Rock – Page 12 – Rock Salted

The Jimi Hendrix Experience – Axis: Bold as Love

The Jimi Hendrix Experience – Axis: Bold as Love Track 613 003 (1967)

Often considered the weakest of the three Jimi Hendrix Experience studio albums, I happen to like this best. The album has a refined but still straightforward and guileless sound, heavy at times, but with plenty of rock ballads too; melodic, with a hard psychedelic edge. The themes are a little more humble, perhaps, and even more equivocal than brash stuff like “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” or “Foxy Lady.” Frankly, the studio experimentation of the follow-up Electric Ladyland obscures rather than augments what was best about Hendrix’s music in my opinion, and the eclecticism makes my attention wander. Hendrix was a great blues player, but sequencing lengthy blues tracks next to psychedelic rockers doesn’t work for me. Thankfully this album sidesteps much of that. There are no blues tracks here to grind the pace of the album to a halt. As a result this has more intimacy. Also, there is a mysticism and spirituality that binds most of the material together nicely. Before release, some of the master tapes were lost and had to be recreated from secondary sources (early takes dubbed to other media), which might have been a plus or minus, or both. This may not have as many well-known individual songs as other Hendrix albums — though it does have “Little Wing” and “Spanish Castle Magic.” But as a whole this is probably the most listenable front to back — the awesome debut Are You Experienced comes in right behind it though.

Neko Case – Blacklisted

Neko Case – Blacklisted Bloodshot BS 099 (2002)

Blacklisted is a dark album. It’s was a new direction Case is heading into, and she knew it. The loneliness of this new position is evident. There isn’t much musical idolatry here, though she keeps one eye fixed on the past. Her stories chronicle things witnesses and remembered, observed tidbits pulled together to form the songs.

Neko Case has changed quite a bit since Furnace Room Lullaby. Her songwriting is that much more isolated. Her sense of humor scarcely surfaces. A weariness seems to have taken hold long before the songs took shape. Now a passion for something timeless is her calling card.

The songs are a mixture of jagged lyrics and smooth sounds, with lyrics so ragged and blunt that listeners come away bruised. Case has moved into somewhat more traditional country arrangements performed with small, eclectic combos. Her lyrics, however, stand opposed to traditional subjects. Blacklisted eschews “heartbroken woman” themes. Her best outings, “Wish I Was the Moon” and “Ghost Writing” among them, are deeply personal. Yet even at her most confessional, her songs remain framed in the Americana she adores. This isn’t a new way to write music, but it’s a fresh approach for Neko. While still one to romanticize the ways of lonely scoundrels, she employs a different kind of drama than in the past. Of course, honesty isn’t always the best policy. The truth can border the mundane. So there’s a danger built into her craft. It would be nice to say she has the situation under control at all times. That isn’t the case. But it’s better to have Neko overexposed on record than obscured.

On Blacklisted, Neko’s delivery doesn’t have much immediacy. Still, she is reaching. But for what? Unfortunately this was the first step towards capitulation to the mundane and banal aspects of indie rock that would garner her more commercial success over the next 5-10 years. This one is medicore at best, and pales in comparison to Furnace Room Lullaby.

Alejandro Escovedo – Por Vida

Alejandro Escovedo – Por Vida MMTM1001 (2004)

One complaint frequently leveled at Alejandro is that his albums are rarely as good as his live shows. Even his really good albums sometimes sound overproduced. Well, this one goes a long way towards filling any gaps in that respect (I think it ended up being the long-awaited fan-oriented live disc the release of which was pushed back about two years). The last two tracks are throwaways (even if I was present at the Turf Club when one of them was recorded, the sing-along “Sad & Dreamy (The Big 10),” so technically I appear on this album!), but overall this album really finds all the passion and eccentricity of Alejandro’s live shows intact. He’s one of those mature songwriters, like Townes Van Zandt, Lou Reed, and a few others, that come along only rarely and can convey a whole bunch of emotions and experiences in a genuine and convincing manner, full of nuance and gravity. As reviewer BradL says, “He’s particularly good on the foibles of masculinity and, of course, hard love is one of his specialities.” I really like this set. It’s got some heavy rockers, some ballads, some covers — no Alejandro live show is complete without a few choice covers. The band is with him all the way through. Although this might not be the place to start, unless you’ve just witnessed one of Alejandro’s live shows, I find this one of the most enjoyable discs in the man’s catalog.

