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

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

Proto punk

What's your punk rock? Lifestyle toys aside, you've got what you bob your head to, and that pounding needs no cherry on top. Which takes the thing outside of time and genre. Just a few basic moments of intense momentum. Maybe it's a barely articulate paean to your hometown. Maybe it's something even dumber. Here's a possible template.

La Dusseldorf - La Dusseldorf

Yeah-oh

I love a song that puts the big dumb goofy smile on my face. It's important to be in touch with your simpering inner self lest you get lost in the brave faces of adulthood. Here's one that calls to mind those parties where someone brings in the ether tank and everyone's like "oh, yeah? Oh..yeah!"

Jan Hammer - Oh, Yeah?

When they wrote it on the wall

It's Thanksgiving time, and you'll be lucky if you don't find yourself scrambling for something Hallmarkish to offer as they go 'round the table reciting the things life has blessed us with. And you draw a blank, which is a terrifying moment because you feel like a base ingrate, not even able to identify a single honest object of gratitude. But then you realize all the miseries you're not suffering (that maybe someone else is) and all the banal moments of non-hardship are worth appreciating together, and deserve a big collective shout-out if you can hold them all together in your mind for a second. I'll be working on a way to capture that in my moment of table time. Oh, and also, I thank the Lord for giving us Steely Dan.

Meanwhile, have a happy one. Back next week.

Steely Dan - The Caves of Altamira

How am I ever gonna know my home?

Gotta let it ride with Joni Mitchell. We pick it up with her mid-roadtrip in a state of serious mental dishevelment and feeling no sense of home. Interesting how much this rocks without the benefit of drums and only Jaco Pastorius riding shotgun on bass. Thank God that crazy bastard wasn't behind the wheel.

Joni Mitchell - Black Crow

Righteous chattin'

It's a shame that the crazies have grabbed a monopoly on God. There was a time when you could write an earnest song about the need for a spiritual dimension in life without pivoting to some right wing talking point. There is no one today of Stevie Wonder's caliber in a lot of areas, but the absense of benign spiritualism may be the most sad. At least we can enjoy his Godly classix like this one. Also, the weird krautrock-ish vibe is totally doing it for me.

Stevie Wonder - Have A Talk With God

Body talk(box)

Before Roger Troutman acquired his bionic—er...talkbox/vocoder-enhanced voice—he inhabited a far fleshier realm of funk. No judgments; he was awesome with and without his machines. This jam may be pre-digital, but it's fully turned-on. 

Roger and The Human Body - Been This Way Before

Moments in frames

It's always a happy homecoming to return to the music of Eno, Cluster, or any combination of those guys. It's not so much that these ambient pioneers made specifically "soothing" music, although it often is that. For me, their work seems to frame and magnify a single, deceptively simple moment, revealing all the fine contours, and then place it in a gallery in my brain that doesn't really demand my attention, but finds a way to make me drift toward it. It's easy to say music feels painterly, something else to experience it via those same aesthetic receptors. I could let these dudes soundtrack large portions of any day.

Eno, Mobius, Roedelius, Plank - Es War Einmal

Eno, Mobius, Roedelius, Plank - Für Luise

Sick daze

Just my luck to get clobbered by a fever on a sweet sunny Sunday. Full body aches and drunkard-style dizziness weren't enough to keep me from a rocking Mother's Day with the imminent in-laws, but I'm down for a few counts now. I figure a regimen of cold remedies demands some tunes with an equally woozy effect, preferably with album covers that are equally baked.

Le Pamplemousse - Gitcha Down

French fried

Ever wonder what you should be listening to when you're lying on the grass watching the clouds drift and suddenly the nature of infinity becomes as clear and real to you as the sight of your own hands? Here it is.

Richard Vimal - Metamorphoses

A touch of Ned

After a weekend of snowboundness, power outages, and hotel hijinks in Western Massachusetts, I'd say a slice of luxuriously decadent pop is called for. If you don't know Ned Doheny, well, why would you? Except that he sits in the same constellation as Steely Dan, Todd Rundgren, and many less celebrated yachtsmen. I'd be shocked if I were told that a bunch of cocaine was not involved in the making of this one.

Ned Doheny - Sing To Me

Rising sun

You know you've had a solid rustic weekend recharge when a nugget of sunny Japanese new age fusion feels like the most natural thing to reach for. Me and the Catskills are becoming good buddies, and I'm liking that development. I hereby pronounce myself ready to deal with the forthcoming workweek aggravations. Check back with me in 15 minutes to see how that mental state is holding up.

