A sunset for Christmas

I'm never sure if Christmas is the year's most unplugged day or a time to get lazily lost in digital places when "the most wonderful time of the year" becomes simply too much to bear (probably by early afternoon or so). In either case, if the 'blague is on your Christmas agenda, consider this tune your humble present. And let its groovy sunset vibes (or is that a marimba?) carry you gently to the threshold of 2014. This could be end-titles music to almost any cut of your cinematic year.

Letta Mbulu — Down By The River

Electric surrender

There's something gentlemanly about giving a longtime backup singer her moment in the sun. Say what you will about the power dynamics of patriarchal largess, but David Bowie did sidewoman Robin Clark a pretty nice solid when he put some celebrity muscle behind her effort as a frontwoman. As you might expect, the results are mixed, but then again her moment happened to fall in the mid-'80s. And it doesn't get much more 1985 than this. Not very healthy, but full of addictive additives.

Robin Clark — Surrender

Abba zabba

I like to think of myself as a pretty eclectic listener. And yet I could never squeeze much enjoyment out of Abba. If there's a variety of cheese I can't gobble up, it's them. So imagine my happy surprise when I recently stumbled on singer Anni-Frid "Frida" Lyngstad's post-Abba solo album, produced by Phil Collins, and bearing nearly all of his early-'80s hallmarks that I enjoy entirely without reservation. The album is a mixed bag of pop approaches, most of which are weirdly flawed. But as batches of half-successes go, it's a pretty addictive listen. Especially this tasty niblet of regatta de blanc, with groovy guitar/organ call and response and Collins's very airdrum-worthy turn at the kit. God bless that man's left foot.

Frida — I See Red

Buried treasure

Sometimes it takes a dive into the rabbithole of the blogosphere to remind yourself how vast the musical universe is and how many shining treasures are buried in relative obscurity. Happening upon this band of funky jazzers trying their hand at the pop styles of their day has given me a most unexpected shot of happiness. So much that I can't help but share a pair of tunes from their All In Fun record of 1979, though you really don't need to be told the year to know when these snappy tunes were hatched.

The Writers — All In Fun

The Writers — I Wanna Get That Feelin' Again

Up and away

Comes a time when you need to sweep the chimes across your earspace, sit back luxuriously in a bed of strings, let the bongos percolate, and let Mr. Upchurch's guitar be a feather all over your body, as your mind ascends into dream dimensions. Now, if only I could get my 3-week old into that groove, all would be perfect.

Phil Upchurch — Free

Weird smiles

Hey Can fans — ever wonder what Damo Suzuki would've sounded like fronting an '80s pop band? It kinda happened. Here's proof.

Dunkelziffer — I See Your Smile

I do, I don't

That stare, once reserved for zoning out before TV screens, now annexes a feeling somewhere at the intersection of waiting and not waiting. When will the baby cries come? How hard will it press on my nerves? Should I move or not move a muscle? That effort of fortification, knowing that you have to pass through storms to get back to the blinding sun. That feeling, transmuted into a lovely pop song.

Anna Domino — Everyday, I Don't

Soft illusions

Being in the baby bubble means blurring the line between sleep and wakefulness, deliberate movements and falling back on muscle memory. Makes me appreciate the soft, surprisingly near-hallucinatory brushstrokes of Satie. Here's a classic one, nicely rendered by old progster Steve Hackett, and his brother John, fully in charge on flute.

John Hackett & Steve Hackett — Gnossienne No. 3

Unguarded moments

Spent a good bit of last week on long daily journeys between home and the birth hospital. It made for an disorienting juxtaposition of environments, with the subway portions acting as a nice interstitial, offering generous portions of solitary book and headphone pleasures. Music-wise, I ended up curling into a couple unexpected synthy earworms, courtesy of a duo who have made their way into this space before. While having nothing to do with babies, births, or journeys full of anticipation, I suppose this will soon take its place in the audio portion of early baby memories, which is a bit of randomness I can't complain about.

