Tragically, the world lost a reggae legend this past week with the passing of Gregory Isaacs, treasured elder of the "lovers rock" movement. Popularized by artists in mid-1970s London, lovers rock is a sub-genre of reggae that draws on American soul and R&B to produce a smoother, romance-heavy alternative to the politicized Rastafarian creeds of Bob Marley and company. I became aware of Isaacs from the shout out provided by Mos Def on his delicious story rap "Ms. Fat Booty", and was blessed to find all of these dripping wet dub fantasies about affairs of the heart.
You'll find below the latest installment in the Hump Day Hitslist; a five song lovers rock playlist in dedication to Mr. Isaacs. Unfortunately, my laptop befell a tragic fate this week and so I was unable to upload the necessary tunes to embed the mini-player I know readers have become fond of. In its place, I've been able to cobble together a YouTube playlist. Just press play and all 5 songs will play subsequently, or you can flip through to your heart's content. The mini-player will make its glorious return in weeks ahead.
1. Winston Reedy - "Dim The Lights": Released in 1983, this was Reedy's biggest hit, and one of the all-time lovers rock titles. Typical of the genre, Reedy's lover has told him it's over, but neither can resist their insatiable appetite for each other, and so they are kept on booty call speed dial. Reedy has to beg his baby to stop coming back for more, because, in the end, it's hurting him too bad. We've all been there.
2. Louisa Mark - "Caught You In A Lie": Accredited with being the first lovers rock single ever to hit the mainstream airwaves, Louisa Mark's "Caught You In A Lie" is about getting cheated on, real bad. Apparently the bastard said the other woman was his cousin! Sadly, Mark died last year from suspected food poisoning, but her pioneering work lives on.
3. Gregory Isaacs - "If I Don't Have You": Where Louisa Mark brought the saccharine preserves of lovers rock to the mainstream, Gregory Isaacs tended the plum orchard. Producing the very first lovers rock record with friend Errol Dunkley on his Jamaica-based record label and reggae store African Museum, Isaacs was the grandfather of the lovers rock sound. While it isn't his biggest hit, nor his first, "If I Don't Have You" finds Isaacs sweetly reassuring his lover that she's the one for him, despite his absences touring on the road. It's a classic theme, and one which would be given a well-deserved tribute by The Roots a couple of decades onward with their tale "You've Got Me", featuring neo-soul spellbinder Erykah Badu.
4. Junior English - "In Loving You": Like many of the lovers rock trailblazers, English moved from Jamaica to England to sprout his musical career. After winning a talent contest for which he was given a record contract with Pama Records, English would go on to achieve a Christmas number one single on the UK reggae charts with "In Loving You". This honey dripping ditty is a welcome escape from the fact that, in modern day, the UK's Christmas number one is annually dominated by the winner of Simon Cowell's talent show X Factor, and is blemished by misguided internet campaigns to usurp whatever pop schlock the X Factor produces with Rage Against the Machine's "Killing In The Name".
5. Jack Wilson - "6 Six Street": Jack Wilson is a jazz pianist, and so it is surprising to hear him on a track that sounds like a beef patty and a tumbler of dark coconut rum. Wilson's "6 Six Street" is a cover of Louisa Mark's original "Six Sixth Street". Both versions will get you right in the mood for a bubble bath, but we couldn't let Louisa have all the fun.
Sloan's milestone album Twice Removed won a narrow victory over Our Lady Peace's first album, Naveed, for the most cherished 1990s Canadian recording. I have to say I was surprised that Fully Completely only received one vote. Further, I would love to know what album I left out as someone voted for the option that I had "outrageously missed the obvious #1". My apologies for missing your favourite. I don't want to know because I am offended (I put that option there for a reason), I just really want to know! You can add a comment to one of the blog posts, even anonymously, and let me know what album I overlooked.
Last weekend, between pantomiming movie titles and humming show tunes in a fierce game of Cranium, conversation turned to a rather morbid subject matter. Friends began swapping the monstrous feats of serial killers like trading cards: "No, the kid that ran out into the street naked and bleeding was with Dahmer. Ted Bundy was the law school drop out that picked up women in his VW Bug." The pathology and gruesome methods of these butchers has been a topic of fascination for centuries, but perhaps more so in post-modernity where the wealth and prosperity of our society allows these crimes to be committed behind a veneer of normalcy and upward mobility; the double-lives of killers affording them the authority and trust to undertake their gruesome hobbies without detection.
As I mulled over the breadth of their crimes like so many batting statistics, I couldn't help but think this might be rather heartless given the recent wave of headlines about Canada's own "bright shining lie". But my mind turned to a song that had gripped me some years earlier on Sufjan Stevens' sprawling opus Illinois; his second and apparently final album in a project, which Sufjan has since admitted was a doomed conceit, intended to chronicle all 50 of the United States. Gloriously relating the Land of Lincoln through rich personal and historic narratives, Illinois pays homage to the state's great war heroes, famed poets, world expositions, and UFO sightings. None of these topics is so captivating and dismally engaging, however, as Sufjan's poetic account of the infamous murderer John Wayne Gacy, Jr., on his track of the same name.