Alejandro Escovedo – The Boxing Mirror

Alejandro Escovedo – The Boxing Mirror Back Porch 09463-57192-2-2 (2006)

Uggh. What a disappointment. Alejandro sounds disinterested, tired, and he is doing little more here than coasting on songs that simply approximate things he’s done before — better. That is such a shame, because I had always thought producer John Cale was the perfect person to help realize a great Alejandro album. THIS certainly isn’t that at all. Maybe it was the young John Cale that Escovedo really needed. Aside from the closer, “Take Your Place (Larry Goetz mix),” The Boxing Mirror is just utterly boring. Maybe more than that even, it’s embarrassing.

Faust – So Far

Faust – So Far Polydor 2310 196 (1972)

Faust’s second album is quite different from their debut. The first had only three songs, each long, abstract soundscapes with much processing by engineer Kurt Graupner. Now there were definite “songs”. If this makes it sound like So Far is more conventional, that is perhaps misleading. Every song seems to adopt completely different styles, often multiple different styles. The opener “It’s a Rainy Day, Sunshine Girl” is driving primitive rock. The drums are rudimentary and there is a sax solo that is non-virtuoso. Then the second track is a delicate Euro-classical guitar piece. The abrupt transition between opposites is what to expect throughout the remainder of the album.

What makes the album so unique is that everything is treated equally. That is to say that when “On the Way to Abamae” incorporates Euro-classical music, “I’ve Got Mr Car and My TV” is anarchic hippie sarcasm (compare God Bless the Red Krayola and All Who Sail With It), then “Me Lack Space…” delves into free jazz and then “…In the Spirit” features comical vaudeville style jazz, they are all treated as equally valid. There is no sort of weighting of one over another. That is pretty radical. As recounted in his obituary, producer Uwe Nettelbeck took left-wing stances (like writing about the Red Army Faction/Baader-Meinhof Gang) to “force the other side to show its true colors; they won’t react in a liberal way as they would like, but in an authoritarian way as they must when things get serious”. Faust’s music is kind of confrontational in the same way. Either you love the open-arms radicalism, or you probably find it grating — probably because it chafes against privileging one things over others that has pretty direct analogs in the “real world” outside of music. This, certainly, won’t be the sort of music that just drifts by in the background. So Far is Faust at their best.

Nilsson – Nilsson Schmilsson

Nilsson – Nilsson Schmilsson RCA Victor LSP-4515 (1971)

Something I’ve observed through the years is the utter vacuousness of so much pop music from Los Angeles. Yes, that is a commonplace observation. L.A. is/was a cesspool. But what that observation hides is the way that L.A. provided some unique opportunities for refugees from the East Coast. Harry Nilsson was one of those. Rightly or wrongly, he was in a state of crisis in New York, and relocated to L.A. What this meant was that he had the opportunity there to work though his New York problems by way of his music, for whatever reason free from the hangups that would have dogged him in New York. In a few years, he acclimated to L.A., and, after brief period of sanguinary transition, his music eventually became rather tediously blithe. He lost touch with a New York frame of reference, and the L.A. frame just came across as complacent, slight and insular. But, getting to the point, Nilsson Schmilsson came from the brief Goldilocks moment when Nilsson was this affable New York joke-ster out of his element, ready to appear on the cover of his album in a bathrobe, stoned and holding a bowl of marijuana, the photo out of focus.

