned on urbanized, mystical pop blues. He also sang with a decidedly “traditional pop” style of vibrato, like old time bel canto singing derived from opera (epitomized by Édith Piaf, etc.). While there are a few popular singers who have used substantial vibrato in the rock era, like Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music, Joan Baez, and Jeff’s biological father Tim Buckley, it was increasingly rare. It gives the music its own incongruous sophistication.
All of the best songs from Grace are here. That includes a performance of John Cale‘s compact arrangement of Leonard Cohen‘s “Hallelujah,” which became Buckley’s signature song Quite surprisingly, even as solo performances the arrangements are basically the same as on the later studio recordings. But in place of the slightly ill-fitting clinical professionalism of the studio band, there is the more immediate charm in Buckley’s do-it-yourself one man performance. As another reviewer astutely put it, “The performances range from amazing to alright and everything in between. The flaws only make it more endearing, though.”
As to the Legacy Edition, disc one is the better of the two. Though both have much to offer. Buckley wears his influences on his sleeve. There are choice covers. The second disc slows a bit, due to between-song narratives that seem to go on longer, and a few of the less successful performances are more grating. Buckley declares himself an unabashed Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan superfan, but his performance of “Yeh jo halka halka saroor hai” induces cringes. It proves — should such proof be necessary — that Buckley knew Kahn songs by heart, but his voice just isn’t up to the task of qawwali devotional singing. But for every moment like that, there are two or three like “I Shall Be Released” and “Be My Husband,” where Buckley gives his own memorable take on an iconic song.
In an interview on the DVD, Buckley suggests that he has much more and better things on the way. Yet, really, Live at Sin-é: Legacy Edition is already Buckley at his best — not his most polished, but his best. Here he is willing to try things that he is not certain will work. There is a tentative — and, if you will, “contingent” — quality to this that is absent on his studio recordings. Those qualities end up being bigger assets than the polish and precision of the later studio recordings (even if Gary Lucas does add intriguing guitar work in places on Grace).
There is much to like about Live at Sin-é: Legacy Edition. Listeners can admire Buckley’s efforts to succeed through hard work and determination. They can appreciate his efforts to find continuity with the past while also looking to grow and evolve. There is also his impish charm and convincing emoting. And the song selection is hard to argue with. Any which way, this collection remains a valuable document of some of the best of what was musically possible in one particular place and time.
While Prince had already demonstrated in the 1980s that his music could be self-indulgent, in the 1990s he also demonstrated an unfortunate willingness to pander. Diamonds and Pearls is one of the biggest duds in Prince’s catalog. It opens with a few faux-street-tough songs in the same mold as Michael Jackson‘s Dangerous (released a couple months later). While not particularly memorable, they are at least listenable. Then there is the hit title track, a sappy ballad that is quite mediocre. But then, a bright spot. “Cream” is Prince in his prime, a sleek: funky R&B song with all the ribald themes listeners expect from the man. But from there the album drops off considerably. The rest ranges from the bad to the cringe-worthy. Prince is trying to fit himself (and his band) into some kind of mold of appearing tough yet vulnerable, seemingly aiming for praise for “triangulating” what the public wants. In hindsight, it comes across as an unconvincing and contrived act. In the late 1990s Prince famously said in an interview (in which he talked about jumping off pianos) that his career was about the music not about money or the trappings of fame. Listeners might well question whether that statement held true around 1991 though — or at other times in his career too. For instance, Prince’s first producer Chris Moon later claimed that Prince was mostly interested in fame when he first entered the music business.
Listeners can safely pass on Diamonds and Pearls and merely pick up “Cream” on a compilation.
“Heroes” has remained one of David Bowie’s finest albums. Part of his so-called “Berlin Trilogy”, it roughly follows the same format as the predecessor Low, with the first side devoted to art pop experiments and the second side (mostly) devoted to quasi-ambient instrumentals. But where Low was a poppier version of German “krautrock”, with an emphasis on intensity of feeling, “Heroes” puts more emphasis on songs as such and adds just a bit more disco influence. The music is strange in that it goes in the opposite direction of commercial trends of the day, drawing from left-field European rock and twisting carefree disco dance music with harsh industrial noise while still eschewing the sound of the burgeoning punk movement. Bowie was continuing to chart his own path. And, perhaps, that is part of what makes this elusive music so enduring.
The opening “Beauty and the Beast” is a great one. While Bowie’s disaffected, contrarian and almost deadpan vocals are something of their own statement, the glimmering guitar and relentlessly bouncy beat fits comfortably in the disco era, even as the song’s icy, menacing edge is different from a typical disco dancefloor hit. “Blackout” is another song with hints of disco rhythms. Of course, the likes of “Golden Years” and “Stay” (from Station to Station) and “Fascination” (from Young Americans) had already ventured into disco territory in the prior two years.