A hushed interlude from the flourishing orchestration of the surrounding album, "John Wayne Gacy, Jr." is a melodious piano ballad laced with rippling acoustic guitar that begins as a biographical account of Gacy's life and transcends hauntingly into a reflection on the storyteller's own soul. Meticulously researched, the song traces the killer's roots from his childhood, opening with the line: “His father was a drinker/ and his Mother cried in bed”.
Critical to Gacy's pathology, his father was a violent alcoholic that abused his children. This abuse alienated young Gacy from his father and made him hopelessly dependent on his mother: "Folding John Wayne's t-shirts/ when the swing set hit his head". Playing in his backyard at 11 years old, a swing violently smacked Gacy in the forehead, forming a blood clot in his brain that would not be diagnosed until years later. Examining him after his arrest, numerous psychiatrists noted the possibility that this injury could have affected his psyche, and ultimately, assisted in developing his murderous tendencies later on in life.
Following a lucrative offer from Gacy's father-in-law to appoint him manager of three KFC restaurants,Gacy and his wife moved from Illinois in their mid-20s and settled in Iowa. During this time, Gacy continued his tireless work as a volunteer with the Jaycees, a leadership and civic training organization for young men. It was in Iowa where he first had a sexual encounter with another man, and this led to multiple assaults for which Gacy was eventually charged to a 10 year sentence.
Gacy served only a year and a half of this sentence due to good behaviour, and moved back to Chicago upon his release. Eventually Gacy would begin his own construction company and become active in Chicago's Democratic Party and various other community organizations. Unaware of his lurid past, Gacy was well-liked by his neighbours and friends who even went as far to elect him precinct captain of the Norwood Township street lighting committee: "The neighbors, they adored him/ for his humor and his conversation”.
Using this cover of a man committed to civic duty, Gacy relied on chance encounters with young men traveling alone. Offering them a ride, food, and shelter, Gacy would target his victims at bus stops and street corners. "Look underneath the house there/ Find the few living things, rotting fast, in their sleep/ of the dead”. After brutally murdering these men, Gacy would pile them meticulously like sacks of grain in the crawl space in his basement. Either encasing them in concrete or waiting to remove them to a backyard grave once the stench of rigor mortis had set in. “Twenty-seven people, even more/ they were boys with their cars/ summer jobs, oh my God”. Gacy was eventually convicted of 33 murders, though 8 bodies were unclaimed. Some of the young men had even been employed by Gacy at one of his many local businesses.
Through his work as a volunteer for the Democrats, Gacy became aware of a Jolly Jokers'Club in which members would dress as clowns and regularly perform at fund-raising events and parades to raise money for political campaigns. Gacy created a performance character named “Pogo The Clown”, in reference to the fact that he was Polish and he was "always on the go". "He dressed up like a clown for them/ with his face paint white and red". He designed his own costumes and taught himself how to apply clown makeup, opting for sharp corners at the edges of his mouth, contrary to the rounded borders that professional clowns normally employ, so as not to “frighten small children”. In full costume, Gacy would stop in at a local bar called the Lucky Lounge, where he interacted with some of his victims, explaining that he had just come from a performance to have a beer. After gaining their trust, Gacy would bring his victims to a quiet place and subdue them with a chloroform soaked rag before sexually assaulting them.
“And on his best behaviour/ in a dark room on the bed, he kissed them all/ He took off all their clothes for them/ He put a cloth to their lips/ Quiet hands/ Quiet kiss, on the mouth”
Critics have wondered at whether Stevens has gone too far in sympathizing with his homicidal subject, but it is in refraining from demonizing Gacy that Stevens achieves a much more powerful message; by humanizing the rapacious killer, Stevens lays bare the tight wire of morality that separates ourselves from these crimes, and demonstrates that anyone is capable of such monstrosity. In the final stanza, the narrator of the song looks inward at his own soul, and wonders what separates himself from Gacy:
"And in my best behavior/ I am really just like him/ Look beneath the floor boards/ for the secrets I have hid"
It may be presumptive to assume that Stevens is speaking as himself here, as he may have intended to be speaking through a troubled protagonist. What is clear, is that the sentiment of this verse is very much connected to Stevens' own deep Christian faith, which he displays throughout Illinois and his other albums; pride and jealousy alone are shameful, even if not as repugnant as murder and rape. Expounding on the Christian teaching that all sins are created equal before God, Stevens is revealing that while the skeletons in his closet may not be literal like Gacy's, he is still spiritually diminished and in need of the grace of God.
This opens a much larger theological and spiritual debate about whether the true meaning of the gospel is to assign spiritual equality to sins of very different magnitudes, but it does not seem that Stevens' mission is to answer this debate. More simply, Stevens is reconciling his own spiritual guilt with that of Gacy's and is inviting the listener to similarly reflect. And so, at the close of the song, Stevens is heard to take a deep breath and to exhale slowly. When given a final chance to speak by the warden before his execution, Gacy's only reply was to take a deep breath.
The fifth full-length album by Kings of Leon, Come Around Sundown, was released yesterday, and so finger on the steam will help mark the occasion by dedicating this week's Hump Day Hitslist to those southern rabble-rousers. Keeping in line with the five song parameter of the Hitslist, you will find one song from each of the Kings of Leon's five albums in the mini-player below; though you won't find any of their biggest hits, because all of the songs selected are non-singles from the albums. Think of them instead, as hidden gems.
