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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I've been in a serious Genesis rabbithole. It spans all stages of their career, from the baroque-iest to the beardiest to the Miami Vice-iest. It also spans all segments of my listening life way back to early teenage discoveries. And I'm not even gonna be bothered with allegations of cheesiness. No reason not to be fascinated by exquisiteness even when found in fundamental mistakes. So where to begin? A mixtape is probably warranted. Maybe it'll come to that, but meantime, here's a B-side from what consensus views as the low point. And yet, despite the unlikely stadium rockers they'd become, they're still trying to put together proggy epics, even if they were a bit lazy in the construction. They're also oddly trying to sound like the Police. Give them props for the effort, and the title nicely suits my last few days' manic journey through several circles of real estate hell. I'm ready for my home by the sea.
There comes a time when it's hard to make distinctions between A-list, B-list, and even lesser bands of the post-punk era. I wasn't around to make those judgments first hand anyway, so it's all retrospective evaluations of other people's memories. And aren't we all in the same gang in the end? Listening to this track, I'm happy to imagine Medium Medium were the most innovative mofos in the UK. I might even be willing to believe they invented the slap bass and dour vocal posturing.
I wonder if the song that gets stuck in your head right before vacation is a function of where you were or where you're going. Some weeks' distance hasn't made the matter any clearer, but I still find myself humming the verses of this funky German obscurity (made available by the always excellent Growing Bin). The chorus makes me wish I hadn't cut my hair. And then a few days of crippling heat come along and I'm happy to remove all barriers to the air.