Dave Stewart & Barbara Gaskin — When The Guards Are Asleep

Song for my baby

I'm a week into fatherhood, and I only feel slightly less disembodied than I did the moment it became real (last Monday, for those keeping score at home). It's a dizzying transition, and I'm amazed at how naturally this whole new set of reflexes kicks in. Sometimes, it's so easy to just be guided by what we're evolved to do. Like dig for baby theme songs based simply on the kid's name! In my case, there's a rich heritage of tracks, some of which I've already covered, not knowing there'd be new meaning attached someday. Here's one that feels like it hits all the right notes. And it doesn't hurt that it feels like a kind of lullaby. I'm not sure why so many Emily songs are about sad, lonely, or lost girls, but those melancholy notes seem a lot more effervescent when accompanied by the sea breezes that Cale has going here.

John Cale — Emily

Lost herself out in the wheel of sound

Anxiously waiting for the baby's arrival leads to fidgety Spotify trolling, which leads to a Byrds rabbithole, which leads to some surprising enjoyment of their transition to country styles, which leads to more surprising enjoyment of this groovy, serpentine deep cut, which leads to cherry-on-top surprise at their ability to navigate a 5/4 meter. Now back to that anxious waiting...

The Byrds — Tribal Gathering

Haunted strummin', sweet pickin'

Another one from college/post-college days. I haven't kept up with the continuing adventures of Tara Jane O'Neil, but I'm right pleased to have fresh ears for her haunted, strummed ditties of yore. I keep putting this album on and commence to tasks that don't compel me to restlessly change up the music. Which means I'm enjoying it in an attention span-preserving way. Which is therapeutic.

Tara Jane O'Neil — Sunday Song

Tara Jane O'Neil — Another Sunday

Postgrad

Alright, Polvo! I'm been in total rock-out for days listening to their second reunion album. I'm equal parts glad that they've still got it and that they're getting their snaky, mathy ya-yas out with the hooks proudly out front. This one may meander a bit, but the energy doesn't let up, and neither does my steady, dumb head bobbin'.

Polvo — The Water Wheel

Night on the water

I wonder if there's some astronomical, Halley's Comet-esque formula that decides when I get into a Kate Bush obsession. When it comes around, there's really no substitute. Oftentimes the deep album cuts are the most pleasing. Like this little interlude on Never For Ever that seems to reference English composer Frederick Delius (whom I know almost nothing about) and floats past a couple eerie moments at 0:50 and 1:50 to maintain an uncharacteristically placid atmosphere. Good on her for knowing that wild Kate bits are all the more powerful when she holds them in reserve.

Kate Bush — Delius

Once in a life time

How cool was Tony Williams? When he was 17, he was a prodigy behind the drums, propelling Miles Davis's legendary mid-'60s quintet, which was probably the best aggregation of talent Davis ever had. He was also a budding jazz composer in his own right, creating sophisticated pieces like this one here. (And he had the tastefulness to not even pick up his sticks for it!) His Life Time album is just as essential as any other '60s Blue Note classic. Which makes it unfortunate that Williams spent his adult career being a whole lot less cool with a bunch of dubious Fusion albums, and staining the luster of that record by using it as the band name for those dubious albums. Like the proverbial high school football star, Williams never bested his teenage self. So it goes. At least we can enjoy the high water mark now.

Tony Williams — Barb's Song To The Wizard

Bad trip

While we're dealing in French decadence, here's one from another end of the spectrum. I recently gave the cult sci-fi classic Fantastic Planet a whirl on the DVD player. Having long regarded it as one of those movies meant to be watched under the influence of whatever psych drugs you fancy, I realized it's pretty damn freaky/psychedelic/disturbing all on its own. Maybe my mind is just apt to get deep inside a story of cosmic genocide in a crazy weird organic alien landscape, but I found it affecting in more ways than I probably should. And in no small part due to the very baked and desolately minimal soundtrack.   