1. "Joe's Head": From Youth & Young Manhood, the debut album that had many critics perking up their ears and re-tooling their top ten lists for 2003, this song is emblematic of the Kings of Leon's early style: from the nearly inaudible southern snark of Caleb Followill's vocals to the always chugging forward rhythm section, "Joe's Head" feels like a bar room brawl. The song appears to be an ode to the mythic folk song "Hey Joe" popularized by Jimi Hendrix. In Hendrix's famous tale, Joe has just killed his lover after he's "caught her messin' around with another man," while the Joe narrated by the Kings of Leon kills 'em both:
"Well he said Fred, I just killed a man/ Caught him laying with my girlfriend/ Now they're both dead/ People can be so cold when they're dead."
2. "Soft": A gloriously fun jam from the sophomore effort Aha Shake Heartbreak that catapulted the Kings to fame, "Soft" sounds too irreverent to be about anything negative; yet, when you stop and take heed of the lyrics you can't help but smirk devilishly. After the first chorus you have to brace yourself and wonder if Followill just said what you thought he said, before he chimes in with "behind the fringe of a whiskey high", and then you know it's all about drunken impotence:
"I'm passed out in your garden/ I'm in I can't get off, so soft/ I'd park myself in your body/ I'd come all over your party, but I'm soft"
3."Ragoo": On their third outing, Because of the Times, Kings of Leon took a sonic departure from their southern rock roots. We know now this album was a study en route to the more U2-inspired anthemic rock of the follow-up smash Only By The Night, but at the time it left the hardcore fans wondering where the band was headed. Regardless of the changes, betwixt the glacial pop and punk-inspired experiments happening on this record were some infectiously catchy tunes that portrayed the Kings' signature booty-shaking rhythm, and "Ragoo" is the finest example among them.
4."Cold Desert": It is nigh impossible to reconcile the lead-off single from the Kings' first record, "Molly's Chambers", with the played-to-death chart topper "Sex on Fire" that took the Kings to new heights of stardom. Both are excellent songs in their own right, but their differences demonstrate how dramatically the Kings of Leon had shed the snakeskin of their past; one in which their childhoods were spent driving through the southern United States in a purple 1988 Oldsmobile, decamping for a week or two wherever their pastor father Leon was scheduled to preach. While the definitive sonic departure of Only By The Night had the potential to alienate existing fans, it was the visceral emotional content, often lacking on previous albums, of songs like "Cold Desert" that would bring a whole new audience to Kings of Leon. Caleb says in a home video that he was very drunk when he recorded the song, and a lot of the lyrics were improvised; stating in retrospect that he would never have sung "Jesus don't love me" if he had been sober. Perhaps it was the truth rising to the surface of this record that made it so engaging, and eventually, such a major commercial success.
5."Mi Amigo": The latest album is just days old, and so "Mi Amigo" could very well become a single in the near future. For now, "Radioactive" is the only song gracing the airwaves. A much more patient and calming record than anything they've done in the past, Come Around Sundown is packaged in a misty photograph of palm leaves swimming in a tequila sunrise; "Mi Amigo" is a boozy, beachy tune that perfectly fits that aesthetic.
Exactly 17 years ago (around the last time the Toronto Maple Leafs started their hockey season four and oh), the following could be found in the pages of Maclean's magazine:
"At the Double Deuce Roadhouse, a half- minute motorcycle ride from the Halifax waterfront, the patrons work hard to look as though style is the last thing on their minds. This is, after all, the pinnacle of cool in a city that is suddenly being called one of the coolest on the continent.
Is this the workaday provincial capital, university town and naval port at the heart of the depressed Maritimes? Not according to a recent issue of Harper's Bazaar, the New York City-based fashion monthly, which placed Halifax firmly among a new group of alternative North American hot spots, including Seattle, Wash., Austin, Texas, and Chapel Hill, N.C. In recent months, the British music magazine Melody Maker and the American entertainment weekly Billboard have raved about Halifax and its exploding music scene."
Suddenly billed as the "Next Seattle" by New York and L.A. record execs after the release of Sloan's grunge hit "Underwhelmed", Halifax was decidedly overwhelmed in the early 1990s by the wave of international attention it was garnering for its new-found cultural and musical renaissance. Grunge music had taken North America by storm, and the alternative rock crafted in the basements of that wintry Maritime province was helping satiate the appetite of the masses. To help adults make left and right of this 'next big thing', the CBC produced what are now comically dated news pieces like this one:
"Moms and dads, do you know where your children are? They might be here. It might look like a brawl, but it's called Slam-dancing, and they're doing it to the sounds of Sloan."
Sloan's place at the apex of this movement was not undeserved, given that in a period of two years they had gone from their parents' basements to being signed by David Geffen Records with a North America-wide release for their first full-length record, Smeared. However, while the world looked on in search of the next Nirvana, it is wholly inaccurate to describe the Halifax of the early-90s as Seattle Lite. In reality, the mix of bands that came out of Halifax during this period were playing a wide range of "alternative" music: the hook-heavy garage pop of girl group Jale; the Sonic Youth-like stylings of Eric's Trip; the 70s jangle rock of the Superfriendz, and; the low-fi pop of girl band Plumtree (whose song "Scott Pilgrim" is the inspiration behind comic novel and movie Scott Pilgrim vs. the World).