“Joe the Lion” is kind of a tale of staggering, hazy, late-night club life, and the hangover. Once again Bowie’s vocals are a kind of contrarian abstraction. The song as a whole recalls Iggy Pop‘s minor hit album The Idiot (produced by Bowie), especially stuff like Iggy’s Stooges nostalgia song “Dum Dum Boys” and even the slower more minimalistic “Sister Midnight.” Guitarist Robert Fripp of King Crimson is on the album on lead guitar, and adds distinctive character to songs like “Joe the Lion.” The mostly instrumental “V-2 Schneider” (in reference to the Nazi V-2 Rocket, which inspired the plot of Thomas Pynchon‘s novel Gravity’s Rainbow), has similar textures to “Joe the Lion” with a more laid-back delivery.
The title track is a Bowie classic. It is a romanticized mini-epic, complete with a kind of soaring and triumphant progression. Producer Tony Visconti used a kind of latched gating effect, in which one microphone was inches from Bowie, another was 15-20 feet away, and a third was across the room. As Bowie sang louder, the gates would trigger a more distant microphone and mute the others. This allows Bowie to begin singing the song by quietly crooning, nearly at a whisper, then sing loudly, then practically shout, while the distance of the microphones scales back the intensity of his near-shouting to a slower crescendo. The effect is something of an audio equivalent of the “dolly zoom” camera technique used in Alfred Hitchcock‘s film Vertigo. Behind the vocals Robert Fripp plays guitar with “tuned feedback” and Brian Eno contributed electronic effects. The album was recorded in West Berlin, during the Cold War division of Germany. The name of the song references the Neu! song “Heroes (from Neu! ’75). The song title is in ironic quotes, though the intended irony is somewhat difficult to detect in the music itself. Yet the drumming is quite different from the “motorik” style of Neu!, more conventional, with the bass kick drum nearly inaudible in this instance. The song’s lyrics, though, deserve some unpacking. They describe a couple “standing by the wall”, alluding to the Berlin Wall that then divided the city. While Western propaganda (still) repeats the fable of the wall going up to keep East Germans in, the reality was that the wall kept Western saboteurs out while also helping to limit a “brain drain” on educated Eastern workers to freeloading Western corporations. Bowie performed the song in 1987 against the Wall as part of the “Concert for Berlin.” That concert is often cited as prompting the wall be torn down (which it was in 1989). Even the right-wing Federalist Society credited Bowie for his role. Of course, the fall of the Berlin Wall allowed the Western Saboteurs (like Jeffrey Sachs) back into the East, with predictably catastrophic consequences. Most former East Germans later said they preferred being behind the Soviet “Iron Curtain”, and, according to Der Spiegel, “20 years after the fall of the Berlin Wall, 57 percent, or an absolute majority, of eastern Germans defend the former East Germany.” So Bowie’s song should be viewed skeptically. But no doubt it is one hell of a catchy tune and this is a spectacular recording.
The second half of the album turns to mostly instrumental songs with ambient qualities — just like Low and Neu! ’75. These are still songs, though, and are much more compact than anything on Low or Neu! ’75. “Moss Garden,” complete with Zen-like washes of sound and Bowie playing koto, is arguably the finest instrumental track on the entire Berlin Trilogy. “Sense of Doubt” and “Neuköln” are both solid tunes too.
The album concludes with “The Secret Life of Arabia,” which has vocals and goes back to disco influences, albeit now with vague middle-eastern references. This scales back the experimentation of the album, and ensures that pop songs remain the focus.
This album was Bowie’s least popular since his Ziggy Stardust breakthrough. The title track has become one of his best-known songs, though at the time — like most of Bowie’s late-1970s singles — wasn’t a hit. While it lacks the sense of wonder and daring of Low, the taut, punchy rock songs of “Heroes” are still pretty great. What this lacks (if anything) in terms of eye-opening creativity it makes up in determined consistency.