Alain Goraguer — Dehominisation (I)

Initials BB

Well, sorry but it's true. If you're beautiful, stylish, and charismatic, you can have a crap voice and still be a pop star. What's more, you might even convince good songwriters to create vehicles upon which to build your mystique. And years later, many might look back fondly at the era you accidentally helped define. C'est la vie.

Brigitte Bardot — Une Histoire de Plage

Brigitte Bardot — A La Fin de L'été

High Lowman

Ladies and gentleman...welcome to High Rollers skating rink, where it's always Saturday night and always a cosmic roller disco adventure! I'll be your host for the evening, or at least until I pass out from taking hits from my nitrous tank. Meanwhile, lace up those skates, get out on the floors, and lose yourself in our magic lights. Also, don't forget to visit the snack bar. And now, take it away, Mr. Leon Lowman...

Leon Lowman — Listen

Cross the streams

Though their heyday predates my birth by a couple decades, I feel a weird kinship with the charmingly rosy-lensed dudes who tried to intermingle jazz and classical threads in the late '50s. Imagine the vibe at those sessions led by the likes of George Russell and Gunther Schuller in their tweedy best. I picture big smiles and arms wildly gesticulating as the whole big gang tries to will a colorful utopia into being. It petered like all those movements end up doing, but not without leaving behind some choice cuts like this one. 

George Russell — All About Rosie

Cheer up

Is this a monstrosity? Cheer-Accident's longstanding commitment to signature mathy/proggy styles crashes headlong into a tender-hearted love of '70s AOR piano progressions. It's a strange, twitchy beast that results, and you wonder if this new species should have an island all its own to play out its possible destiny. Maybe one day...

Cheer-Accident — Learning How To Fly

Queasy twilight

Just as actually getting a Halloween costume together got away from me, so did posting a song specific to the holiday. I'll try to catch up. While a Nick Cave-type creeper might've been more obvious, I find the pretty/slinky/spooky vibe of this one more in line with that queasy feeling as evening light gives away to more sinister possibilities in the night. Courtesy of Wayne Horvitz and his erstwhile gang of sonic sorcerers. 

Wayne Horvitz/The President — The Front

Jazz in exile

I guess it was musical destiny for '60s free jazz heavyweights to get lost in the '70s, figuring out how to be funky and create a future that might be more plausible than the crushed hopes of the previous decade. And how many of those albums were only released in Japan? Which must have made for a different perspective on the state of jazz to come over there. So it was with Marion Brown. Here are a couple rare treats — one a pleasant Latin-tinged workout, the other a double saxophone duet that I find rather lyrical and with a well-considered sense for when things should get all skronky-like. 

Marion Brown — Mangoes

Marion Brown — And Then They Danced

Brainwaves

And as sure as eggs is eggs, the first frosty breaths of air have got me nursing a sore throat and swollen glands and cheerleading on the sidelines as my white blood cells rush onto the playing field. Meanwhile, my mind takes refuge in some abstract sound explorations. This one just mesmerizes me. Like having sudden visions of vast nebulae from several angles at once, as inner and outer space imitate one another. And I haven't even gotten into the cold medicine yet.

Robert Schroeder — The Inside Of Feeling

That cold

Now that autumn is making its dour way onto the scene, it seems a good time to take a musical visit to the No Fun Dept. I admit that for all my instrumental admiration and general political sympathy, I have a hard time not making funny faces in the general direction of This Heat. Someone needs to bring a little levity to the air. Otherwise, it's like listening to a very earnest, utterly humorless grad student holding forth at the bar about the systemic injustice of our economic reality and the Marxist inevitabilities that are all that can save us. That dubious discussion aside, I do wholeheartedly enjoy the severe musical bombast of Charles Hayward's guises. Especially in the increasing chill of the air.