The story of Sloan is illustrative of the 'mistaken identity' under which Halifax suffered during this period. When Sloan furnished its Beatles-esque second LP, Twice Removed, to the execs at David Geffen it was met with reticence and disdain as the Brass wanted Sloan to produce more of the grunge sound that had catapulted them to States-side success. But Sloan simply wasn't the next Nirvana, no matter how much David Geffen wanted them to be just that. While the label was bound by contract to put the record out, it was not well promoted. Sloan front-man Chris Murphy tells a story about arguing with the band's A&R representation during this time, where he was told that Sloan would get the attention they deserved as soon as another newly-signed band's record had been released. That other band was Weezer, and Murphy says he returned home and flicked on MuchMusic to see an amazing video for this song called "Buddy Holly", and knew instantly that Sloan had no future on the label. After nearly breaking up, Sloan was forced to leave the city they called home for Toronto so they could start their own label, Murderecords, on which they could release their next album.
As the most successful band to emerge from that burgeoning Halifax music scene, Sloan never again gained a substantial foothold in the U.S. market. But their story is one of many Canadian artists whose particular brand of entertainment is distinctly Canadian, and never ascends to the universality compulsory for popular embrace in the United States. Sure, Canada has had its fair share of Joni Mitchells, its Guess Whos, and now its Arcade Fires, but there is a litany of quality acts from this country that have been fondly, if selfishly, embraced by Canadian audiences for their ability to catalog that most mysterious of ideals: what it means to be Canadian.
And it is here that I believe the legacy of the early-90s Halifax music scene can be illustrated by taking a good look at one song: Joel Plaskett's "Love This Town".
Plaskett was front-man for the only other Halifax group to have some U.S. success during the 1990s with his brash 1970s inspired rock band Thrush Hermit. After the group split at the turn of the millennium, Plaskett continued to make records with his newly formed unit The Joel Plaskett Emergency, as well as producing solo efforts of delightful folk rock. One of those efforts was 2005's La De Da, on which "Love This Town" can be found. A quaint love letter to his Halifax stomping grounds, "Love This Town" packs in a host of germane references in a few short verses. Let's explore...
In the first verse, Plaskett talks to us like the weathered patriarch of early-90s Halifax that he is:
"Listen up kid, it's not what you think/ Staying up too late, had a little too much to drink/ Walked home across the bridge when the Marquee shut down/ There's a reason why I love this town"
Plaskett actually hails from Dartmouth, and the bridge upon which he is stumbling home drunk is actually the MacDonald Bridge across the Halifax Harbour from the big city. The Marquee was a premiere and infamous venue for up and coming acts in Halifax that shut its doors permanently after running into financial trouble due to the difficulties of bringing touring acts to the East Coast. The importance of this venue cannot be overstated, and Sloan makes that point on their 1999 recording "The Marquee and the Moon". Both the Marquee and The Moon were popular music venues in Halifax where, as Chris Murphy tells it, young bands would have to show their chops by playing a round of gigs at The Moon before they could make their way up to the big stage at The Marquee.
Whereas Sloan had not forgotten its Halifax roots, Plaskett had not forgotten the sting felt by Haligonians when Sloan packed up its studio overlooking the Halifax Harbour to make a new start in Toronto. Plaskett sings:
"I saw your band, in the early days/ We all understand why you moved away/ But we'll hold a grudge, anyway"
Even Sloan seemed to be aware of the conflict inherent in trying to be a commercial success, while still being true to their Maritime origins. In "The Marquee and the Moon", Chris Murphy sings about how the hype surrounding his band made it difficult for them to keep focused on being themselves:
"But could we have stopped it/ We all get co-opted/ To some kind of system it seems/ To me, 'buzz' is onomatopeia"
Plaskett takes a more positive bent in his recollections of the neighbourly charm of Halifax, when he recounts that "there'll be drinks on the house/ if your house burns down". This line is a reference to the veteran singer-songwriter Al Tuck (signed to Sloan's Murderecords), who had kept on with his weekly Wednesday night gig at the Halifax Tribeca club despite the fact his house had burnt down that morning. Plaskett also references his old friend "Miniature Tim" who has made some appearances on stage with Joel whenever he plays in Toronto.
In his typical tongue-in-cheek manner, Plaskett also ribs Kelowna for coldly embracing him during a tour stop there in 2005. Playing in a big tent at a Kokanee-sponsored ski and snowboard event, Plaskett was met with a drunken audience of frosted-tip teenagers fresh off the slopes and fresh onto Red Bull and vodkas. The following verse sums up his sentiments:
"I played a show, in Kelowna last year/ They said 'Pick it up Joel, we're dying in here!'/ Picture one hand clapping, and picture half that sound/ There's a reason that I hate that town"
To cap it all off, Joel coos about "Davey and me/ Face down in our soup", which is a reference to his long-time drummer Dave Marsh and the illness they both suffered on tour with Thrush Hermit years earlier. In 1999, Thrush Hermit released its final record, Clayton Park, to critical and commercial success, but the band amicably decided to split. Before officially shutting it down, Thrush decided to play a farewell tour with friends The Flashing Lights and The Local Rabbits. Unfortunately, Thrush Hermit was forced to pull out of the tour due to the deteriorating health of both Plaskett and Marsh; a virus which confined Plaskett to a month in bed, which he later memorialized with his solo record In Need of Medical Attention.