Often in the conversation of “best albums recorded with a studio band,” this covers a range of song styles from ballad, to novelty, to rock and roll rave-up. Reviewer Patrick Brown sums this up admirably:

“To me, this is an utterly charming album from beginning to end. I can’t understand how anyone who’s ever had a regular job could fail to be attracted to the first three songs, how anyone who’s been in a relationship that didn’t go as well as planned could fail to enjoy ‘Down’ or ‘I’ll Never Leave You’ or ‘Without You,’ how anyone with a rock and roll heart could fail to enjoy ‘Jump Into the Fire,’ or how anyone at all could fail to enjoy ‘The Moonbeam Song’ or ‘Let the Good Times Roll.’ Maybe this just shows my lack of imagination though. Regardless, I do find it nearly irresistible. Nilsson sings about real stuff but never takes himself too seriously, always seems to have his tongue hovering somewhere near his cheek when it’s not firmly planted there. But it’s not just novelty, I swear it. I mean really, most people do have to wake up, drink coffee and head to work. Why aren’t there more songs about that?”

It is tempting to expect Nilsson to kind of give up the charade, get to his real, unironic core message/personality. But what endures about this album is how that moment never arrives. He holds up the various commonplaces of commercial music and, rather than ridicule them, just sort of oddly embraces them as slight pleasures. As it turns out, there is no deeper meaning. What has the impression of being a joke ends up being ridiculously sincere — almost a precursor to comedian Andy Kaufman. You just sort of have to recognize the banality and ironic irony (a kind of double negation) of this spectacle of commercial rock. It is a beautiful anti-climax. This is a record that accomplishes “nothing” so very, very well.

Barry Adamson – The King of Nothing Hill

Barry Adamson – The King of Nothing Hill Mute CDSTUMM176 (2002)

Barry Adamson, the maestro of fake soundtrack music, has a firm conviction to the devilishly absurd. His ridiculousness is part of his appeal. He is a collector, suggestor, director and actor. The illusory story lines hinted at on his albums can pull emotions and moods out of practically nothing. He takes the listener places. Plenty of new experiences are waiting. The King of Nothing Hill fits a sleek action thriller, the sorts with spies, international intrigue — that sort of thing. While it sounds like an exotic, action-packed journey, it is still pop music. It is just on the fringes. That seems like a comfortable home for Adamson.

“The Second Stain” and “Twisted Smile” pulse with monotonous vamps until the mood envelops everything. The songs point, prod, and push. Bass and keys alone can rush listeners back and forth between the highs and lows. Adamson can pick you up and place you carefully in new surroundings, ready to experience the moments as they arrive. You have to be open to the possibilities, true. If you’re not willing to budge then Adamson’s efforts might be an annoyance. He does have a talent for always being inviting though. You have to be quite closed-minded not to be swayed a little.

A funky workout session takes place on “Cinematic Soul” (cribbing a bass line from “Sing a Simple Song”). Adamson can be as brash and glitzy as anyone and still pull it off. His material may be described as rather composed, but it can boogie too. Then more surprises come when “That Fool Was Me” has the sultry soul comedy of him singing, “only a fool would leave you / and that fool was me.”

The King of Nothing Hill makes considerable use of electronics and sound effect samples. There is sometimes an erratic pursuit of a number of different styles, but Adamson uses those shifts to convey a sense of changing scenes in a movie. The effect can be a bit demanding over the course of the rather lengthy runtime of the album though.

As Above So Below, the predecessor album, had more lounge jazz/acid jazz and bleak, blaring trip-hop pushing it ahead even if it subdued the pseudo-soundtrack impressionism. Both efforts toy with kitsch. All things said, the albums are about equally good, just in different ways — if anything this album has more cohesive and focused individual songs even as it lacks some of the elusive intrigue overall.

The King of Nothing Hill is refreshing. Almost a decade and a half after its release, it has to be given credit for capturing the feel of the sorts of action thriller films it evokes. Granted, the lyrics go beyond what pure soundtrack music would normally do, by suggesting visuals to accompany the music (like the line, “I don’t even know how the gun got in my hand” on “Whispering Streets”). But that’s part of the fun of this approach to music. And Barry Adamson is still basically the only one doing what he does.