Camberwell Now — Daddy Needs A Throne

The truth about Benghazi...

is that some surprisingly delectable multicultural pop originated from there. And most people only think about Libya when dictators fall or when Republicans spew conspiracy theories. Ahmed Fakroun went on to achieve global stardom with some slick crossover tunes. I'm sure this early-'80s number would sound equally slick if subjected to proper digital cleanup, but I like the scratchiness of this version. Sounds desert-dusty and jerry-rigged from a scan of radio fragments of its day.

Ahmed Fakroun — Fil Moden El Kibira

Nights out

If I had a dime for all the rock narratives with well-meaning male singers who messed things up with their ladyfriend, and now she's out on the street among all kinds of danger, and he only wishes he'd done something different and would do epic task TBD to get her back in his safe arms. It's a funny strand of patriarchal condescension — the sleazy and the daddy rolled into one. Kinda awful and yet classic enough to maybe be a useful reflection on the culture that produces it. And certainly worthy of a representative moment here.

The Only Ones — Out There In The Night

Beyond the darkness

Maybe a new 'blague appearance from Goblin would've been more appropriate for Halloween. But having just seen a performance from their much-belated first tour ever tour of America (?!), I couldn't wait. Horror soundtracks have a way of standing on their own, and Goblin's proggy stylings would be just as evocative even if they didn't soundtrack a whole gamut of grotesquerie. And it sounds just delightful booming out form the rockstar stage. 

Goblin — Quiet Drops

Goblin — Pillage

Let me be your one light

Still reeling from last night's viewing of Gravity in all its 3D, vertiginous, space is awe-inspiring/freezing/vastly and utterly inhuman splendor. My mind casts out to a space object that is a much easier fit for romantic paeans. This one is worthy reading of Big Star's classic; a beautiful light pours out of it.  

His Name Is Alive — Blue Moon

Vibe visions

A band built around a hyperactive drummer and a relatively mellow vibesman yields some fun contrasts, like gears moving at different speeds. The backwards tape opening is an easy signifier for waking up bleary-eyed from an accidental nap, but the rest of the tune suggests that it's just the beginning of another sound dream. Jazzy chord sequences over hypnotic rhythms are surely the stuff of comfy dreams, and this one might just spill over into the part of Saturday morning where you look at the sky and wonder what degree of consciousness qualifies as actually waking up. 

The Dylan Group — Division Long

Plastic Japan

Here is one of the aforementioned sounds that has kept in steady orbiting my head the last few months. Sylvian unveiled his solo career with a little help and a lot of inspiration from Ryuichi Sakamoto. His post-Japan work may have gotten lost in a sea of caramel over-trilling, but his first few years were right stylish and still quite easy on the ears. Another triumph of familiar placelessness.

David Sylvian and Ryuichi Sakamoto — Bamboo Houses (remix)

Home bound

Well, pardon me please. I dip my head under water, and a month and a half of blague-lessness goes by. I would've thought that rapid change in multiple areas of my life would've inspired songworthy postings. The music in my head never stopped, but somehow I haven't felt compelled to push any of it out into the common air. Until...now (cue ominous rumblings, panning left to right ). Maybe moments of transition just speak for themselves, and things have to settle into place a bit before a day's song makes its wishes known. At any rate, here's a lilting little ditty that goes swimmingly with wandering around a new home and getting to know its character. 

The Ladybug Transistor — Brighton Bound

Back to the sunshine

A belated hats-off to the recently-deceased George Duke. Apparently, he was not only the cuddly, well-Afroed keyboardist in Frank Zappa's most musically acrobatic band, but also made a string of mid-'80s albums that I have just recently discovered and am now totally addicted too. Here's a delicious summertime groove. And if you think old Fusion dogs can't learn new tricks, dig the keytar solo at 3:15.

George Duke — Got To Get Back To Love

A new landscape

And then things snap back into motion all at once. Sticking with Ryuichi, who is more than appropriate for plotting next moves, synthesizing a landscape of possibilities in a laboratory of false histories.