The music created in those heady days of early-90s Halifax provides some fantastic listening nowadays, but there is doubt as to whether much of it is timeless material. What is certain, is that the legacy left behind from that brief glimpse of international attention on the sometimes-forgotten East Coast of Canada has inspired a host of great Canadian artists to emerge in the decade since; artists who have no reason to fear wearing their "Canadianess" on their sleeves. And for all those reasons, I agree with Joel wholeheartedly: there is a reason that I love that town.
When I was a tween, I would say "I hate music." I'm not sure why. It might have had something to do with realizing in grade school Music class that all I could accomplish was humming the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme down the end of a recorder while pretending to move my fingers over the appropriate holes. I couldn't sing worth a damn and my best friend started playing guitar at about the same time girls were growing breasts. I will never hear Collective Soul's "December" played so frequently again in my life (sorry, Tim). Unless, of course, smooth rock with Christian undertones has a resurgence as a serious panty-wetter.
So I've often wondered how I went from being so sternly against something, to it becoming a huge part of my identity. The first explanation is that I am a stubborn, opinionated SOB (my sign is Capricorn, ladies) who is either really really for, or really really against something. But after thinking about it for a while, I realize I owe it all to my brother Noah (yes yes, of the Ark variety - my parents aren't religious in the least, so I think my brother and I are biblical by-products of my parents' spiritual guilt).
There's a few reasons why I say my brother was the reason, and they come to me like photos in a View-Master; Click, click...
It's 1992. I'm 8, and Noah is 13. It's the summer, and my parents are at work. My brother has just finished giving me his classic beating, complete with the knees-on-shoulders tickle-fest that concluded with him hanging spit balls into my involuntarily open, laughing mouth. As a post-abuse olive branch he pops a Maxell tape into his BOOMBOX. My 8 year old brain was like, "what the fuuuucckk, I neeeeeeedd one of those!" (No, seriously, my brother had me cussing 5 years ahead of my time. When I was 2, I told a toddler in a passing shopping cart she was "a piece of shit.") Anyway, that was the first time I really heard pop music. It was MC Hammer's "U Can't Touch This," and man was he right. I straight b-boy'd that shit. My bro and I had a track pant dance party for the ages. When my parents got home they thought we had gotten into the cola.
It's 1995 and my brother has a massive shag, an over-sized Cookie Monster shirt (it was in back then) and wears bug-eye sunglasses and a chain wallet. He thinks he is Chris Murphy from Sloan. He is taking a break from skate-boarding with his friends in the Church parking lot and must be tired, because he's letting me hang out in his room. He puts on an old CD from a cracked case with a gold and green cover; "L7" printed big at the top. The chorus floods into my brain and I can barely think, because there's no room left. When we pretend that we're deeeadddd, yeah when we pretend that we're deeeaaaddd. It's grunge music, and I'm about 4 years too late, but I'm starting to GET IT.
It's 1997 and I think my brother probably hates me. I got my first stereo for Christmas, and it's better than his. The carousel holds 60 discs and I don't own a single one. Noah is in the middle of high school and has little time for his awkward, know-it-all brother to be hanging around with him and his friends. But then it happens. For reasons I have never discussed with my brother, and of which he probably can't remember anyway, he asks me if I want to come with him to a concert in St. Catharines. My first fucking concert. With my brother. A 20 minute drive away! It was a massive deal. So I strapped on my own tiny chain wallet and baggy jeans and jumped in my brother's white Grand Am; rust creeping out of the paint bubbles on the hood and the upholstery smelling of sweet tobacco. We walked into The Hideaway pub with its cramped stage tucked in the corner, framed by that cheap nautical woodwork customary of the watering holes that dot the roadsides of this country. As I sat up on the back of a chair to get a view over the grown people in the room The Local Rabbits took the stage under Christmas coloured pot lights, all sideburns and wavy hair. From the opening of "Sally Ann's Style Denial" I was awash in the chug of that guitar riff, while the cymbals splashed and a squeaky voice got sentimental over acid washed jeans. Even through the ear plugs my mom had insisted I wear, my ears were on fire. This was my first taste of the full body slam of a sonic wave rushing from an amplifier, and I loved it. The Rabbits played their funky brand of 70s-inspired FM jazz rock for the better part of an hour, Peter Elkas' Greek mane remaining perfectly coiffed throughout the sweaty, smoke-filled set.
During the intermission I stood by while Noah shot the shit with some guys he skated with; some of them had beards and ear piercings and they talked like they had the world by the balls. I took the couple of bucks my parents had sent me out the door with and bought a black crew neck tee from the merch table, "Thrush Hermit" written in bold across the front overhanging two pink lightning bolts. To this day, the coolest piece of clothing I have ever owned.