I haven’t heard this album, per se, but I saw the TV special of the same name and presume it’s identical. Jeselnik has a very well-defined schtick. He delivers “conventional” jokes, rather than telling stories, etc. His humor is based largely on misdirection, a bit like Rodney Dangerfield, etc. But his version of misdirection takes on a new dimension. He usually takes positions that are considered socially taboo or even undiscussable and feigns being a sociopath (as others note, just a step beyond Craig Kilborn et al.). Often that means jokes premised on hilarious false/extremist dichotomies. So, he implies he’s a rapist, that christianity is worse than pedophilia, and that others’ deaths and disabilities are an inconvenience to him. Often he does this by simple grammatical errors, like substituting the present tense “has” for the past-tense “had” to send the audience a false message before the punchline of a joke. What was kind of interesting in the TV special routine was that in the middle of the show he does this has/had joke involving his brother as a character, but then he finishes up the show with a very similar joke where he kind of “calls out” somebody else for doing essentially the same thing (using “is” instead of “was”). Jeselnik drops hints all over the place that almost everything he says is a complete fabrication (though I wonder about his comments about being an atheist). What I like about him is that he’s found a way to actually create some kind of rudimentary social space to discuss or at least think about some (liberal) social taboos, at least by calling attention to them. It’s a kind of mild meta-humor that recalls Neil Hamburger just a little, but with more general social norms on the table in place of specifically comedic norms. [Edit: it seems like Adam Kotsko‘s book Why We Love Sociopaths: A Guide To Late Capitalist Television makes an argument similar to this review]
I just don’t know what to make of Jefferson Airplane. Can’t say I ever listened to them much other than the ubiquitous singles that crop up in nearly every retro “Sixties” movie that uses “White Rabbit” or “Somebody to Love” for trippy atmosphere or “Volunteers” for rebellious protest attitude. So, giving a few of their albums available from my local library a try, they now strike me as a band a little short on songwriting skills, at least in relation to their guitar prowess, and forcing themselves to do too many ballads and slower tunes that they didn’t pull off well. They were at their best doing scorching psychedelic jams, with lots of space for guitarist Jorma Kaukonen to stretch out. So, there’s good stuff here. “Somebody to Love” is iconic, and it does highlight the darker side of free love and what was to come in the Summer of Love. But lots of this feels like filler. And singer Grace Slick is rather annoying, really. She’s very didactic. I found Live at the Fillmore Auditorium 10/15/66 (Late Show – Signe’s Farewell) from the pre-Slick era to be equally or more satisfying, and After Bathing at Baxter’s is certainly the band’s best. Basically, this album was rendered obsolete a few months later when The 13th Floor Elevators released Easter Everywhere. Otherwise, if you must have Sand Fran psych, just go straight for early Grateful Dead. But I couldn’t shake the feeling listening to Surrealistic Pillow that I would rather be listening to Easter Everywhere.
Jandek is an interesting proposition. Interstellar Discussion makes for a good barometer to gauge why it is anyone listens to Jandek albums. Side one very much sounds like a bunch of young people with minimal musical instrument proficiency banging away in a rehearsal space with a tape recorder running. The harmonica parts seem almost overdubbed. While the performances are, by most standards, inept, the guitar does display hints of a very deliberate and unusual sensibility. Side two is acoustic stuff, like other early Jandek releases but seemingly trying more than usual to be melodic — and possibly failing at that effort. So, there is something in here, weird outsider art potential, but this does sound like rehearsals on tape. Actually, this listener subscribes to the theory that this recording is archival in nature and predates earlier Jandek/Units releases. Some listeners may out of fascination just find a way to like this in spite of its objective qualities. But, really, this is not as intriguing as other Jandek albums, in spite of its potential. Given a more careful listen, it’s noticeably less proficient than other efforts. If this is your favorite Jandek, you’re probably more interested in the myth and mystery than the actual music, or just see it as an affirmation of “be yourself” new ageism.
Hmmm. Quite an interesting album. It was Hill’s second set recorded for Blue Note records, but was kept on the shelf for a few years before release. The results are successful, but not entirely so. The most striking feature of the album is the use of double bassist Richard Davis as a lead voice, a position in jazz combos most commonly held by wind instruments or piano. On songs like “Wailing Wail”, “Not So”, “The Day After” and “Verne”, the effect is spectacular, providing deep shading to Hill’s typically intriguing compositions. However, Davis is sometimes buried in the mix, and cannot clearly be heard over Hill and drummer Roy Haynes on “Smoke Stack” and other cuts. To further complicate matters, Haynes seems just a bit ill at ease here. A hallmark of Hill compositions is, despite complex structures and arrangements, a strong dominant theme running through his songs. In that respect it is more interesting to compare Hill with Albert Ayler or Cecil Taylor than more traditional post-bop players or the previous generation of jazz composers. Here Haynes uses a bit too much space in his drumming, and he is so loud in the mix that this tends to obscure the main themes. That is one of the main difficulties for a listener approaching this album for the first time. Haynes was spectacularly effective on Black Fire. In all, a great set of performances frequently marred by sloppy production, making this just slightly less enjoyable than other Hill recordings from the same time period.