Silver Apples – Silver Apples

Silver Apples – Silver Apples Kapp KS-3562 (1968)

Few electronic music groups were as innovative and ahead of their time as Silver Apples. The German Studio für elektronische Musik (WDR) was a a state-of-the-art facility that made music with electronic equipment starting in the 1950s. But such a facility wasn’t exactly accessible for most ordinary working musicians. So Silver Apples built their own “Simeon,” described as “a homemade synthesizer consisting of 12 oscillators and an assortment of sound filters, telegraph keys, radio parts, lab gear and a variety of second hand electronic junk.” There was a U-shaped wooden box structure with a plywood top in which most of the equipment was mounted, with the performer (Simeon) positioned inside the U-shaped part as if in a cockpit.

The basic format of the music features repetitive drumming on a conventional rock drum kit (by Dan Taylor), electronic sounds, plus some vocals. The vocals are quite of a piece with late 1960s psychedelia. But what was really unique about this band and its recordings was the juxtaposition of the syncopated yet mechanical and repetitious drumming (“Dancing Gods” is even a take on drum-laden Navajo ceremonial music). WDR recordings tended to come from an entirely different (and rather elitist) tradition, associated with important composers. Silver Apples made music a bit closer to popular music — yet at the same time, unlike conventional pop music of the day.

“Oscillations” is the most iconic song on the album. The drums set out the foundation of the song. The electronics add commentary, seemingly reacting to the percussion figures but also slashing across it and adding other rhythms. The falsetto vocals, which are very psychedelic but also offer an odd mix of medieval folk austerity and techno-futurist poetry, provide a semblance of melody. Mostly the song suggest repeating, cyclic vamps. This would end up becoming a dominant form of electronic pop music decades later — take away the vocals and “Oscillations” or “Lovefingers” could pass for a new release in the 1990s or 2000s. Yet Silver Apples were mostly an underground phenomenon.

As innovative and groundbreaking as this music was, the album Silver Apples is a little rough around the edges at times. Some of the songs are weak (“Velvet Cave”). That is understandable given the lack of precedent for music like this. WDR artists would spend up to months continuously revising their works, but Silver Apples obviously had no such luxury when it came to studio time. They still manage to find a good balance between the electronics, drums and vocals (that aspect could have gone wrong easily). The songwriting, in general, is not much of an attraction. The lyrics are often downright silly (“the flame is its own reflection”), merely adding a kind of mood of a psychedelic Sixties “happening”. But what is unique about the album is the way the music sidesteps the need for great songwriting. The static rhythms and slowly modulating electronic noises hold seemingly opposite forces together in a kind of suspended state. Actually, it works much the way a magician does: the drumming focuses attention, almost in a hypnotic trance, and then the electronics play around the edges of perception. This music is intriguing and surprisingly listenable even without strong melody and no harmony to speak of. Silver Apples remains one of the more unique pop albums of its time.

Neu! – Neu! 2

Neu! – Neu! 2 Brain 1028 (1973)

Neu!-beat is as distinctive as anything to emerge from the 1970s. It also became essentially the standard for pop music decades later. Unfortunately for Neu!, their record label and most of the record-buying public didn’t care much at the time.

Neu! was a splinter faction of Kraftwerk. Their music stands entirely on its own though. Neu! is at least as important as their parent group. Their second album volleys back and forth between the influence of Klaus Dinger and Michael Rother. The tension on Neu! 2 has anarchistic rebellion matched against catchy electro-dance rhythms.

The often-told story of how the record company gave up the album and left Neu! to re-edit and remix three tracks to fill out the disc is fitting but unsurprising — even the album cover is a “remix” of sorts from their debut. It certainly didn’t help their popularity that Neu! was an instrumental band — one that maybe fell between the cracks of rock and roll and avant-garde modern classical.

“Für Immer (Forever)” begins the first of two suites. The chaos creeps in slowly. “Spitzenqualität” has swirling drums and electronic sounds to rival Karlheinz Stockhausen (most assuredly an influence). With “Lila Engel (Lilac Angel),” the processed vocals and aggressive beats channel Neu!’s angst into creative salvation. Neu! has pulled you from a passing experience to something more total. The duo intrigues the listener as they wear away expectations.