Noah whispers in my ear "Here they come, let's push to the front." I feel rad. We slide through the crowd as Ian McGettigan comes chicken-walking out with his bass slung over his shoulder, his head shaved into a crude mohawk with racing stripes notched at his temples. The drums roll in and Joel Plaskett blasts down the end of the mic "From the back of the film! He said shut up or I'll shoot you," his jeans nearly falling off of his gaunt frame. I wouldn't have realized it at the time, but this was one of the last shows Thrush Hermit would play together until their brief reunion tour this past year.
That night, I had witnessed Thrush Hermit perform a tome of Canadiana at a time before you could access new music with no consequences from the blistering black market Napster built. This was the time of the jewel case, CanCon regulations, Sook Yin and Bill Welychka, federally funded Canadian indie labels, paper tickets from record stores, college radio, alternative magazines, and word-of-mouth. You couldn't go surfing into the great beyond to find the latest Wavves download or Girl Talk mash-up. There was something hokey but endearing about having to come across it in your own backyard. Flipping on MuchMusic and seeing bands like The Kill Joys and Age of Electric getting their share of the obligatory 35% Canadian content rules, when you knew this stuff would have no business on t.v. in the States. Now it takes little investment to coolly observe an emerging music trend from afar by reading an article or two and streaming a song on a blog. Back then you needed to spend some time and some dollars to go out and find what it was you were looking for; but when you did, you really felt you were tapping into a scene. Though it had been burgeoning for the better part of a decade by that point, Thrush Hermit had circled me in to the sounds of Halifax's musical renaissance, even if claims of the "Next Seattle" had long since faded into the ether.
It was that night I fell in love with music. It was that night Noah went from being my older brother to being my best friend. It was that night that led me to scour his cd rack and find the likes of Fugazi, Liquid Swords, Bad Religion, Only Built 4 Cuban Linx, Black Flag, In Utero, Weezer's blue, and the Spin Doctors. It was that night that Joel Plaskett was hanging around after the show, his skinny face hidden behind a pair of granny tea shades, and I got to shake his skeleton bone hand. It was that night that brought me here to write this blog. And it's with that, that I come to my next post, where it all began for me with the music that made me love music: the alternative rock of 1990s Nova Scotia.
Every Wednesday, starting today, we're going to post a 5 song playlist, called the Hump Day Hitslist, to help get you through the despair of the middle of the week. There will still be a wealth of great music coming to you via the regular posts, but this feature is more of a quick dose of happiness to remind you of how beautiful everything is.
On Sunday, one of the greatest soul singers of all time passed away, Solomon Burke, and it is in his honour that this inaugural Hump Day Hitslist is dedicated to the soul music of the 1960s.
Marvin Gaye - "I Heard It Through the Grapevine": Originally recorded by Smokey Robinson & The Miracles, this song would become a landmark song for Motown Records when it was cut by Marvin Gaye in 1968. Its cultural relevance is due significantly in part to Gaye's updating of the classic soul sound with late-60s psychedelic undertones. Just two years later, Creedence Clearwater Revival would also make this song a hit with their popular rock version.
Ben E. King - "Stand By Me": The most remarkable thing about this song is that King wrote it for The Drifters, who passed up the chance to record it. With some leftover studio time, King was encouraged to lay it to wax, and the rest is history. Not only did "Stand By Me" become a top-ten hit in 1961, it would reach #1 in the UK in 1987 as well, after the release of the popular movie of the same name and a prominent Levi's ad featuring the song.
Solomon Burke - "Cry to Me": A 1962 ode to loneliness, and Solomon Burke's biggest hit. A perfect song for your mid-week blues..."nothing can be sadder than a glass of wine alone."
Etta James - "At Last": Released by James in 1961, "At Last" was first recorded for the musical score to the 1941 film Orchestra Wives. It became Etta James' signature song, and she'd remind the world by taking ribs at Beyoncé for singing it for President Obama and the First Lady during their first dance at the Inauguration Ball. "I tell you that woman he had singing for him, singing my song, she gonna get her ass whupped."
Sam Cooke - "A Change is Gonna Come": Released shortly after his death in 1964, "A Change is Gonna Come" was only a modest hit by Sam Cooke's standards (see "Cupid," "Chain Gang," and "What a Wonderful World"). However, "Change" is Cooke's most important song, as it extols the emotional toll taken by decades of oppression, while offering a message of hope to the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s. And boy, can the man deliver a tune.
...the taste is gonna move ya when you put it in your mouth!"
As I chewed mercilessly on the out-sized tuna sub that would sit like a rock deep in my stomach for the rest of the hike, Schizz rhymed in his best pudding-mouth impersonation those iconic opening lines: "It was all a dream/ I used to read Word Up! magazine..." I don't remember how we got on the topic of Biggie Smalls. Maybe it was just a convenient distraction for Schizz's mind as we readied ourselves for the last third of the trek up the bony volcanic plugs of basalt rock. There was something comforting, almost escapist, in the juxtaposition of running up a mountain-side and looking out over the expansive vista of the Lower Mainland as we parroted those lyrics from a very different time and place: "We used to fuss when the landlord dissed us/ No heat, wonder why Christmas missed us." Powder and Micah just smirked and adroitly led the way over the troubling terrain, but I couldn't help myself; Schizz and I nattered on between huffs and puffs about the amazingness of that song and all its mythic history for the better part of half an hour. In the midst of our childish excitement, Schizz enthusiastically prompted me to commit some of our random and fantastic nuggets of musical lore to writing. And with that, it seems fitting that the opening entry on this blog belongs to the Notorious B.I.G.'s "Juicy."
