I often think Presidents' Day is a holiday cooked up by auto dealers and electronics shops. I'm not sure why Washington's and Lincoln's birthdays are an occasion to go buy stuff on sale, and I also think it's pretty awkward to try linking these anniversaries to some non-specific honoring of US presidents. Regardless, I have the day off, and hopefully, so do you, and let's be happy about that. Meanwhile, here's a tune that's about as far from American pseudo-holidays as I can think of. Let's raise a flagon of mead to these troubadour faeries of olde English woodplaces!
Still kinda digging this tendency toward wordlessness. You may be familiar with Jean Michel Jarre from his flamboyant and atmospheric work, but it's good to know that he had a fair bit of musique concrète in his genes too. Talk about industrial music! This should be playing in a power plant breakroom on Venus.
There are several ways for songs to establish their authority. Some come crashing through your bedroom window with blasts of guitars and cymbals, while others simply walking into the room with a look that says the nonsense will now cease. Here's one from the latter category.
Is it possible that it's taken over 500 Songblague posts to get to one of my absolute favorite bands?! Talk about an ace in the hole. This groove is so literally seminal I feel as though it may be partly responsible for my existence. Umm, in a cosmic kindred spirit kind of sense, that is. I'm not suggesting that my or any other parents in South Jersey were blasting this while contemplating children. Gross.
Wouldn't you know it — Songblague turns 2 years old and I'm not even around to mark the occasion. I'd say it at least warrants taking a little listen back to SB's first day on planet Internet. It's an intro tune I'm still quite pleased with.
And a little 2fer Tuesday to remind you that Vince Guaraldi had some grown-up gems too. Here's something Charlie Brown and Linus might've been listening to as they celebrated the procurement of their first dimebag. I'm sure Snoopy was there too.
From the subtle contours of emotional anguish to...big, bong-rippin' blooze proggery. With lyrics to match. I think this is one of those cases where "love" actually means "filthy sex." Watch out, those guitars may give you a nosebleed.
Most of the time, I'm happy that I'm not living in 1971. Except when I hear tracks like this. I can almost see the sun's glare in my mental picture of this band's imaginary outdoor concert. Which I'd much rather look at than this terrifying album cover.
Staying on the topic of licentiousness, it's interesting to consider the geographical/cultural variations on how it's shaped into art. Let's take Kenny Rogers. In contrast to Leon Ware's domesticated, slightly over-the-top chivalrous approach to seduction, Kenny's tale of bonged-out redneck sexplay invokes the rambling drifter archetype who isn't too concerned about controlling his environment or even himself. And it's served it up in a swampy twang funk that smells a little suspicious. It's sort of hideous to imagine Kenny himself doing any of this stuff, but I bow to the tastes of his demographic, at least the one from those pre-cudddly-Kenny days.
Some historians talk about the short 20th century, meaning that the real break with the previous century occurred with the first shots of World War I. That may be true, but in another sense, the long 20th century began with Erik Satie's 3 Gymnopédies—the granddaddy of ambient, minimalism, maybe even jazz (stuff's kinda blue, after all). And to me at least, they suggest a subjective, interior space that cuts against the old paradigm for this kind of stuff.
And here's the Yesterday's Future version, late-'70s style. Music for evening contemplation in space cities. Best thing Gary Numan ever did.
And in a nice inversion of mood, here's the candyland J-pop version. Satie goes Animé.
It's a rare trick to create a song so somber and funky at once. Plus those menacing strings that I love so much, and even a progged-out guitar/xylophone run! I and many of my favorite people also live in Brooklyn baby, but in truth, the place that this soul chant conjures is miles away from the strollerville that Songblague calls home.
Oh yes, it's time. For Yes. How about Yes getting all minimal. Huh? Yes. It took a strange marriage with the Buggles to get them there, but here it is. When will the proggers understand you can still get all fancy inside of 2 minutes if only you let out the hot air? 
For those of you who don't consider Drama to be an actual Yes album, here's a sweet little jam tucked in between the epics of their classic period.
Miles wakes up bleary-eyed on the leopardskin rug. There are empty plastic bags and unlabeled bottles on the nightstand, but he's more curious about the cashews and banana peels on the floor. (The cuica in the bed seems to make sense though.) He has no idea what time or day it is. His last memory is of being in mid-musical flight, swirling colors and sweat, flanked by many hairy men in ecstatic waves. He looks out the window and this tune appears full-formed in his head.