“Neuschnee 78” (one of the remixed songs) begins the second suite with an almost inappropriate calm. When “Neuschnee” arrives a few songs later, the second side opener suddenly seems paranoid in retrospect. “Super” also provides the remixes “Super 16” and “Super 78.” Each progression of remixes actually starts with the remixes and works backwards.

Neu! 2 adds layers then strips them away. Adding just a tiny piece to existing material puts the entire thing in a new perspective. The duo then zooms towards what debatably is the essence of the songs. The album’s most unique feature is the way it makes these athletic transformations wholly within itself. While precision is what makes this album what it is, at the same time the music does away with that which is formal and regulated.

Neu! was just ahead of their time. Neu! 2 is as likable as it is cool, and it’s pretty cool.

Lucio Battisti – Anima latina

Lucio Battisti – Anima latina Numero Uno DZSLN 55675 (1974)

Here’s an album that seems to be an unlikely Rosetta Stone for much of European rock and pop of the 1970s. Anima latina (“Latin Soul”) is perhaps Lucio Battisti’s most acclaimed album. He was a big pop star in his native Italy, though internationally (especially outside Europe) he was and is less well known. The music ranges from (symphonic) prog rock to Canterbury Sound psychedelic jazz-rock, with ambitious, arty meanderings, laced through with understated brass horn charts and diffuse synthesizer figures. Most of the songs are over five minutes in length. None are structured like catchy pop hits.

The opening “Abbracciala abbracciali abbracciati” sets the album off well. This is high drama. The effect is a bit like a darkened theater, a huge one, with an assemblage of musicians in an orchestra pit somewhere out of sight, but a lone singer in a dim spotlight delivers a searching, allusive and almost existential song in halting yet eloquently delivered statements. There is sparse percussion. Yet the drums are played with such pauses as to mean there is no real syncopated beat as such — duh(ch), duh, ____du-chashhh___. Behind the drums, the song opens with a sustained but subdued synthesizer chord and a solitary trumpet (electronically processed most likely) playing long, faint notes that seem to move toward an unfinished statement, without ever realizing a melody. There isn’t a whole lot of singing. Battisti begins just by singing wordless sounds. The singer isn’t so much a protagonist as someone who has stumbled into the song. At least, every effort is made to make this the appearance. There is never any doubt that this is a staged performance. As the song continues, the drums and a bass provide more of a steady rhythm. If there is a comparison for “Abbracciala abbracciali abbracciati,” it is perhaps Neil Young‘s opening to Tonight’s the Night (recorded before or at the same time but released after Anima latina), or the more frequent comparison of Robert Wyatt‘s Rock Bottom (released the same year).

The rest of the album ranges from spacey, swirling meditations to funkier tunes that get a decent groove going. The album title alludes to a South American influence. This is a subtle but important presence throughout the album. The influence of samba, perhaps even tropicália, in the rhythms (“Due mondi,” “Gli uomini celesti (Ripresa),” “Macchina del tempo”) and some of the horns (“Anonimo,” which flirts with tropicália’s reverent/irreverent use of kitsch), and the burning intensity of Argentinian folk-rock (“Anima latina”), all make themselves felt. Rather than the clinically calculated shifts in unusual time signatures and other technical feats that make a lot of prog- and jazz-rock kind of distant, even tedious, Anima latina leans on warm and organic rhythms to tie all the experiments and shifting concepts together. That is crucial. It lends a suppleness that gives the otherwise very arty aspirations of the album a beating heart.

If prog rock remains the core referent for the style of the album as a whole (and especially toward the end), it is worth noting that most of the guitars are acoustic. There are no electric guitar heroes here, or flashiness of any kind really. More than any one dazzling performance — even by Battisti — this is an album that succeeds based on its structure. The ebb and flow of the songs, the deliberate pacing and wide open spaces emerging from the sonic fabric, anything that is the implication rather than the direct content — these are the things that make Anima latina captivating. There isn’t one right way to hear this music. In Criticism and Truth, Roland Barthes wrote that “a work is ‘eternal’ not because it imposes a single meaning on different men, but because it suggests different meanings to one man…” That provides an apt reason to listen here.