Ryuichi Sakamoto — In A Forest Of Feathers

Pause

That moment where you have to slow yourself to a near-halt and try to grasp the fleeting feeling of shifting tracks as things move decisively onto a new course. It's probably not possible to bring your mind to a full stop, but you might get close enough to glimpse a coherent past, present, and future all at once. Here's 5 minutes worth of music to accompany the effort.

Ryuichi Sakamoto — Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

Are you sure we're getting away with this?

It's a bit sad that history has made the Hollies one of those bands that collector nerds have to keep championing. It just goes to remind that being hugely popular in your day is no guarantee that people will keep celebrating you tomorrow. Here's a song that could pass for an early Beatles classic. Also a lyrical reminder that vintage sugary pop also had more than a bit of sweaty teenage sleaze in its heart.

The Hollies — Games We Play

Breezin' on

I have nothing to say in my defense. I'm actually posting George Benson. May as well double down on that. Maybe he was responsible for the CD 101.9-ification of jazz, but in truth, he had a pretty great guitar tone, and his voice wasn't half bad when placed in the right setting. Not that any of that could justify his '80s output. Best to vibe on this pair of classix as we head into the weekend.

George Benson — Breezin'

George Benson — Six to Four

Fresh aches

Well, what do you know...Cocteau twins sound as exquisitely mysterious otherworldly lovely on a breezy summer's day as in midwinter. There are days when I think they've so thoroughly nailed it that everyone else should just take their toys and go home.

Cocteau Twins — Crushed

Exit to darkness

Been rubbing my ears up against some jazzy funky guitar sounds of late. There are some suspicious characters in that world, but Mr. Upchurch is not among them. Stylin' and struttin' all the way out the door.  

Phil Upchurch — Darkness Darkness, Part 1

Previte eyes

Sometime in my recent heat delirium, I suddenly recalled a favorite moment of my trip to Barcelona — wandering the Miro Foundation and getting caught up in a waking dream of color and sound. It's a state I lapse into all too easily in art/museum situations, and, as always, I wish had recorded any of the passing musical thoughts that ran through my head. Thankfully, Bobby Previte made a whole album of compositions inspired by Miro paintings that sounds a lot like what I was thinking.

Bobby Previte — On The 13th, The Ladder Brushed The Firmament

Let's be Frank

It's a thoroughly mashed-up world we live in. Everyone knows a little about everything and no one's afraid to connect things for fear of transgressing a boundary. That's mostly great, except for the vertigo. Which makes it interesting to go back to those visionaries who had their feet in many worlds back when that sort of thing was met with perplexed faces. And it's hard to go down that road without ending up in Zappa's universe. Even on the fairly slapdash Chunga's Revenge album, he made some deliciously unlikely leaps. From serpentine extraterrestrial jazz to glorious sleaze rawkin', here are a couple personal classix.
 

Frank Zappa — Twenty Small Cigars

Frank Zappa —  Tell Me You Love Me

Peace until voice

That moment when you realize you're staring off into the distance and have been for some time, but you've become so definitively at peace that you don't want to remember the before or consider the after. That is until about 5:10, when those evil voices slowly intrude and start melting your face.

Michael Hoenig — Voices Of Where

Sunbake day men

Jesu Christo, the heat! My body is becoming much less ambiguous in its rejection of these conditions. I only wish I could translate sweat to speech. Meanwhile, here's one from a tropical land of amphibious creatures shaped like math equations. 

90 Day Men — When Your Luck Runs Out

Independance days

I'm not sure if I more tired of being fried by work or complaining about how I keep getting fried by work. Not a great loop to be in, which makes this a well-timed holiday break, even if I can't help but feel like I'm neglecting at least a few responsibilities. So goes the self-inflicted psychological masochism. 

But let's forget all that and luxuriate in some classic disco. Nile Rodgers and company cooked up some irresistible tunes, and this is one of their early best. Some say this laid down the whole template — full-band lock groove, gospel-ish voices, and some fancy chordal moves to raise your eyebrows. Have yourselves a fabbo couple of days to unwind, assuming your schedule works out that way. And let's hope that power grid holds up.