In 1994, Notorious B.I.G. released Ready to Die on Sean "Puff Daddy" Combs' Bad Boy Records, with "Juicy" as the lead-off single. In what is critically and popularly considered one of the all-time classic hip-hop tracks, Biggie provides a startling history lesson in three verses about the ascendancy of rap. There are no guest appearances, no promos or shout outs for label-mates pushing their own albums, and no interspersed dramatic sketches. There is just that short of breath, butter-filled voice that could make German sound as smooth and round as Italian.
While the song would reach only as high as number 27 on the Billboard Hot 100, it proved to be a crossover hit that would act as a touchstone--a Rosetta stone, even--for the hip hop culture that had blossomed in the boroughs of New York since the closing days of the 1970s. Every fibre of the song is a positive and reverent look back: from the clemency Notorious grants to those who doubted he'd amount to anything; to the autobiographical footnotes for those rap heroes from hip-hop's Golden Age; to the very name and beat of the song itself. Puff Daddy either deeply mined his record crate or, as legendary producer Pete Rock insists, blatantly thieved from his friends to come up with the bombastic back beat and sensual chorus hook that would bring Biggie to non-traditional rap audiences. Other than re-recording the female vocals and slightly re-cutting the synthesizer flourishes, Puffy borrowed the beat whole hog from James Mtume's 1983 R&B dance floor hit "Juicy Fruit."
The original chorus goes like this:
"You know very well, what you are/ You're my sugar thang, my chocolate star/ I've had a few, but not that many/ But you're the only one, that gives me good and plenty"
And the remixed version by Bad Boy Records' girl group Total:
"You know very well, who you are/ Don't let 'em hold you down, reach for the stars/ You had a goal, but not that many/ 'Cause you're the only one, I'll give you good and plenty"
Mtume's funky ode to licentious intercourse has since been sampled by over 20 artists, including R. Kelly, Common, Jennifer Lopez and Snoop Dogg. But while the catchy beat brought hip hop to those previously unfamiliar, the real legacy of Biggie's "Juicy" is that in a few short verses he was able to connect with a whole new audience and educate them on the origins of rap. From the African-American bubblegum rag Word Up! to the seminal radio show "Rap Attack" with famed disc jockey's Mr. Magic and Marley Marl, Notorious taught you about where he and all the people that grew up in his neighbourhood came from. But at the same time, Biggie let you know he wasn't that different from you. His rags-to-riches tale is about the universal themes of making something of yourself, disproving doubters, playing video games, partying, and sharing the wealth with your friends. Heck, he even throws in Love Bug and Starsky and Hutch references just to remind you he likes crappy television, too. Hundreds of rap songs have chronicled the history of hip hop, but none had ever done so this accessibly. And like the man said; If you don't know, now you know.
For instance, one of the strangest references Biggie makes is to the 1984 novelty recording "Rappin' Duke," by Shawn Brown, where Brown raps in character as iconic cowboy badass John Wayne. Brown parodies the battle rap style popular in the mid-80s where MCs boasted about their lyrical skills by dropping gems like: "When you were in diapers and wetting the sheets/ I was at the Ponderosa rapping to the beat." This is, of course, followed by the eerie laughing "Da hah, Da haahh" hook Biggie alludes to in "Juicy." [Note: Every song I've mentioned in this post is available for your listening pleasure in the playlist in the mini-player above. I will continue this practice in all further posts on this blog, so please "listen along," if you will.]
The more serious influences Notorious notes loom large in the canon of rap. Marley Marl has produced beats for everyone from Fat Joe to KRS-ONE to LL Cool J, but he is likely most fondly remembered for his time with the trail blazing group the Juice Crew, which introduced the likes of Kool G Rap, Biz Markie, and Big Daddy Kane to the world. It is a testament to how influential Marley Marl has been on the evolution of rap production that he was actually the first producer to sample a beat and reprogram it, as evidenced in the family soul groove "Impeach the President" by the Honey Drippers. Other major players counted by Biggie include Kid Capri, a scratch DJ that became mythic for his live party sets where he beat-matched records spanning eccentric genres. For your enjoyment, I've added a classic track to the playlist by Big L (who will undoubtedly be the subject of some later post) featuring Kid Capri as the resident DJ and hype man.