Osamu Kitajima - Hear The Rain, See It Fall

Making flutey faces

Aw man, talk about some sweet Fender Rhodes and flute antics. In an alternate universe, this one could've been the Sesame Street theme. In this reality, it should at least be ping-ponging between the ears of kids walking home from school. Do you even realize how hard it is keep my face from making the dumbest expressions as this plays?

Nil's Jazz Ensemble - Somos Nada

Gonna fly...a little later

It's Friday, and who couldn't use a little Fender Rhodes cool-down heading into the weekend? For those of you looking to enhance your soundtrack options for brooding or wandering the mid-'70s Philadelphia streets in the rain, this one's for you. It's alright. We all have our own Apollo Creed to face.

Bill Conti - Reflections

Bass is the place

Falling victim to the same hubris as Kiss, the members of Yes decided that the mid-'70s would be a good time to unleash a full complement of solo albums upon an unsuspecting public. (You can check out a detailed critical summary here.) At the far ends of the embarrassment scale were singer Jon Anderson's cosmic drool epic and drummer Alan White's, um, reggae exploration. Meanwhile, bassist Chris Squire somehow managed to cram Yes-sized pomp and near-constant bass shenanigans into a decent pop song. Who knows, maybe it had something to do with hiring Bruford back on drums. I like this song with surprisingly few reservations.

Chris Squire - Hold Out Your Hand

Easy for you to say

If I’m craving to hear a song, its tune will ricochet repeatedly about my brain until I can make it to a music-playing device and satisfy my longing. If this is not immediately possible, it’s usually not long before its tune starts spilling out of my own mouth, as a makeshift measure, until a proper play can be arranged. Today’s song from Ted Lucas’s single, self-titled record released in 1976, is one that was recently added to my rotating list of 5-10 tracks that I need to hear at least once a day, and that I’ve often found myself unconsciously singing aloud, signaling that it’s time to play the record. As I’ve sung its lyrics and beautiful melody, I’ve become aware of how its chorus, “It’s so easy when you know what you’re doing. It’s so easy when you know how…” which sounds so gentle and loving, soothing and lullaby-like in Lucas’s rendering, comes across as ridiculously boastful and pretentious in my own. As though I’ve mastered the art of…well, anything at all. Ha! Luckily, one need not relate personally to this song’s words in order to enjoy it. File it under “aspirational.”

NB: Psychedelic album art by Stanley Mouse.

Ted Lucas - It's so easy when you know what you're doing

Our ESP is so complete

So the thing about booty music is that you can almost never enjoy it in terms of its original intent. I'm a big fan of resisting the temptation toward irony, but if you put this kind of stuff on when you bring your date home, well, you're just leading with your chin. That said, I am so into Leon Ware right now. You probably haven't heard much about him, but he's the one who did the music for Marvin Gaye's I Want You—one of the least subtle records you will encounter. Apparently, he was persuaded to give away a completed album of his own to be the backing music for those songs of depravity. But Leon's got too much talent to be a behind-the-scenes guy. This track comes from his own masterpiece, Musical Massage. And that's pretty much what it is.

Leon Ware - Instant Love

Heroic sounds

Surely you have soundtracks for your great undertakings. Whether it's your triumphant scaling of Mount Kilimanjaro or your deadline-nailing all-nighter, you need a sonic engine. Here's one of mine, even if it's more often used to soundtrack toweling off and getting dressed. Grandiosity starts in your head.

Popol Vuh - Hüter der Schwelle

Prog rock vs. yacht rock (hold the Michael)

It's just too much. Tears fall down my cheek and onto my 'Beat It' jacket. My hands won't stop trembling, no matter which one I put the glove on. I moonwalk for a few uncertain steps, then fall to the ground. Somewhere up above, I hope Michael knows that I hum 'Man in the Mirror' whenever I undertake a daunting task like bringing out the recycling.

Seriously though, I had this jam in mind for today well before MJ's demise, and it will not be pre-empted. Besides, how lame would it be to post 'Human Nature' or whatever. There is no context that can overcome saturation. So, keeping with the original plan, I want to note a little bit of hard won self-actualization. It's a sign of a mature mind that one can engage in a public display of affection for Phil Collins-era Genesis and feel no shame. Especially those awkward transitional albums where he wore a big beard and dressed like a fisherman.

I listened to all of A Trick of the Tail while walking over the Brooklyn Bridge, and the experience was magical. I can't say why; there's really no reason for it, but hey, can't argue with fact. This track in particular has an easy breezy pastoralness to it, but then—Bam!—prog city in the bridge. Sweetness. I guess it's sort of about death, so there's your topical tie-in. Sail away, MJ.

Genesis - Ripples