Chic - Everybody Dance

Young machines in the open air

How sad are reunion tours? I suppose the spectrum is broad — between the goulish spectacle of another Rolling Stones rollout and the mostly respectable showing by folks like the Pixies — but still it's just an unnecessary exercise. Unless you need the money, in which case, put that disclaimer on the name of the tour, so everyone knows it's about real need and not vanity. Which is why Os Mutantes's wanna-be arena rock showing at Prospect Park this last Friday was such a bummer. It's not like they were ever in it for the money. And really, the only thing you can do to legendary status is to tarnish it by putting your good name on uninspired mediocrity in your plump years. At least it was another beautiful park night, and happily, some kids in the opening band saved the day with their giddily backward-looking sugar pop. Nothing for the ages, but great for welcoming a summer Saturday night.

Javelin - Drummachines

Music for beautiful evenings

I caught the Amadou and Mariam concert in the park the other day and was struck by how much it captured equally what I like and dislike about shows in the park, which pretty much aligns with what I like and don't like about crowds. Also, what I like and dislike about women in flowing dresses swaying to the music with their eyes closed. Still, you can't argue with a beautiful evening. I'm not sure if this tune got played, but a brief crawl through their albums got its loping groove deeply stuck in my brain.  

Amadou and Mariam — Sarama

Sunshower

Have I really made it more than 35 years into this life without having a Weather Report phase? Sure, various band members have made their presence felt on great albums (Shorter and Zawinul helping Miles Davis reach magical heights). Others I think of mostly in the context of instructional drums videos and endorsement deals. And let's not forget the very rock star-ish life and death of Jaco Pastorius. His headband lives on though.

At any rate, I'm in it now, and I'm not foggy-eared enough to ignore the fact that a good half of this band's work is peacock showoff stuff. But it's threaded through some compelling passages. Then there's the thick layer of cheese, which I enjoy heartily despite (or because) of its high fat content. Such as this ballad, which probably launched a thousand unfortunate saxophone careers, to say nothing of the fretless bass odysseys. You may find it impossible to keep a straight face. Me neither. And yet I will not stop listening. 

Weather Report — A Remark You Made

Love me in your car

Hypnagogic pop may have gone overground, but for me it's still the stuff of dreams. Literally! Some folks like it menacingly washed-out and queasy, and others like it magically vivid like midnight sunshine. There's plenty to like across that spectrum from the good folks over at Fortune 500. Here's a highlight. Deposit this in your bank of cool breeze cruisers.

Saint Pepsi — Carpark

Robot afros

Herbie Hancock has amazed me several times in my life. He was cool Mr. "Rockit" in my early sentient years, only to reveal an exquisitely textural presence in the string of Miles Davis classics I discovered as a teenager, only to be occasionally very brilliant in his hit-or-miss '70s Fusion wanderings. Here's a gem that floored me anew just a few days ago. It sounds like a possible Kraftwerk future fantasy, but with a generous dose of non-Germanic warmth. The fabulous textures are there too. Far-out synths and jazz familiars finding beautiful common ground. 

Herbie Hancock — Rain Dance

Archer's aim

We all need our solo projects. Sea & Cake guitarist/illustrator Archer Prewitt falls squarely into that camp of quiet contributors who impress with a side career of well-drawn pop daydreams. Nothing earth-shattering, but a useful outlet for creative ideas that might otherwise get subsumed into weird dinner recipes or other pursuits that would be of no benefit to me. Glad he's not that selfish.

Archer Prewitt - I'm Coming Over

Will-o-the-wisp

Feeling drained from a busy work week, which makes me susceptible to mysterious stringy noises leading me down equally mysterious mental paths. I'm not sure if it's light or darkness in the distance, but I can't resist the slow momentum toward it. 

Nels Cline - Friends Of Snowman