While "Juicy" made Notorious B.I.G. a household name, and Ready to Die became a platinum record, it would sadly be the only album Notorious would see released in his lifetime. Just days before the release of his second album, 1997's Life After Death, Biggie was shot and killed by an as-of-yet unknown gunman during the very height of the East Coast vs. West Coast rap rivalry. There are many conspiracy theories well-documented in books and on film regarding the circumstances of Biggie's murder, and even more materials published on the feud between the East Coast and the West Coast rap worlds. For our purposes, we need only take note that Suge Knight, the head of West Coast rap label Death Row Records, is almost invariably in the middle of any discussion relating to Biggie's death. The reasons for Suge Knight's infamy are lengthy, but "Juicy" acts as an illustrative gateway into Mr. Knight's malevolent connection to Biggie. If you put on a decent set of headphones or have some speakers that pop a bit louder than your laptop built-ins, you will become aware (to the point of irritation, then madness, then nausea) of the fact that Puff Daddy himself yawns and drawls and coos throughout the entire recording: "It's allllll gooodd. Sup. Yeaahh. Thaatt's riiightt." Well, it seems you wouldn't be alone in this feeling, as Suge Knight was equally annoyed. Or, at least, he saw opportunity in it. As evidenced by the short clip below, after accepting an award at the 1995 Source Magazine Awards, Suge called out Puffy for his parasitic self-aggrandizing and asked the artists in the room to switch from Bad Boy to Death Row; from East to West. This was in the middle of Madison Square Garden at a hip hop industry awards show. I need say no more of the bedlam it fuelled. Snoop Dogg and his bat didn't help things much either.
For all his silly arms-to-heaven dancing in the background of videos, to his constant idiotic name changes, you have to give props to Puffy for how he handled things when it was his turn to take the stage. Oh no he diddyn't...
Things read in music reviews from Pitchfork Media, October 8th, 2010:
"Think Earth taking on the brash demonstrativeness of Muse, and you're pretty close."
"It begs to be taken off on a stretcher and sprayed down with liquid novocaine like a histrionic Italian midfielder."
"It's better than it sounds."
"This represents a tipping point where you almost wish Funeral or Turn on the Bright Lights or Is This It? never happened as long as it spared you from horrible imitations like this one, often sounding more inspired by market research than actual inspiration."
And there you have it. In a matter of paragraphs I had run the gamut of every record review gimmick going: name-dropping references so obtuse as to put you further from the mark than when you started reading (who the fuck is Earth, and what bullseye am I hitting when they engage in combat with the brash demonstrativeness of Muse?); similes devoid of any meaning (so this song has greasy hair, cheats with transvestite prostitutes, and bails miserably out of the World Cup?); fetishized praise, overbearing to the point of impossibility (music is sound...how can it be better than it sounds?); and pretentious art-bashing that's only purpose is to reassure the author his or her music really is better than yours (this, from the e-zine that gave the Flaming Lips' Zaireeka--a 4-disc concept album meant to be played simultaneously on 4 stereo systems--a 0 out of 10 after the reviewer admitted to not attempting the 4-channel experiment....Oh, and who also reviewed Jet's sophomore album by posting a YouTube video of a monkey drinking its own urine, and nothing else).
Frank Zappa (or Miles Davis, or Elvis Costello - no one seems to be sure) once said that writing about music is like dancing about architecture. I think this is true. And yet friends will tell you I spew the same nose-in-the-air commentary Pitchfork trades in on any given weekend around the poker table after I'm on my third dram of scotch; and they'd be right. I spent my years in undergrad writing album reviews so labyrinthine in obscure references and hyperbolic imagery that even I didn't understand them. I can't say I've outgrown it. But, I came to a realization somewhere along the way. All that stuffy horse-trading that goes on in the world of indie rock is like buying a new pair of shoes when you are bored and you think it'll fill the void; it feels good for about half an hour, and then the guilt sets in and you feel ashamed at thinking you'd be a better person for doing this.
And so, I want to start writing about only those positive experiences I've had with music. I want to forget all of the "But they're just a Dinosaur Jr. rip-off," the "You've obviously never listened to Clinic, because those guys owe everything to Clinic," and the "Kings of Leon were so much better pre-Only By the Night when they sounded like a bunch of scruffy hobo's traveling the South in the back of their evangelist-father's station wagon" (though, for the record, they were). This blog will not review albums, it will not try to keep up on the latest trends, it will not find new bands before any one else has heard of them, and it will not issue stories on how the Animal Collective just designed their own line of shoes, or how a guy just started a campaign to offer Weezer $10 million to break up. Besides, I don't have a news room and I would just be copying and pasting that stuff from other websites anyway.
Instead, I will write about the random collection of things I have learned about artists, albums, songs, cover art and the like in my twelve years of taking music seriously. I'll touch on 1930s gypsy guitar solos, mid-70s disco ballads, late-90s backpack indie hip-hop, Italian big band from the 1950s, late-80s 'Madchester' shoegaze, and everything in between. Hopefully along the way you will be introduced to music you had never heard before, fall in love with a band from the 80s that has inspired your favourite band from this decade, and learn a few good stories behind the making of a song you've been listening to for years. But this isn't just a one-way endeavour. I want to hear your pearls of knowledge too, and learn something new and awesome about this stuff called music.
The basic premise is something like this: "Hey man, I really love this song. You're my friend. I want you to hear this song. Oh, and while you're listening this is something I really think is cool about the story behind that lyric. Really? No, I hadn't heard that before. Sweet."
I hope you'll join the conversation.
...and because this is the first post, I'll start by appending one of the nearest and dearest songs to me, and the inspiration behind the name for this blog:
