What do Blondie, The Clash, Elvis Costello, Patti Smith, The Police, The Pretenders, REM, The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, Talking Heads and U2 all have in common? Two things, at least - all of them were considered "new wave" when their careers began... and oh, by the way, all of them are now in the Rock and Roll Hall Of Fame. Somewhere along the line, new wave got ripped off. For a lot of people, mention new wave music and all that comes to mind is stuff like "Electric Avenue" or "Walking On Sunshine," admittedly commercial fare more suited for dance floors and the flavor-of-the-week club than any real place in history. Somewhere along the line, all that got remembered was Devo's flowerpot hats and a lot of guys wearing skinny ties and sports jackets with their jeans - yet the contributions and the attitude shifts that resulted from the broad term new wave have affected music history in a multitude of ways.

First and foremost, of course, is the sheer volume of music that was released. A large part of that is due to the fact that "new wave" was a pretty loosely defined term; it really started out as a description of (mostly British) punk in the middle seventies; after that, it sort of shifted to music that was heavily rooted in the look and feel of a lot of roots rock and roll - simple, clean, and very DIY. As time and the press went on, new wave morphed and evolved until it eventually became sort of a catch-all for a lot of music that was outside of either the top-40 mainstream or the already-constricting album rock format... in short, anything the press didn't really understand or couldn't categorize became new wave. By the time all was said and done, new wave included (at various times and from various artists) pop, power pop, synth-pop, technopop, industrial, ska, new romantic, goth, post-punk, house, and even artists who might be labeled as hip-hop or funk these days. I've seen it written that "new wave" was essentially dance music that relied heavily on synthesizers... but Elvis Costello and REM and The Police and The Pretenders and a myriad of others were all classified as "new wave" back in the day, and if anything, they were the anti-synth faction of what was at the time new music (a rebellion within a rebellion). 

An interesting result of the vagueness of the term and the lumping of just about anything misunderstood into the genre is that new wave made very serious inroads into both pop/top 40 and FM/album rock psyches. In regards to pop music, it wasn't unlike disco in that dance clubs had a pretty solid effect on the charted music of the day. What at first was a near clique-ish club of miscreants and outcasts who went thrifting to find their cool outfits and haunted little clubs who would play this "new music" soon turned into charts filled with hit singles from the likes of Human League, The B52s, Duran Duran, REM, Blondie, Soft Cell... and egads! Even the flowerpot boys, Devo, scored a gold single! As time went on and reputations grew, a lot of agonizing decisions had to be made by radio programmers, perhaps even moreso in the album rock genre. I was out of radio by the time new wave hit it's fullest and most dominant stride on the airwaves, but I was there at the beginning, and I remember the resistance I got from the higher-ups for playing Elvis Costello, REM and even The Cars at first; it actually has a lot to do with why I got out of radio, young and rash as I was at the time. But even in album rock and soon-to-be classic rock formats, a funny thing started to happen... U2 started going multi-platinum and selling out arena tours around the world. The Cars got moved up to the tops of the "anticipated new releases" listings. Elvis Costello made it eternally difficult for programmers... he was selling a ton of records, he was garnering massive and very interesting press (his was the first "El Mocambo" type show I can recall that got a lot of attention, something even The Rolling Stones copied) and yet... where on earth did he fit, radio-wise? His sound was rock, sort of... his attitude was punk, sort of... except he dressed a little nicer and wrote these really intricate songs... My oh my, what's a radio station to do? As with all things, eventually the music dictated the course that had to be taken, and a huge part of the stigma of being "new wave" was removed. Eventually people stopped using the label at all. U2 and The Police were no longer new wave bands or alternative bands or whatever bands; slowly and surely, they just became great bands, acceptable to a LOT of different formats and a lot of varied elements of the consumer base. In that regard, to my perception, "new wave" was one of the most successful movements in the history of rock music.

You also cannot ignore the changes in the culture of the music industry brought about in large part by new wave artists. This I can separate into two distinct categories - recording and marketing. From the recording point of view - a recording studio had become quite the beast by the middle '70s. Bands were jockeying for million dollar advances so they could record an album; exceptional and/or trendy producers and engineers became as sought after, fought over and expensive as exceptional and/or trendy musicians. There were running stories in Rolling Stone and Creem about the progress of the new album by whoever, and things went pretty quickly from The Beatles kicking out eighteen albums in a seven year span to new albums taking two years or more to record and release. It was the apex of the monolithic industry beast controlling the music; as such, it became near impossible for the guy with a guitar down the street to have any hope.

That had to change, and it did, and I honestly think the new wave movement had a LOT to do with it. It seemed like it was almost overnight, but suddenly enough, a bunch of bands decided they didn't want to join that race to owe the rest of their lives to a record company. They had music, they were angry, they were excited, and they wanted it recorded now, wanted it in the hands of whatever fans NOW. DIY (do-it-yourself) was re-introduced into the fabric of rock and roll because a lot of punks and early wavers didn't have the desire or the cash to play the record company game. They wrote music, they went into the studio, they played it, recorded it, released it and made some more, and it was a WHOLE lot quicker and cheaper than the industry norm had become. From a fan/consumer point of view, it got very exciting again - the old dinosaur (heh heh heh) rock mags had to be discarded, and information had to be gotten from new, hipper places with their ears closer to the ground. Labels were springing up overnight (and going under just as quickly), so if you wanted new music from a favorite artist or in a style you were fond of, it often took more than a trip to Tower Records or Best Buy to be able to find what you were after. 

Marketing experienced a similar sort of revolution, and again, the DIY ethic made its mark. While it might be nice to have Annie Leibovitz take photos for your album cover, have it designed by a huge New York ad agency, and have the whole package released in symphony with a well-thought out marketing strategy, this again takes the whole animal out of the hands of the people it's supposed to represent - the musicians. The thought process was similar - if I can go into the studio and record this myself, why can't I take some pictures and scissors and glue and make the sleeve for a single or the poster for a concert myself? They could and they did. It kind of went hand in hand with the explosion of personal computers and the huge advances in desktop publishing that were taking place at the time - a computer made it far less essential that you have expensive designers at your beck and call. It even made it a whole lot more immediate. This whole "get it done" ethic permeated so much of the early new wave scene - it not only revitalized what was becoming a very tired, sterile atmosphere for creating music, it gave a lot of hope back to the twisted neighborhood geniuses of the world. Thank the stars for that, because music has built its history on their backs.

Of course, as with so many good things, it wound up eating itself alive again. A huge part of that was wrapped up in three letters - MTV. What was at first a concept and revolution in itself evolved into the very thing it was formed to revolt against - corporate rock that satisfied the investors first. It sure was a lot of fun in the beginning, though. Music videos to promote your stuff? It gave a whole new dimension to the music, gave creative minds another outlet. It was, again, an exciting new toy, like a constant Christmas morning for music junkies, and there's absolutely no doubt that bands like Duran Duran, Ultravox, Talking Heads and (eeeeek! It's THEM again!) Devo not only kept it interesting, but essentially built the machine and wrote the rules. It didn't take long, though... MTV was such a huge and seemingly immediate success (sure feels that way in retrospect) that soon enough, video wasn't even an option anymore for a new release. Million dollar budgets for single song videos began to get written into the plans, and all over again, hot directors and screenplay writers got snapped up. "Coming soon" was a hot topic for the news shows on MTV... and yeah, the chameleon had done nothing more than eaten its own tail.

I guess it had to happen, and in a lot of ways, it's happening again (and I assume it will do so again and again and again as needed). I know for fact that as a fan, a radio programmer and a retailer through the new wave assault, I found it to be a breath of fresh air for my ears, eyes and rock and roll soul. When I hear "new wave," I don't think of walking on sunshine (puke!)... More often then not, I think of the attitude and freedom of spirit that characterized Woodstock (look the record company beast in the eye and claw it out if possible). I think of the music that I might not have had and the friends I might not have made if somebody hadn't stepped up and said, "It can be done different, you know." Defying what is and making something new from it is, to me, the ultimate spirit of rock... so new wave? I say, "Hail! Hail! Rock 'n roll!"

Lagniappe

Since I was involved in so many facets of the industry during the height of new wave, I'm sure I got more satisfaction out of it than many. It also put me in an interesting position as a radio programmer in the fairly early stages of the movement. When Elvis Costello's second album, This Year's Model, was released, the song "Radio Radio" was the single or focus track or whatever it was called. What a dilemma! I was a huge fan of Costello's, especially through the first three albums... but "Radio Radio" is, of course, a song that is VERY disparaging of a medium I also respected and loved (and was a part of!). I was the Music Director of a huge station at the time, and the decision was almost solely mine; do I play the song or not? I thought long and hard about it, and eventually decided to call Costello on his own challenge. Instead of "Radio Radio," I played "Pump It Up" as the focus track (it got me yelled at by a couple of prominent record company guys... all the better, in its own way). The song had a long life and went pretty high on our little intra-station chart. A little while later, Elvis Costello, Nick Lowe and Mink DeVille went on a much-publicized tour, and I had the pleasure of seeing the show. Costello (with The Attractions) was the headliner; he was an amazing performer, building his set and the crowd excitement, until at the "appropriate" time, he broke into "Radio Radio." The reception by the crowd was lukewarm, at best, just like when a guy plays an obscure album cut during his concert. I was very close to the stage, and there was a distinctly puzzled look on Costello's face - he had been winning this crowd, and now the tour-de-force wasn't getting it? As it worked out, "Pump It Up" was, I think, the next song played, and the crowd went nuts, as though he had finally gotten to the hit song. I smiled to myself a little (okay, a lot), though it gave me a LOT of cause to think about how true Costello's words were, and just how much power over the careers of people and the path of music programmers held. After the show, I was one of fifty or so people waiting at the stage exit door to get an autograph. When Elvis finally left the building to our delight, I handed a record to him for an autograph, and quickly said, "I'm the FM programmer in town. I chose not to play 'Radio Radio' and picked 'Pump It Up' to play instead." I swear it, Costello looked at me with a little sly smile and said, "Well done." It's as vindicated as I've ever felt in my life.

New wave also put me in a position to do what I feel are two of the best interviews of my journalism career (neither of which I have any access to at this point; I was a really, really REALLY lousy archivist in my youth). I was writing for an alternative/new wave mag at the time, and through them got to sit face to face with Mark Mothersbaugh and Gerald Casale of Devo. They were intelligent, insightful, hilarious, and made for a really good article (and yes, if anybody has a copy of Dogfood Magazine with my interview-based Devo article in it, could you send me a photocopy? Pleeeeeze??). An odd quirk - Mothersbaugh said maybe ten words during the course of the actual interview. If I looked right at him and prefaced a question with, "Mark, I'd be interested in hearing what you think about...," he would listen, smile and turn to Casale, who would answer the question. After the interview, Mark and I got to talking about music in general - as you might expect, he's a huge fan of synthesizers, and we got to talking about that a lot. Ultravox had just released their Vienna album in Europe, not yet in the states, and when I mentioned it to Mothersbaugh, he expressed how anxious he was to hear it. I told him I had it on tape in my car; his eyes bugged out. We wound up sitting in the car listening to and discussing Vienna in its entirety, which almost made him late for the show. I gave the tape to him, of course.

My interview with Patti Smith was one of the highlights of my career. It was on the release of her Easter album, which I still consider to be one of the greatest rock records ever made. A couple of years earlier, she was forced to take a hiatus from music when she was performing live during her Radio Ethiopia tour and fell from the stage, severely hurting her neck (she was in a neck brace for quite some time). I was at the show where she fell (Curtis Hixon Hall, Tampa... opening, of all things, for Bob Seger). Easter was a very triumphant return to music for her, and I was beyond excited for the chance to talk to her on the phone. Now, Patti was a journalist herself early on and didn't have a lot of tolerance for "what's your favorite color?" type questions; I was a fan from the start, and prided myself on the fact that she would get good questions from me. I was told I had only 20 or 25 minutes to talk to her (she was in San Francisco on tour at the time), so right off the bat I hit her with what I felt was a pretty well thought out question in regards to her lyrics and attitudes. She gave me a very brief five or six word reply, and I was crushed. I had to make a very, very quick decision; I honestly didn't want a crap interview with her, and decided I'd prefer no interview at all as opposed to a bad one. I took the biggest chance of my journalistic career when I told her, "Patti, that's a bullshit answer. If you prefer not to talk to me, I'll understand... but if you do choose to do this interview, please give me the chance to show you I'm not just another journalist." There was a LOOOOOOOOONG pause... and then she gave me a very detailed, deep answer. We talked for 90 minutes or so. I hung up the phone elated and exhausted.

While thinking on the life and work of Lou Reed, I posted to my Facebook page, "even though I've been a fan for what feels like forever, it's still impressive and almost a surprise to review his body of work. This man was essentially The Beatles of New York blunt reality." I can't honestly think of a better opener than that.

The accolades that have been written about the man haven't really surprised me; both as a solo artist and a founding member of the Velvet Underground, his legacy as a gut-level innovator has been firmly established for a long, long time. Even though the Velvet Underground was in their time a commercial disaster, the power of their influence extended well beyond the records they sold. For all the change and innovation that took place in the late sixties, VU was the band most often cited by a lot of artists who followed as showing that art in the form of music didn't have to be classy or ethereal. It didn't even necessarily have to be beautiful. What carried the Velvets into history was sheer, brutal honesty in their approach to making music. The harder it hit, the rawer it got, the more nerves it hit and underbellies it exposed... the better it got.

Like probably thousands and thousands of others, I've gone back over the past few days and allowed myself the pleasure of revisiting Reed's catalog of work with my ears and eyes. The passion felt by his fans has been amazing to me, and I've also been pleasantly surprised by the sheer volume of tributes he's received. That gets even more interesting when one looks back on what the rock press said about his work as it was being released; while there were exceptions, of course, Reed for the most part got mediocre reviews on his work, and considering his stature got trashed by the press far more often than most. Even Transformer, arguably his most prominent solo work (and, of course, almost everyone learned because of Lou that it was kinda fun to walk on the wild side) garnered a lot of mixed emotions. Yet, all four Velvet Underground albums that Reed was a part of as well as Transformer and Berlin from his solo catalog made Rolling Stone's 500 Best Albums list... and Reed continued to draw admiring crowds for his recordings and live performances well beyond a point where most artists hang it up and ride on their legacy. This suggests two things; one, that his work was far more deep and complicated than it appears on the surface or on first listen and, as such, takes a while to truly appreciate... and two, that Reed was a poet and artist who understood, aimed at and connected with humanity and had very little apparent desire to coddle the critical community. He was honest for the good, bad, ugliness and beauty of that honesty and, thinking on it, that's the characteristic of his music that made him real to me and undoubtedly to millions of others.

Rehearing his work reminded me over and over again that so much of what made him amazing to me seemed to rarely surface in the media. He has been and will continue to be lauded for that brutal truthfulness of his (and rightfully so), but so much is being left out. As a good rule of thumb, when you find an artist of Reed's intensity, it extends into every facet of his work. For example, the anger of his heroin observations are matched stride for stride by the simple and perfectly beautiful honesty of his love songs. What?!? Lou Reed, love songs? Yeah... he could write 'em (check out "Love Makes You Feel" from his first album) and he could sing 'em ("Love Makes You Feel" from the first album, or "Perfect Day" from Transformer are amazing examples). The same devotion to simple honesty that makes "Heroin" a kick in the gut is not so far removed from the wide-eyed child-honesty of his affectionate forays... and it's a large part of what defines a complete artist.

That's not to say that all of his reflections on love were positive. Since the 1973 release of his Berlin album (one of his most poorly reviewed releases when it was new, by the way), I've had the most extreme love/hate relationship with the record as with any I've ever heard. Why do I love the album? Because, for an exploration of the absolutely hellish depths that failed love can plunge a human soul into, Berlin is one of the most brilliant albums that could be made. Lou Reed has proven time and time again with his music that even in the depths of misery there can be a certain artistic beauty found, and that attitude is taken to the extreme here; it's an attitude that I have to say I've embraced for much of my own writing and photography. Why do I hate the record? Because he did it so well. Because every successive song hits me harder. Because I've rarely felt hurt from music like I feel hurt from these songs. Because it's done so fucking well that it never fails to take me to places I don't care to visit often. It's that... good, I guess is the word... I don't listen to Berlin often; I probably hadn't heard it in a good ten years before listening over the past day, and it's still one of the most artistically brilliant and difficult listens I can think of, perhaps only ever equaled by Joy Division and their album Closer.

And yet, that's just another facet of the day/night that is Lou Reed. You know what else I rarely saw him get any credit for? His sense of humor! Nowhere is this more evident to me than on Transformer. While a lot of the credit for the amazing clash between the verbal and the sonic needs to go to producers Mick Ronson and David Bowie, I can't even begin to think of anybody besides Lou Reed who could have delivered this gumbo of razor rock, sideshow imagery, cabaret production and back alley attitudes with any effectiveness at all, much less made it the classic it is.*** I bought the album the day it was released and loved it immediately... but I wondered for a long, long time if there maybe wasn't something a little wrong with me because I spent as much time laughing with this record as I did thinking about it. I mean, seriously? Vicious, you hit me with a flower? Shaved his legs, then he was a she? A little sing-song cabaret number about a New York telephone conversation? Tubas? Freakin' TUBAS on a Lou Reed album? Brilliant! Made me laugh, made me cry, made me think, still does... and now I no longer think there's anything so wrong with any of that.

I can't think of too much he did in his career that I can find fault with. His last recording that I know of, Lulu (with Metallica) is to my ears, in a word... terrible. But, is there anything so horrible about a man approaching his seventies who wants to see what happens when you collide two railroad trains on a track? Gotta offer my respects for the effort. Even his most notorious effort, 1975's Metal Machine Music, holds a certain dignity within the framework of his attitude. For a work that's generally thought of as "unlistenable" (for those not familiar, the album is over an hour of nothing but electronically generated audio feedback; no songs, no rhythms, no progression, nothing but noise), there certainly are more than enough stories, opinions and legends to go around. I read that the album was an angry reaction by Reed to his record company's demand for another album to be written and recorded quickly in order to capitalize on the momentum he had regained with Sally Can't Dance. I read that Reed defended the work as a serious and intentional piece. I read that he admitted that the list of instruments in the liner notes is purely fictitious and intended as parody. I read that even though he considers it to be a very serious album, he was also "very stoned" when he conceived of and created it. I'm sure we'll never know the truth, and in reality, it's just not that important. For whatever reason, he made the album, he stood by it and he moved on.

That's not such a bad legacy. Thank you, Lou Reed, for making me think, for making me cry, for amusing and abusing my psyche. Thank you for the extremes of emotion you inspired in me. Thank you for sharing your visions of hideous beauty and carefully crafted truth. Thank you for elating me and for pissing me off. I'm thankful I have such a huge body of your work to keep referring to over and over again for the remainder of my own days. I suspect I will do so often... and I'll not apologize for how I react, just as I think you would have preferred it.

* * * * *
***Okay... maybe Tom Waits... wouldn't it be astounding to hear Tom Waits do his remake of Transformer?
* * * * *

By way of a postscript here... I actually once listened to Metal Machine Music all the way through in a single listen, sort of in response to a challenge issued by Lou Reed himself. When it was released and all the critical caca was hitting the printed fans, I read somewhere that he challenged anybody anywhere to listen to the record all the way through and then look him in the eye and tell him it was worthless. Oddly enough, through the swirl of noise and cacophony, I really did find some value to it. I occasionally enjoy true avant industrial music (Z'ev, Throbbing Gristle, Survival Research Laboratories) and this is certainly a solid companion to that movement; it even inspired an idea for a piece I want to compose and record someday. I wrote a letter to Lou Reed care of his record company; in the letter, I said I had listened to the album all the way through and would welcome the chance to discuss it with him face to face.

The rascal never answered my letter.

He started his career as the guitarist for one of classic rock's most successful early pioneering bands, began his solo career with five consecutive gold albums and has established himself as a guitarist, bluesman and producer of note... yet far too many people tend to dismiss Robin Trower as "that guy who used to sound like Hendrix."

Indeed, for all the musicians the rock press has ever done disservice to, Trower's name has to be high on that list. Hendrix influence? Undoubtedly; Trower himself notes that experiencing Hendrix in concert changed his approach to guitar playing, and both players are heavily influenced by the roots of American R&B. But a Hendrix clone? No way, and as such his early label as "The White Hendrix" is, to my ears, a complete misnomer. That's where the disservice lies - it sells him short, much like saying Muddy Waters and John Lee Hooker were both blues guitarists... so they must sound the same, which would be unfair to both Waters and Hooker. Likewise here.

Trower, born in March of 1945, has actually been a working musician since 1962 (!!) when he formed a group that eventually became The Paramounts, a band that included Gary Brooker. They disbanded in 1966; Brooker went on to record the anthematic "Whiter Shade Of Pale" with Procol Harum, and Trower joined his old bandmate in 1967. He stayed until 1971 and appeared on the band's first five albums. Upon leaving Procol Harum, he formed a four piece band that included bassist James Dewar; the combo was short-lived and never recorded, but Trower retained Dewar (and added "lead vocalist" to his responsibilities), recruited drummer Reg Isadore and in 1973, the Robin Trower band was born. Isadore was replaced by former Sly and the Family Stone drummer Bill Lordan between his first two albums; this lineup remained consistent for four records, usually considered Trower's best known work - in fact, the first five studio albums of Trower's solo career all went gold. Rustee Allen (another Sly alum) was added on bass for the next three releases, which got Trower to the '80s. From that point on, with some thirteen studio albums already under his belt and his roots and style both well documented, Trower has followed an interesting musical path that has allowed him to both capitalize on his successes and further explore his love of blues and R&B.

When he collaborates, he chooses his projects well. Twice now, he has worked closely with ex-Cream bassist/vocalist Jack Bruce, resulting in two early eighties albums and another in 2008. The two seem to share very similar roots and passions in regard to American R&B, and they work very well together. Similarly, Trower has worked with Bryan Ferry as both a guitarist and a producer. On the surface, this seems like a very odd match... yet, both again share a deep felt love for similar musics and they work well together both in the studio and on stage. Trower got very high praise from Ferry in a 1995 interview I did with the latter, saying, "I really enjoy working with Robin. He's a real gentleman, and obviously he comes from the same generation as me, so even though we've used our musical influences in different ways, we have the same sort of musical education. We have a very similar grounding in black American music, both of us being big R&B fans. He has a lot of attack to his playing, a very passionate musician."

Ferry isn't alone in regards to high profile musicians offering their praises. On a CD reissue of an early Trower album, none other than Robert Fripp offered the following in the liner notes: "Robin Trower is one of the very few English guitarists that have mastered bends and wobbles. Not only has he got inside them, with an instinctive knowing of their affective power, but they went to live inside his hands. It is the rare English guitarist who has been able to stand alongside American guitarists and play with an equal authority to someone grounded in a fundamentally American tradition... I toured America in 1974 with Ten Years After top of the bill, King Crimson second, and Robin Trower bottom. Nearly every night I went out to listen to him. This was a man who hung himself on the details: the quality of sound, nuances of each inflection and tearing bend, and abandonment to the feel of the moment. Later, in England, he gave me guitar lessons." When Sly Stone's rhythm section hangs with you for years, when Bryan Ferry uses you as a musician and producer, when Robert Fripp seeks you out for guitar lessons... I'd say you're just a little bit more than a clone of Jimi Hendrix.

In addition to his collaborative efforts, Trower has released an impressive series of blues-based recordings that truly underscore his deepest affections, including a 2013 release entitled Roots And Branches (doesn't look like he's stopping any time soon!). His blues recordings garner near universal raves for the clarity, form and pure passion of his playing, and in my opinion he deserves every accolade and more. 

* * * * *

Music junkie that I am, researching these articles is a lot of fun for me, and of course the greatest pleasure comes from giving myself the luxury of listening to an artist's work as I research and write. The thought that kept coming to my mind over and over as I enjoyed Trower's work was, "I really do have to wonder how much the Hendrix schtick from the press hurt his career." I know, I know, five consecutive gold albums is nothing to sneeze at; neither is a comparison to Jimi, but I really, honestly believe that Trower is so much more than all that. Who really knows what Hendrix might have accomplished had he lived longer, but it's not difficult to envision a career path similar to Trower's, experimenting with various collaborations and exploring the roots of the music he loved. Including his work with Procol Harum and Bryan Ferry, I count THIRTY studio albums in Trower's career, and it's pure pleasure to take the time to listen to his chronological development. 

As a band, Procol Harum was indeed among the founding fathers of classic rock, and you can really hear Trower's development through the five albums he was a part of. By the time Broken Barricades was recorded, it felt like Trower had reached his peak within the group; PH was often a majestically near-artsy band, but Barricades was more guitar-driven than their previous releases. Being the Trower fan that I am, I guess it's no mere coincidence that it's my favorite album from that group. In retrospect, it also seems the perfect time for Trower to have gone his own way - I think both he and Procol Harum were able to continue developing more fully due to the split.

His post-Procol work has has blown me away on so many levels! When he goes power-trio, he exhibits a command of aggression and attack. When he does blues, I love his uptempo work for his incredibly melodic and tasty leads, and I really groove on his slow, deep passionate pieces. Now and then (and not often enough for me!), I hear good, funky nods that betray what must be an extensive knowledge of his soul roots (he references James Brown as a huge hero, with an appreciation for Brown's bridge between blues and rock 'n roll). He also does an excellent job of choosing musicians to surround himself with. While I'd love to hear him sing more (check out his lead vocal on Procol Harum's "Crucifiction Lane" from the A Salty Dog album; this man is a bluesman...), I also can't knock his choices for singers (which may also allow Trower more room to concentrate on his playing. I'd love to ask him sometime). It was a very wise move to make James Dewar his vocalist from the start of his solo days; Dewar was at times nearly as responsible as Trower for helping to define that early band's gruff-yet-sleek style. Furthermore, working with Jack Bruce is a win for everybody; again, they meld seamlessly together within an obviously shared vision, making me think that Bruce was a whole lot more of the reason for the excellence of Cream than he ever got credit for.

I wouldn't mind it at all if Trower decided some day to record an album of what he considers to be some of the soul/funk favorites of his life. With his perfect combination of know-how, ability and good old fashioned soul, I bet he'd knock that right out of the park. Then again, as I mentioned before - thirty albums and counting, an ever-continuing legacy of excellence in whatever he's pursuing at the moment... I strongly suspect that whatever comes next will be nothing but sheer delight.

Laniappe

I've seen Robin Trower in concert twice, once in Buffalo, NY (March, 1971) and once in Orlando, FL (March 1995); the first time, he was with Procol Harum on the Broken Barricades tour and the second time with Bryan Ferry on the Mamouna tour. I sincerely hope to see "Robin Trower" in concert some day...

For those who might like a quick little audio introduction to Trower's career, scoot over to Spotify or wherever and build yourself this 50 minute playlist for a peek at what the man can do. This is in NO way comprehensive, nor is it meant to be; it's also not meant to be a "greatest hits" compilation. I picked a few significant points in Trower's career and chose one or two tracks from each of the albums that I feel are representative of what he's capable of. It's a very nice listen, if I do say so myself!

• 01 Simple Sister (with Procol Harum, from Broken Barricades)
  
• 02 About To Begin (Bridge Of Sighs)
  
• 03 Lady Love (Bridge Of Sighs)
  
• 04 Some Rain Falls (Long Misty Days)
  
• 05 Messin' The Blues (Long Misty Days)
  
• 06 Roads To Freedom (Victims Of The Fury)
  
• 07 Victims Of The Fury (guess...)
  
• 08 It's Too Late (BLT)
  
• 09 Don't Want To Know (with Bryan Ferry, from Mamouna)
  
• 10 Just Another Day (Seven Moons)
  
• 11 As You Watch Each City Fall (What Lies Beneath)
  
• 12 Buffalo Blues (What Lies Beneath)

Broken Barricades was Trower's last album with Procol Harum, and it's the one where I feel his depth and influence were most felt within the band; completely classic guitar work on the track I picked. Bridge Of Sighs is probably his best known work; I chose two cuts that show a real diversity in his style of play and writing. Long Misty Days was right near the end of the era where he got compared to Hendrix so much; the first track I chose is about as Hendrix as he ever sounded, the second hints strongly at his future blues work to come. Victims Of The Fury is my favorite Trower album and I picked my two favorite tracks. BLT and Seven Moons were both recorded with Jack Bruce, and both albums give a terrific insight into how much Bruce really shaped the sound of Cream (look for a future Dinosaur feature on him!); these two tracks are an interesting daydream into what Cream might have sounded like with Trower as their guitarist. Mamouna was an important album for Bryan Ferry; the track I picked shows Trower's funky, soulful guitar and really showcases his American R&B influences.

In the early to mid 1970s, David Bowie had been Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane and The Thin White Duke; by 1977, it seemed there was one thing he truly longed to be... and that was David Bowie.

Looking back on his discography, it's nearly unbelievable to comprehend the body of work he released in a single decade. Bowie's '70s was an avalanche of masterpieces: The Man Who Sold The World, Hunky Dory, Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, Diamond Dogs, Young Americans, Station To Station, Low, "Heroes" and Lodger, PLUS two live albums and one of the finest cover/tribute albums ever recorded (Pin Ups). The pace and intensity of that sort of creativity was only magnified by Bowie's own dedication to the characters he created; he was to rock theatre what Brando was to film. He didn't sing about Ziggy and Aladdin; he became them, mind, heart, body and soul. It's no wonder, then, as the decade rolled into it's last trimester that Bowie was exhausted, physically and artistically. When he moved to Los Angeles to record 1976's Station To Station, cocaine addiction also entered the picture. It was clear he needed a radical change in his approach to living, so he chose to move to Berlin; he was quoted as saying, "There's oodles of pain in the Low album. That was my first attempt to kick cocaine, so that was an awful lot of pain. And I moved to Berlin to do it. I moved out of the coke center of the world into the smack center of the world. Thankfully, I didn't have a feeling for smack, so it wasn't a threat."

Berlin was perfect on several levels. Many of Bowie's artistic/cultural interests have deep roots in Berlin, and the city had the added benefit of virtual anonymity for the rapidly-burning-out star. Bowie again: "For many years Berlin had appealed to me as a sort of sanctuary-like situation. It was one of the few cities where I could move around in virtual anonymity. I was going broke; it was cheap to live. For some reason, Berliners just didn't care. Well, not about an English rock singer anyway." A longstanding interest in German electronic music (he often cited Neu! and Kraftwerk as strong music preferences just before his move to Berlin) had to make the decision to live there even easier. All the elements were in place; his own natural brilliance, the desire to continue exploring new musical avenues, being surrounded with a cultural heritage that appealed deeply to him, the ability to be relatively anonymous... and so work on Low began.

It's impossible to put the brilliance of Low and "Heroes" into perspective without considering the 1977 music world for a moment. Electronic music was still essentially either a novelty or a genre reserved for odd folks, geeks and avant-guardians. Taking a peek at the top selling albums of the year shows the scene dominated by either "mainstream" classic rock acts like Fleetwood Mac, Boston, Bob Seger, and Steve Miller or the near peak of the disco and pop soul trends (remember, Saturday Night Fever was a 1977 release!). The closest synthesizers got to any mainstream acceptance was as flourishes in ELP or Pink Floyd albums or the already mentioned near-novelty status of something like "Autobahn." Artists who were using synths to make serious artistic music were few and far between, and those who did were not generally well-known. Bowie called on Brian Eno to work with him for the sessions (pretty much going with one of the best there's ever been in the field of electronics) and hired Tony Visconti to engineer and co-produce the album (regardless of how often it is incorrectly reported, Eno did NOT produce either Low or "Heroes").

* * * * *

I've long been one of the odd folks and geeks enthralled by electronic music, and even being very aware of the influences that led to this album (maybe even moreso because of just that), Low hit me right between the eyes on first listen... and some thirty six years later has never let up. What still astonishes me about both Low and "Heroes" is that both can be listened to and enjoyed to this very day and still sound incredibly contemporary. That's no mean feat, especially in the world of electronic music where falling prey to fads and gimmicks makes it easy for older recordings to sound... well, old. Not so with these releases; not only have they stood the test of time, but a critical listen now shows that a lot of foundations for a lot of music to come was laid in these recordings.

According to both Bowie and Visconti, Low was indeed reflective of a very low period in Bowie's life, and the overall mood of the album reflects just that without becoming drowned in moribund self-pity - an artistic achievement indeed! It's a near perfect example of what a collaboration between the right artist and technical person can produce; as much credit goes to Visconti for the stunning sonic achievement of these two albums as to Bowie himself. This is evident from Low's opening moments; the instrumental "Speed Of Life" assaults the listener with an explosive drum sound that honestly just hadn't been heard prior to the release of this album. Those huge, aggressive drums are augmented here (and for the remainder of the first side of the album) by a virtual jangle of guitars and keyboards; for me, one of the greatest strengths and fascinations of this album is the idea that these songs always sound like they're on the verge of just falling apart at the seams, yet they never do. The tension and passion are merged with rare mastery.

"Breaking Glass" continues the assault, this time with vocals. Even on my first listen, I strongly suspected that many (most? All?) of the lyrics to the album were spontaneous poetry, and researching the recording reveals that a lot of the album was an in-studio creation. That makes sense philosophically; it seemed that a lot of Bowie's artistic frustration may have come from being too thought-out, too precise, and so going into a studio with an idea of a feel that he wanted to convey without a specific means by which to do so would be both creative and therapeutic. Certainly, reading the lyrics to Low shows them to be essentially simple... yet somehow, they convey strong and lasting images, amplified by Bowie's performances. Knowing he was going through a very troubled period, lines like "Don't look at the carpet/I drew something awful on it" leave a lot of room for the listener's imagination to fill; likewise, there's plenty of a sort of vague-yet-specific distance to lyrics like "You're just a little girl with grey eyes/Never mind, say something/Wait until the crowd cries." Even "Sound And Vision," at least the best-known title from this album (Bowie reprised it for his box set release) seems to find him curious and confused about his own immediate future as he sings, "I will sit right down/Waiting for the gift of sound and vision/And I will sing, waiting for the gift of sound and vision..." The first side ends with another aggressive instrumental, "A New Career In A New Town," and perhaps the song's title is as telling as any lyrics could ever be. It's a wonderful bookend to the opening track, once again chunky and complex, everything held together with smoke and mirrors but remaining concrete through to the end.

Side two is a completely different album. Where the first side is seven quick-hit tracks with uptempo leanings, side two is four brooding instrumentals that obviously draw heavily on Eno's experience with dark electronic music. While "Warszawa" and "Subterraneans" both have vocals, they're non-lyrics that use Bowie's voice as another instrument to complement the tone and sombre feel of this music. Again, even on first listen, this was a sonic wallop that I couldn't get out of my psyche for months at the time... and have never, ever completely lost. As a rule, when reviewing music of this nature, it's easy to fall back on the "you'll either love it or hate it" decree, but to my experience, these pieces are a rare exception. Many is the time I've played this side to an initial negative response, only to be told that the moods and melodies have found a way to haunt themselves into memory, and could we give it another listen, please... It's as though the influence of the decadence and inherent sadness that permeates so much of German art found its way into Bowie's head and heart through these pieces. Still, for all the obvious melancholy, repeated listenings reveal rays of hope that shine through the gloom; if ever there was a blueprint for fighting to find the goodness in despair, side two of Low is the absolute prototype.

* * * * *

It's interesting to note that "Heroes" was released nine months to the day after Low, as if one was the child of the other. While I wasn't necessarily surprised that Low received generally good reviews, I was surprised that it found commercial success, and I've long wondered if Bowie was equally surprised. Regardless, he kept pretty much the same core crew together for the recording of "Heroes," and while Low was mainly recorded in France with only a little of the work done in Berlin, "Heroes" was start-to-finish completed in the latter city (in fact, the only one of the Berlin Trilogy to be completely recorded there).

Where Low was an incredible insight into the mind of an artist tired and confused, "Heroes" is a more aggressive approach to Bowie's creative doldrums. It sounds to me like Low was the therapy and "Heroes" was the beginning of fighting against the depression in order to defeat it. While the album is again a combination of uptempo lyrical songs and more introspective instrumentals, the songs seems better developed and more intentional. The ratio is also a little different; there are only three of the more brooding pieces here, all on side two, and even those are framed by two pieces way too structured to be included on side two of Low. Also, Bowie brought in genius guitarist Robert Fripp for the sessions. It was an interesting choice at the time; Fripp reportedly considered himself retired from music at the time the album was being made, and it was actually Eno who called him and invited him to play. Reportedly, Fripp's reply was, "Well, I don’t know because I haven’t played for three years, but if you’re prepared to take a risk, then so am I." Risk well taken and well rewarded; the aggressive guitar work adds a lot to the upbeat optimism of "Heroes" (and thankfully, Fripp did NOT retire from music).

This one gets in your face right away with "Beauty And The Beast." I highly doubt these pieces are spontaneous, lyrically; the ironic imagery throughout is simply too strong, too well thought out. Here, Bowie seems to be almost chiding the clash between his own creativity and depression as he declares, "Something in the night/Something in the day/Nothing is wrong but darling something's in the way... My-my, someone fetch a priest/You can't say no to the beauty and the beast." The attitude of challenging his sensitivity versus his stagnation is a constant theme throughout the album, but in a very healthy "time to beat this" sort of way. "Joe The Lion" has some wonderful vaguely surreal images that still seem to speak to Bowie's impatience with his own psyche, and the side-closing "Blackout" merges some of Fripp's most melodic work on the album with more of Bowie's superb lyrical explorations; "To the cage, to the cage, she was a beauty in a cage" leads to "If you don't stay tonight, I will take that plane tonight/ I've nothing to lose, nothing to gain... I'll kiss you in the rain." Is Bowie using images of forbidden romance as an allegory to his own conflicted feelings about his future? Perhaps the only real nod to utter hopelessness comes from "Sons Of The Silent Age." Philosophically, this track belongs more on Low than "Heroes," but sonically, it simply works better here. "Sons of the silent age pace their rooms like a cell's dimensions/Rise for a year or two, then make war... Sons of the silent age make love only once but dream and dream/They don't walk, they just glide in and out of life." It's the only real blow to the general optimism of the album, yet somehow Bowie makes it work and makes it fit, even considering the confrontational nature of the rest of the album.

All this, of course, is sandwiched around the album's iconic title track. "Heroes" is a performance that is even unique to Bowie's own storied and chameleonic legacy. Besides the power of the images (lovers in the shadow of the oppression of a wall, THE wall) his vocal work conveys everything from storytelling to hope to desperation. Contrast the optimism of the opening verse, where Bowie the Storyteller shares with near serenity that "We can be heroes, just for one day" with the climax of the song, where's he's pleading with himself and his lover, now nearly shrieking, "And the shame was on the other side/Oh, we can beat them, for ever and ever/Then we could be heroes, just for one day." It's almost the same lyric, but the meaning is so very different; it goes from a coo into a lover's ear to becoming an anthematic slogan for lovers who must fight for that love against all odds. Calling it Bowie's most powerful performance is probably an injustice, as he's had so many, but you'll be hard pressed to find this much emotion wrung out of words presented anywhere by anyone.

As with Low, side two is a different sort of album, though not as radically different as the first time around. "V-2 Schneider" is an instrumental, but sounds almost playful by comparison to Low (and, come to find out, is a bit of a tribute to Kraftwerk's Florian Schneider). The next three pieces ("Sense Of Doubt,:" "Moss Garden" and "Neukoln") are soundtrack-style instrumental pieces. Still, of the three, only "Doubt" hints at the overwhelming sadness of Low's second side; "Garden" has some Asian overtones sprinkled in that give it quite a bright, hopeful feeling and "Neukoln" has more of a sense of mystery to it than pure sadness. The side and album close with "The Secret Life Of Arabia," and it's an almost cheerful close to a couple of albums so deeply invested in emotional intensity. The tune is catchy, the lyrics don't really mean a whole lot and the production borders on pop-happy. It leaves the listener feeling hopeful and upbeat, and I truly think that's exactly what Bowie wanted here.

Now as then, Low and "Heroes" are an intensely emotional journey through one of the great artistic minds in the history of modern music, and are among the most telling and compelling looks into the agonies and triumphs of artistic creation you'll ever have the pleasure of hearing.

LAGNIAPPE

Bowie toured extensively to support these two albums (Lodger wasn't released until 1979, the first time in a decade he hadn't released studio albums in consecutive years), and I worked every contact I had to try and land an interview with him. I was told he was supposed to play Atlanta on the tour and that I should be able to interview him at that show... but the Atlanta date was cancelled, and with it went my chance at an interview (Bowie played Memphis on the tour; I guess I moved here too late). He remains one of the top three on my list of those I've never interviewed but would most like to (stated with the knowledge that my top three list has about ten names on it)...

The imagery in the song "Heroes" is so intense! It was gratifying in my research to find that the story of the song had some basis in real life. Quoted from an interview conducted by NME in 1977: "There's a wall by the studio - the album having been recorded at Hansa by the Wall in West Berlin - about there. It's about twenty or thirty meters away from the studio and the control room looks out onto it. There's a turret on top of the wall where the guards sit and during the course of lunch break every day, a boy and girl would meet out there and carry on. They were obviously having an affair. And I thought of all the places to meet in Berlin, why pick a bench underneath a guard turret on the wall? They'd come from different directions and always meet there… Oh, they were both from the west, but they had always met right there. And I - using license - presumed that they were feeling somewhat guilty about this affair and so they had imposed this restriction on themselves, thereby giving themselves an excuse for their heroic act. I used this as a basis…"

I found it surprising, especially considering the seemingly eternal popularity of the song "Heroes," that Low actually did better on the charts than "Heroes" did. Low hit #11 on the U.S. Billboard album chart and #2 on the UK chart; "Heroes" got to #3 in the UK, but only #35 in the U.S... Funny funny - Nick Lowe released an EP in 1977, which he released under the title, "Bowi."

James Douglas Morrison wanted to be a filmmaker and a poet; I believe in my heart and soul that if he HAD to be a singer, he wanted most to be a blues singer. L.A. Woman, the sixth and final Doors studio album (I have a hard time counting releases Morrison never knew anything about...), showed that he could have been a brilliant bluesman, an interesting compliment to already having established himself as a brilliant poet.

The late sixties were, of course, well noted for the predominance of anti-heroes in the music of the time. There was revolution in the air, there was LSD in the Kool-Aid and the music reflected all of it. Even for all that, The Doors were a pretty unique breed of anti-heroes. Their music was a revolution of its own; there wasn't really a lead instrument in the band, but if you had to name one, most would say they were a keyboard-driven band. Furthermore, they had no bass player, a rarity for any band, much less one who counted blues as among their many influences. Their compositions were an incredible mish-mash of stylistic influences - at various times, you could hear blues, touches of jazz, nods to hard rock and even classical stylings. Their lyrics had the uncanny ability to fluctuate between pop-culture common and writings that carried allegory and deep philosophical and literary references. 

Then there was Jim Morrison himself, perhaps the ultimate anti-hero. When he made the decision to live his life as an artist, everything I've ever read indicates that he was classic in every sense of the lifestyle - intelligent, extremely literate, a seeker's mentality, a man filled with equal combinations of self-loating and soaring ego, a self-destructive performer who hated his art as much as he appreciated it and was forever torn between wanting to elevate and destroy the foundations of his own music. Add to all that his iconic looks, his early sense of "rebel style" and a voice that could question, berate, educate and mystify and you have probably the only frontman who could have taken The Doors to the heights they reached.

Morrison was a hero to me for his words, his performances and his attitude, and all three are evident with L.A. Woman. The band roared into the '70s with Morrison Hotel, which won great praise for it's rawness and intensity. By then, Morrison's exploits (both within and outside of The Doors) were legendary; in 1970 alone, he toured with the band in support of Morrison Hotel, faced trial in Miami for "profanity and indecent exposure" during a 1969 concert (convicted, $500 fine, six months in jail, remained free on $50,000 bond), played the Isle Of Wight Festival (along with the likes of Jimi Hendrix, The Who, Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, Miles Davis, ELP and Sly... dayam!!)... and recorded L.A. Woman. The band went back on the road to begin showcasing the album even before its release, but played only two dates. In December of 1970, Morrison had an apparent breakdown on stage in New Orleans, slamming his mic stand into the stage numerous times until both were severely damaged, then sitting down and refusing to perform for the rest of the show. It was his last public performance; the band, by "mutual agreement," decided that Morrison needed to retire from performing. In March of '71, Morrison took a leave of absence from The Doors; in April, L.A. Woman was released, and on July 3 of that year, I lost my hero.

* * * * *

What a swan song! If Morrison Hotel was lauded for its grit and ballsiness, L.A. Woman took it to a level not even the diehards could have expected. Easily their most blues-influenced album, the album (almost 49 minutes long, by the way - pretty lengthy by 1971 standards) kicks off with the in-your-face "The Changling," and by song's end, it's obvious that the band is feeling this one as much as they ever had. The vocal becomes more impassioned as the track progresses, and by the time it fades has become a classic Morrison scream-growl. "Love Her Madly" was, to my ears, the only blatantly commercial nod on the release; while the feel of the track doesn't necessarily fit the rest of the demeanor here, it's still a great single... and how good is an album when this is a (koff koff) "weaker" track?

"Been Down So Long" and "Cars Hiss By My Window" were a one-two punch that hit me hard the first time I ever heard them and still do to this day. These two songs were my realization that Morrison was possibly on his way to becoming one of the greatest white blues singers currently recording. I'd always been a casual blues fan, but it's not too much of a stretch to say that these two tracks are in a large way responsible for my diving into blues as a genre. "Down" is an aggressive and combative blues, a classic approach of confronting sadness with anger and resolve, and it almost immediately became one of my favorite vocal performances ever from Morrison. "Hiss" is a perfect follow, only cementing the blues legacy so obvious here, a slow blues, melodic and approaching steamy in its delivery. 

The album's title track (along with the closing "Riders On The Storm") re-established the epic storytelling abilities of the band. The songwriting in both cases ranks with the best efforts of The Doors and, not surprisingly, both have become classic tracks. To this day, they fascinate and enthrall in their ability to take a solid melody and combine that with words that tell a story and paint a picture. Both are tracks I've heard a thousand times in my life, and I doubt I'll tire of either after having heard them a thousand times more. It's worth noting that "Riders" has been inducted into the Grammys Hall of Fame for special significance to recorded music; while I don't put a lot of creedence in the Academy's judgement during their yearly awards, their lifetime achievement citations are generally solid, and it's good to have this piece so honored.

"L'america," opening side two, is an almost surreal photograph, an eerie look into Morrison's perception. This is my favorite lyrical piece on the album - when read, the words simple enough, but when presented against the contrasting musical backdrop (alternating between musical images of haunted houses and carousel horses) they most remind me of the near-mystical Doors that I fell in love with. "Hyacinth House" is a wonderful piece that balances beautifully between classic Doors vague imagery and the blues foundations of the record, enjoyable via interpretation or just simple listening. "L'america" and "Hyacinth" are another one-two punch, and do an incredible job of cementing The Doors' legacy as an insanely talented band not terribly restricted by style. 

I've always considered "Crawling King Snake" to be the clearest view into what Morrison wanted to be as a performer by the time L.A. Woman was recorded - it sounds to me like a man in love with the blues, giving his heart and soul in a classic performance. If you listen close, you can even hear his voice almost failing towards the end of the song, and I think that only adds to the effectiveness. "The Wasp (Texas Radio And The Big Beat)" is another piece of seminal Doors lyrical mysticism, full of stoned, immaculate images and probably my favorite pure poetry on the album. I've always loved how Morrison chose to narrate most of the track; his speaking voice had so much power and authority to it that it made the words all the more credible; his speak-sung lyrics always sounded to me like the ones he most believed in. 

Over the course of years, I've had little arguments with myself, sometimes thinking the order of the last three tracks should be rearranged to "Wasp," "Riders" then "King Snake."  The album still plays well that way, and I thought it was a nice analogy for the band's mindset of the time, highlighting some of their finest ever image poems one right after another and then closing with a strong blues...

...but in the long run, I think The Doors got it right, and that may well be the understatement of the century.

Lagniappe

Jim Morrison was my first ever rock 'n roll hero; when he died, it was the only time in my life that I sat and cried over the death of someone I hadn't actually ever met. 1969 was pretty much my year of discovery for music; 1968's Waiting For The Sun was my first Doors album (which I discovered just before the 1969 release of The Soft Parade; it was like getting two brand new albums almost at once) and I rapidly made my way backwards through Strange Days and The Doors. In high school, I toted Morrison's published book of poetry (The Lords And The New Creatures) with me like the religious kids carried their bibles, and my best friend in high school was the only other kid I ever met who had even heard of the book. We'd sit at break times and scour the pages, discussing passages in the writing and doing what we could to work Morrison's imagery and attitude into our own writing. As a senior in high school, my English and writing instructor was a very cool lady; she was quite aware of Morrison's work as a writer. I thought at first this worked against me in a big way - the only "C" I ever got on a writing project in my life was from her. I was trying so hard to mimic Morrison's style that I went overboard, and the "C" came with a note that said, "Morrison has already been published. If you ever want to be recognized as a writer, you better learn how to be you." Typically, I was mad as hell at her for a little bit... until I realized she was right. In that regard, I'm as grateful to Jim Morrison as to any writer I've ever admired; I got called out for trying to copy him (though I'm almost sure Morrison was unaware of that).




The original cover for L.A. Woman (vinyl, of course) was an excellent bit of packaging. The corners were die cut rounded and the yellow part of the cover was actually a piece of yellow plastic film. The picture of the band was printed on that yellow piece of film, which was glued behind a cut-out in the red part of the cover. I don't know for how long the original cover was manufactured, but later, the expense of producing the cover forced the record company to change it to a standard style printed cover, no cellophane. When I had my record store ('80s and '90s; we sold mainly used records), I used to get a pretty significant amount of money for pressings of the album with the original cover, often $25 or more - a "regular" copy went for $4...

From bluegrass to glam, from folk to progressive, The Strawbs musical journey has touched a lot of bases in their almost half CENTURY of existence. Yeah, you read that right - the band was founded in 1964 and though there have been enough personnel changes to fill a small phone book and enough shifts in style to baffle most musicologists, the band exists, records and performs to this day.

How odd was it for a British band in 1964 to aspire to be a bluegrass band? I couldn't find any other references to such in my research (and I'd be happy to hear from any of my bluegrass pals who know better), but back in '64, Dave Cousins founded The Strawberry Hill Boys. By 1967, however, the band's focus had slowly but surely shifted to their own material, drawing heavily on Cousins' excellent songwriting and strong influences from the rapidly emerging British folk-rock scene. In those days, Sandy Denny (well known for her later work with Fairport Convention and Fotheringay) was a contributing member of the band; they even recorded 13 songs together in 1967, but the band couldn't find a record deal and the album was essentially forgotten until the mid-70s when it was issued in an effort to capitalize on the later successes of both Denny and The Strawbs.

A little piece of music trivia - The Strawbs were the first UK artist to be signed to the very successful A&M (Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss) label. Their first two albums were heavily folk-influenced, and though A&M was an American label, the discs were only released overseas until a double-album re-issue in the States in 1975. The band received strong reviews for their first album which waned a bit with the second; while they played a lot of live shows, their record sales weren't yet impressive. Then the merry-go-round of musicians began. Trying to document the personnel history of the band is a yeoman's task indeed. If it were written in short, you might say that after their second album, Dave and Tony were joined by Rick, Richard and John; Rick was replaced by Blue, then Tony was replaced by another Dave; Richard, John and Blue left to be replaced by a different John, Rod and Chas; the other John and Rod were replaced by Robert and another Tony, though Tony II was replaced soon thereafter by Andy... and that (deep breath) covers the 70s... (Note: there's an excellent personnel history, including a chronological listing and a great visual timeline of the band's players at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strawbs - there are some amazing names there, but be forewarned... it will take you a while to read it!).

Whether it was due to the constant flux of personnel or the incredibly diverse interests of Dave Cousins (the only constant member of the band), The Strawbs released a series of albums that were of consistently high quality and were well received; as a justified result, their legacy began to grow in earnest.  As the founder and only constant in the band, singer/songwriter/guitarist Cousins deserves a lot of attention and acclaim. His talents as both a performer and composer (obviously) span a lot of styles; as a vocalist, he can effectively use a very nasal style which would lend itself to a bluegrass band (and having heard some of the early recordings, they would have been a very good bluegrass outfit), can softly intone a gentler ballad full of emotion or can summon up power and passion when the mood and/or topic of the song needs such. Of course, those vocal talents would be less impressive without superb material to interpret, and Cousins has delivered more than his share of classic tracks to the world of music, another factor in being able to seal his and the band's longevity. It's always nice to have a wealth of acclaimed material to fall back on when you take it back out on the highway.

Once the 70s (and their most successful era, at least as public figures) had passed, the band remained generally active and creative. They essentially disbanded right around 1980, but reunited for an appearance on a Rick Wakeman television show (he's the "Rick" referenced above, by the way), which further resulted in an invitation to reform and headline the 1983 Cambridge Folk Festival. They did, and it was still a very good band. While they never again reached the heights of popularity they achieved during their classic years, the group gigged and recorded occasionally from that point forward. In 1993, they staged a "25th Anniversary Tour" in the UK, had something of a quiet period after that, reprised the success with a "30th Anniversary" bash in 1998 (which I would have LOVED to have seen - several of the bands noted line-ups performing outside on the same day... dayam!), and have, again, toured and recorded with some regularity since. Besides the obvious talent involved, The Strawbs have used their diversity to great results as well; they now perform in two distinct versions, an electric band (essentially the mid to late '70s version of the band) and as an acoustic trio. Since 2006, both versions of the band have toured, they've recorded and released albums and DVDs, they celebrated a 40th Anniversary, and show little sign of losing the desire and ability to continue enchanting a very devoted group of fans.

I'm admittedly one of those fans. I became aware of The Strawbs in the midst of what most consider their classic period, the vintage '70s material. In truth, for my money, the Strawbs had a four album run that rivals ANY in the recorded history of rock or classic rock - From The Witchwood (1971), Grave New World (1972), Bursting At The Seams (1973) and Hero And Heroine (1974) is a quartet of releases almost unmatched for that or any other era. Back when I was having to record my albums to cassette to listen to in the car, I would often make custom "best of" compilations of bands for road listening; when I tried to make a Best Of The Strawbs tape, I found that I wanted to use all but three or four songs from those four brilliant albums... so heck with it, I just taped them in their entirety, and was forever glad I did. This was the era that saw probably the greatest diversity in showcasing their talents. From The Witchwood ("A Glimpse Of Heaven," "The Hangman And The Papist") was right at the tail end of their first folksy era; Grave New World ("Benedictus," "Heavy Disguise") confused critics with a more powerful and produced sound - are they rock? Progressive? What's going on here? Bursting At The Seams ("Lady Fuschia," "Part Of The Union," "Tears And Pavane") continued in the neo-progressive trend, though still with doses of folk and mythical imagery; Hero And Heroine ("Shine On Silver Sun," "Round And Round," and the title track) took it a logical step further, merging synthesizers to great effect. This quartet of albums runs the gamut from powerful to gentle, from subtle and allegorical to bluntly aggressive accusation. 

Then, now, and hopefully always, I put The Strawbs on my short list of Favorite Bands Ever.

Difficult as it is to believe, Buddy Guy hasn't always been a household name. For nearly forty years, he was one of the best and most in-demand studio guitarists in the world of blues. Then, on the heels of an oft-repeated quote from Eric Clapton and an album that finally got Guy his much deserved notoriety, he became... well, Buddy Guy! This article was originally published on September 20, 1991 and was based on an interview I conducted with Buddy about a week before that.

Buddy Guy

Until recently, George "Buddy" Guy might easily have been called "the greatest unknown guitarist in the world," but on the heels of one of the smokin'-est blues albums in memory and nearly forty years of live and studio work... well, it seems that Buddy Guy is finally an overnight success!

Born in Louisiana in 1936, he was already gigging in local blues bars at the tender age of 17. A few years later, he relocated to Chicago in order to better showcase his talents and "take on all comers." Quickly befriended by Muddy Waters, he soon made his mark as the most in-demand guitarist in Chicago, recording with the likes of Howlin' Wolf, Sonny Boy Williamson and nearly every bluesman of the era whose name has been elevated to legendary status. "Whenever somebody would make an album, they'd always say 'just get me Buddy,'" he recalls."They knew when they called me that I would come in and do what they wanted, which was to play good but not get in their way."

The experience of playing with such a wide variety of talent helped define his own creativity by not locking him into any one style. As one might expect, Guy became anxious to make a name as something more than a session guitarist. "I was thinking all the time I was in the studio that I'd someday have to get a style of my own, and all of a sudden all these super rock friends of mine were saying 'Buddy, I wanna play like you!' Shit, it took me forty years for someone to tell me I did have a style!"

Like every legend before him, he hit the road. In his most renowned incarnation as half of the Buddy Guy/Junior Wells duo, Guy made a fair living but was never really able to expand beyond small halls and nightclubs. He remembers, "That's hard 'cause you've got to play the house twice and we were getting cut short on the sets. I finally started feeling it 'cause people started saying, 'Oh, they're getting old, now they're not gonna play long.' People would say, 'Buddy, why won't you play?' I'd say that I wanted to play, but the owners were saying we had to cut it at forty or forty-five minutes between me and Junior.

"Now, that's not enough for the fans who think enough of you to come out and spend a couple of bucks. You're supposed to give them their money's worth. That's part of what's wrong with our society now. Nobody's getting what they pay for. We had to go our separate ways because I wanna play two hours, three hours a night, even four hours if necessary. And that's working fine for me now."

Since becoming a solo artist, Guy has played every major blues festival on four continents, opened a very successful club in Chicago, earned praise from peers, fans and critics alike... and yet somehow managed to remain criminally under-recorded. The few sessions caught for posterity were more often than not of poor quality, mainly due to a lack of empathy from the people responsible for the recordings. "I never got a chance to play my own ideas," elaborates the guitarist. "Throughout my career, I was in the studio doing the playing, but the producers in charge of making the records pretty much controlled everything. I lost a lot by not saying, 'Forget you. I'm playing Buddy or nothing at all.' I never did do that. Some guy would tell me to sound just like any of the other people playing, and I knew that just wasn't gonna make it, but I never did anything about it."

Finally, after years of lamenting the fact that he never had the chance to do the record that was inside him, longtime admirers Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck came to the rescue. "I went to Europe to get noticed again and got with some friends who were pulling for me. They put me in a room and told me not to play anything but Buddy and nothing else. Well... I got a few good licks out of it!"

Talk about understatement! The sessions resulted in Damn Right I've Got The Blues, an album Buddy Guy says he literally waited for twenty years to make. Beck, Clapton and Mark Knopfler are among the luminaries who lend a hand, with Beck making perhaps the most memorable contribution on a sizzling rendition of the classic "Mustang Sally." For the most part, though, it's the stuff that blues history is made of - a supremely talented guitarist just letting it fly. Barely stifling his pride, Buddy notes, "I keep hearing good things about my album, which has never happened before. I don't know... if I keep hearing all this, I think I'm gonna start getting excited." Is the end result everything he had hoped for? "To be honest, I know it's good but now I've gone and gotten superstitious. I refuse to listen to it for a while because I don't want to put a jinx on it. You can't go counting your chickens before they hatch. Tell you what, though... I figure in about ten more days, I'm gonna get a six-pack, grab my wife, head to the basement and, well, I'll get my enjoyment out of that record then!"

One might think that after such a long struggle for recognition (it's been over twelve years since his last album), Guy might become disillusioned with the music, but it simply isn't so. "I just don't want to let the blues die," he declares proudly, "and if I can have some hand in that, I'll be damned happy. Of course, after twelve years I was getting a little shaky. I was getting kind of nervous, but I wasn't gonna quit playing. I still had my fans inviting me to New York or Europe or Japan or Australia, and I was thinking that I could help keep it all alive by that means, by playing for a lot of people. I'm not afraid to tell anyone, 'If you don't want to like me, don't come see me,' because I intend to make you like me. That's what I've always tried to do in person. I try to blow you outta there if you come to see me. After Eric made the quote in one of the magazines that he thought I was the best guitar player alive - which I don't accept - then I felt a little pressure on me whenever I went out to play. But I've had kids come up to me after I play and tell me, 'You know, Eric didn't lie.' That feels good, and it's just people like that that keep you playing no matter what."

It seems a sure bet, then, that as long as there's a stage, a guitar, a few fans and people like Buddy Guy, the blues will never die. Characteristically, he's quick to point out that he's not the only one to think like that. "I think that we've got to thank people like the late Stevie Ray Vaughn and Bonnie Raitt, Robert Cray, Eric and Jeff, because you know whatever they do is gonna be good and gonna get listened to. That helps everyone. That keeps the blues alive." So in a field seemingly filled to bursting with talent, what does a young practitioner of the blues need to know to succeed?

"Just like anything else, you gotta work hard at it. Don't ever think you're so good that you don't have to play! People want to see what you can do. I still compare the music scene to an athlete. You can have a superstar, but some other guy can be tearing it up while everybody's waiting around on this superstar. You can't stand around, because some other cat's gonna come along who will win a lot of games, you know? I think you gotta get out there and show 110% of yourself. If you believe in yourself and can reach down for something extra to make the downs you're bound to hit into ups, you'll be just as hot as you wanna be."

Lagniappe

Buddy was an easy man to interview. He was personable, fun, and very very humble, and also had a ton of great stories about the myriad of blues people he had worked with. As I recall, my interview with him went on for well over an hour, and I sincerely wished that I had been given more column inches to fill. I also wish I remembered at least some of the stories he told so I could share them here. Upon hanging up, I had an immediate sense of being grateful for having spoken to a man who was a living, walking history book and was genuinely pleased to share that history.

Of course, I had to ask him about Eric Clapton's quote ("Buddy Guy is by far and without a doubt the best guitar player alive... If you see him in person, the way he plays is beyond anyone. Total freedom of spirit.") and it really, truly seemed to embarrass him. He asked as a favor that I not dote on that in the article (understanding that it needed to be mentioned). He said more than once that Clapton was a genuinely nice person and was too generous with his praise in that quote.

The photo is from the back cover of the CD booklet for Damn Right I've Got The Blues. It's the photo that was used to accompany the article when it was published. It was unusual to use a photo from a CD booklet, but we had two reasons for it - first, of course, it's a great photo... and second, the promotional photo we got from the record company was so badly damaged in the mail it was unusable! Thank the stars for good scanning skills...

Bob Dylan has written a lot of songs and made a lot of records. For my taste, this is by far the finest album he ever recorded. Blood On The Tracks, released in 1975, was his fifteenth studio album; since then (if you count Basement Tapes and his Christmas album), he has released twenty more studio recordings. I read a lot of music journalism, and for many Dylan albums, I've seen the phrase, "his best since Blood On The Tracks." However, I honestly don't once recall ever reading "as good as" or (perish the thought!) "better than" Blood. That alone is quite a tribute.

It's probably only fair to admit that I missed out on the early rise to notoriety of Bob Dylan. I was seven years old when his debut was released, and still only eleven by the time Blonde On Blonde (now my second favorite Dylan album) came our way. My earliest years discovering rock were dominated by textural and progressive-ish bands on the one hand and by early hard rockers on the other, and all of my "folkie leanings" back then were eaten up by Simon and Garfunkel. It was already the early seventies when I got around to giving proper homage to the Dylans, Mitchells and Cohens of the world; needless to say, I had a lot of catching up to do. Pat Garrett & Billy The Kid was the first "new" Dylan album I paid attention to while it was still new, followed by Dylan and Planet Waves. Considering his already-glimmering legacy to that point, it was probably the worst possible time to jump on the Dylan train; I doubt I'm alone in thinking that those are among the weakest albums he released. I remember a lot of discussions back then among Dylan fans as to whether or not he had any more great albums left in him.

Then... POW! Blood On The Tracks.

I've read so much about the album; the making and re-making of most of the songs, the debates about whether or not it's autobiographical and/or a self confession (Dylan says no, son Jakob says yes, and I'm not about to spar with either one of them), plenty of long discussions about "Lily, Rosemary And The Jack Of Hearts," and in truth, very little of that ever played into my passion for this record. At the core of it, these are simply beautiful songs, both sonically and lyrically. It's easy enough (and warranted) to talk about Dylan the poet; very few in history and even fewer in music history have been able to wring so much emotion and imagery out of the English language. Blood was the album that made me aware of Dylan's abilities as a tunesmith; the melodies throughout the album are haunting for their beauty and simplicity. For me, one of the things that makes this such an effective album is that the songs work so perfectly together as a whole - it's an incredibly silky flow from track to track - and yet stand equally well on their own as individual songs. The consistency of the album is even more interesting when considering it was recorded in two different sessions a couple of months apart in two different cities (New York in September, 1974 and then Minneapolis in December). 

Several of my all-time fave Dylan songs are contained here. The album's opener, "Tangled Up In Blue," is one of those perfect Dylan classics, every bit as good a poem as it is a song, and the lyrics are a permanent part of my memory now. "Idiot Wind" is one of the best vocal performances by anybody ever; that trademark, knowing sneer as he wails, "I-i-i-i-i-idiot wind, blowing every time you move your mouth..." takes an already great lyric and elevates it to classic. The album's closing tracks, "Shelter From The Storm" and "Buckets Of Rain" almost feel like one song to me; the similarity in analogies and the lilting delivery of the lyrics make this perhaps the best one-two closing punch of any Dylan release.They're two of the tracks I play most often as individual songs outside of an album listen.

Picking my personal highest and lowest points on the album is a cinch. "If You See Her, Say Hello" is not only my favorite Dylan song, it's one of my favorite songs ever, period. The melody is stunningly beautiful and superbly produced, the lyrics completely tear at my heart, and Dylan's vocal on this track is so honest and so sincere that it still makes me hurt to hear him sing it... even after having heard it a thousand times. Conversely, "Lily, Rosemary And The Jack Of Hearts" is the only song on the album I'm not always completely overwhelmed with. It's probably the most often discussed song from the album, and I think that had a little something to do with making it my least favorite track here; I honestly don't care who the characters are supposed to represent, and if I'm not completely in the mood to hear it, it's as close to tedious as the album ever gets. All that said... it's still a stunner of an epic, and to have to be that nitpicky about a track to even find a hint of something negative to say only speaks again as to the brilliance of this release.

Perhaps the greatest factor in the legacy of this album is the absolute timelessness of the themes. It matters not whether it is or is not about Dylan and his life and family; the heartbreak, the hurt, the longing, the musing as to the whys and hows of relationships ending... these are all topics common to everyone everywhere. They're the ultimate fodder for a master of words at the top of his game, and whatever the inspiration was for these songs, Bob Dylan nailed them as nobody else could. It's a perfect record.

Like every generation, mine has dealt with ever-changing technologies; the world is never going to stop getting faster and book smarter. It's easy enough to pick the biggest change that technology has had on the world in my lifetime... computers. When I was a kid in school, computers were some sort of mythical being, huge machines that filled entire rooms and could calculate the value of pi to a million decimal places. Now, according to the popular saying, we all carry in our phones more computer power than NASA had when they first landed men on the moon and successfully brought them back to earth.

Computers evolved into personal computers, and eventually came the internet. Among the bazillion changes this wealth of information (and misinformation) has brought to our lives, the music industry is far from untouched; in fact, it's among the most changed industries of all. I used to listen to the radio for my music education and then once a week, sometimes more, trundle on down to my favorite record store with my saved up dollars and memories of the new stuff I'd heard that week. Picking the two or three albums (and eventually ten or twelve) I would buy took hours; I spent so much time in my favorite store that, when browsing through the racks, it got to the point where I could tell what had been sold in the past week because of what was missing compared to last week.

Now, I learn about my new music from internet radio or streaming services. I still spend plenty of time in music chat rooms yabbering at fans from across the globe, learning and discovering what I can. When I buy music, no car is necessary... just a solid, high speed connection. When I review a new release, as often as not I check my email for my courtesy download code from the artist or record company. From my point of view, radical changes like that always contain some gains, some losses and some draws... so what have we, as music fans, won and lost with an internet-based music industry?

RECORD STORES
 What We Gained
Buying music over the internet offers a lot of advantages. For me, the first benefit that comes to mind is immediacy. How many times in my life as a kid or young adult did I hear a new song or artist I wanted to know more about and forgot the name by the time I got to a record store? How many times did I hear a new song on the radio and love it so much that I wanted to hear it again (and sometimes again and again and again), but had to wait until the radio played it again or until I got to the store? Being a lifelong night owl, how many times did I hear something interesting or obscure in the wee hours and had no CHOICE but to wait until a new day to explore it further? I'm not a patient human being, and especially when it comes to my voracious appetite for music, when I want something, I want it now. For those of us who are fanatic and impatient, music over the internet is a huge plus.

For someone like myself who isn't going to find most of what I enjoy listening to at Wal-Mart, the 'net offers another huge plus - I can actually find the music I want without having to "special order it" from my local store... and then wait (see impatience above). There's really no economically viable way even the superstores of the era could stock everything I loved to hear and wanted to buy. I was well known enough at my favorite store to have gotten into a routine during my frequent visits; greeting, special orders that had come in since my last visit, check the stock and make my selections, place this visit's special orders, farewell. For fans of music that is outside of the mainstream or on obscure little labels or can only be gotten from Ireland or Thailand or what have you, again... music over the internet is a huge plus.

Those two points, to me, are the strongest positives on 'net music. There's a couple of other relevant points worth considering - portability and economy. I survived and found relief in the conversion of music from vinyl to CD; I don't know if you've ever had the "pleasure," but when moving, having to deal with a vinyl collection approaching ten thousand pieces was less than fun. They were heavy. They were bulky... and, of course, storage was a constant problem, both in finding the room for them and in constantly building shelves to store and support the heavy mess (though I must admit - my carpentry skills soared for all those years of having to build more and stronger storage shelves). CDs were a huge improvement... they took about a quarter of the space, which made storing and moving easier (though I had to redesign my shelves... yeesh...), and you could play them in your car! The cash I saved on blank tape alone made CDs very, very welcome in my life. For me, music going digital is an even greater improvement. My music collection has gone from transporting and storing ten to fifteen thousand still somewhat bulky CDs to a dozen hard drives and a few hundred DVDs (stored in paper sleeves) for backup, a hundred or so albums to a disc. Convenience? When I want to hear something, I check my little cross-reference on my desktop, find what I want and drop a folder into iTunes. My entire friggin' collection is available to me at home, walking, driving, riding a bike, in my room, on a highway, in a forest... anywhere, any time. Economy comes from a couple of angles; if you're a "careful computer person," you buy the digital files once and have it forever. It won't scratch, it won't melt in the sun, it won't chip, it sounds as good after a thousand plays as it did the first time... in short, you buy it once and that's it, and I'd much rather buy new music than replace a beat up copy of an old favorite. The fact that you can use the same format anywhere you go is huge for me; as I already mentioned, blank tape used to make a serious dent into my new music budget. Finally, even from a very, very dedicated "albums" person like myself, it's nice every now and then to just buy the one song off an album I like without having to spend my cash on the rest of a disc I find to be essentially worthless.

What We Lost
The biggest thing gone from internet buying is the personal touch, the influence of trusted humans on learning about music. I've experienced this from both sides of the counter. When I was learning about music and well into my "experienced" years, I always chose my favorite stores on two criteria - the selection and the store clerks. There was a huge advantage to getting yourself known at your favorite store. How many times growing up did I walk into "my store" on weekly trips, see an interesting album cover, hold it up to a clerk who knew my buying habits and tastes and counted on a yea or nay opinion? How many times did a complete stranger come to me in a store and say, "I heard you asking about such-and-such. I'm familiar with that... if you like this and that, you'll probably enjoy it a lot... and if you like that, try these." I made a lot of friends that way, both by being on the receiving and giving end of such kindnesses. At the time in my life when I owned a record store for a dozen years, I learned from the other side how much I was counted on by a lot of folks to guide them along their musical journey. It was gratifying to learn that I really wasn't the only one with fondnesses for certain artists, and even more gratifying to learn that others, so many others, were hungry for something they've never heard before. I made friends as a music buyer, and as a merchant, I made friends and sometimes even formed lifetime relationships. That's pretty much gone now, and it's a big minus for the 'net.

The other huge loss is artwork, and it followed a similar progression during the transition from vinyl to CD to digital. The first album I ever bought as a boy was King Crimson's debut, In The Court Of The Crimson King, and a huge factor to a fourteen-year-old boy was the WAY kewl artwork! At the time, part of my allowance was one new album a week when I went to the mall store with my mom (TALK about agonizing decisions!); as as often as not, artwork played a huge part in my buying decisions. While that can have disadvantages - there are clunkers with cool covers - it also didn't take me long to master the art of "credit reading." I discovered Roxy Music because Peter Sinfield produced the first album; likewise, I discovered unlimited music because a favored guitarist contributed, or because somebody I admire produced an album or contributed songs, or because there was a mellotron on a recording. As time went on, seeing the album artwork for an anticipated new release in all its 12" x 12" glory was a huge part of the experience. We lost a lot when it changed to CD; many of the years my record store was open were during the transition, and once I had beaten down sonic and convenience objections, the last stand from diehards was often, "Well... I like the bigger and better artwork." I had no comeback for that, still don't. I very much miss the days of the peel-off banana album cover from the Velvet Underground; I miss the zipper on the cover of the Stones Sticky Fingers album; I miss gatefolds, I miss the subtleties and intricacies of Roger Dean and Hipgnosis. Even worse with digital... I miss having artwork at all! As a consumer, I feel like I lost a huge part of the album creation process when there's no artwork involved... and reading text files for credits somehow just doesn't feel the same (and as a reviewer, that's if I get credits at all... I hate having to beg and plead for recording information...). Artwork? We lost bigtime from that point of view.

RADIO
What We Gained
The biggest assets we get from internet based radio/streaming are diversity and MUCH easier access to obscure music. Traditional radio pretty much had to have a format; you had to be classic rock, country, top 40, jazz, whatever - you were, for financial reasons, targeting a specific audience and as such had to build your entire personna and presentation around a single, sometimes narrow genre of music. Putting an old school radio station on the air was an expensive and complicated process, and the financial, technical and legal commitments it took demanded that radio programming be targeting to generate some ad revenue. This hurt diversity in a couple of ways; first, it was more difficult for unusual and/or obscure music to get airplay. It happened; Frank Zappa and Captain Beefheart got played and admired, but it was an exception and hardly a rule. Speaking strictly about my first radio love, classic and album-oriented rock, if you enjoyed Frank Zappa, you were NOT going to be led to The Residents by the radio; the former had earned grudging respect, the latter was just WAY to weird to risk losing a precious listener to a dial-out. That's understandable; again, radio stations were expensive businesses to launch and then maintain, and listeners were more than listeners - they were the entire basis of ad revenue and thus survival. Internet radio is a lot easier and a lot cheaper to get started; if you want to pursue it as something of a part time hobby, you can get a station up and running in a couple of afternoons worth of research and typing, literally. That's not saying it will be done professionally or even moderately well, but it can be done. The reduction in difficulty and start-up costs allows for a HUGE increase in the diversity you can find when you explore internet radio; using an already cited example, if somebody out there is a huge Residents fan, they can put together a Residents based internet stream for almost nothing. If I want to hear odd music, new music, fringes and alleyways, I can npw do so far more easily than I ever could before. Nothing gets me to shake my head more than those who say, "There's no good music out there any more." Hogwash! Not only is there more good music than ever before, the abilities we have to find it are essentially unlimited, and that's due to the accessibility and ease of both use and setup of the internet. Massive plus.

Portability and discretion are certainly strong points as well. While radio was indeed pretty much everywhere back in the day, we have our phones with us 31 or 32 hours a day, and as such we have access to all that wonderfulness all the time. Discretion? It's a LOT easier to get away with having your music at work now than it ever was before! From the heart of a music junkie, these are both plusses.

What We Lost
There are disadvantages to the ease of setting up an internet station... just because you can do it certainly doesn't mean you're going to be good at it. Not only am I an old radio listener, I again had the pleasure of experiencing it from both sides of the mic, having spent about eight years working on the radio as a deejay. To get on the air back then, I actually had to know something about music. I was given some voice training, I was taught the value of pronouncing my words correctly, I was taught how to breathe while I was announcing. I still feel there's an art to presenting music effectively; the segue, the flow, the feel, the mood. It's much easier to introduce people to new music when you make them feel comfortable, and it's much easier to discover new music as a listener when you're made to feel comfortable by the person offering it. I listen to a lot of internet radio, and while there are certainly incredible exceptions to this, I hear a LOT of bad radio, a lot of bad presentation. Not everybody has what it takes to be a "radio personality," and I find myself more often than not getting annoyed and in extreme cases angered at what is being passed off as radio. Misinformation about the music, opinions being presented as fact, choppy and inconsistent presentation and scheduling; all are factors that indicate to me that 'net radio is very much in its infancy yet and has a long, long, long way to go.

We've certainly lost a sense of cohesive familiarity. I was born in Rochester, NY, which is where my earliest fascinations with music began. Quickly, I latched on to the local album rock/old hippie station; I furthered my knowledge about The Rolling Stones and Creedence Clearwater Revival, and I learned about Santana and The Dead and Savoy Brown and It's A Beautiful Day. When I was fifteen, my family relocated to Orlando, Florida; that's a serious uproot for a boy in the summer between his sophomore and junior years of high school. SO many adjustments to be made in culture and weather and trying desperately to find a new set of friends... BUT! I quickly found the album rock/old hippie station in the area, and while they had their own style and flair, they made shifting my life from Point A to Point B a much smoother and easier transition. Why? I had a focus point. I still got to learn about San Francisco bands and Woodstock bands, AND I still heard the foundations of my musical past. That was a time when, as rock and roll kids, there were only two distinctions - were you AM or FM? It was an important distinction... if you were AM, you were a bopper and it was an early indicator that you probably weren't going to be on my "A": list for making pals. If you were FM, we had a lot more common ground and at least one important thing to talk about and bond us - our music. Losing that is a huge minus.

With new technology always comes new ways to cheat the artists that make it possible, and the internet has provided more than it's share  of new cheats that hurt musicians. Everyone knows the artistic horrors of pirated downloads, from the early days of Napster to file sharing services and beyond - never has it been easier to swipe music and make it even more difficult for artists to pay their bills. The extension of that comes from 'net radio. Part of the difficulty of establishing and running a station back in the day was the paying of royalties for the music you were playing; airplay was heavily regulated and monitored by the FCC and you really pretty much HAD to make your royalty payments to survive. With the ease of getting something going now, as you would expect, such is not the case. There's little guys and big guys who are skirting the system; it bothers me as a fan, and has to be infuriating as an artist. At the very least, radio used to be the rock that paid their bills and got at least a little cash to the artists. It's not there yet, not to the extent that it was. Another big minus.

We'll Call These Even
Some changes bring good and bad from the same point of view. One of those, to me, is the ability of radio to foster trends in music. Using an easy example - when Southern Rock began to emerge, I was kind of in the heart of it all. Florida gave birth to Lynyrd Skynyrd and The Allman Brothers, among others. Obviously, it was a popular music in my part of the world long before it was in many other places, but with the power and cohesion of the radio, first a few artists and then a genre gained credibility and acceptability. I have to view this as being a very positive thing, the ability for a united radio front to offer valid new music to a wide audience. The backside of this, of course, is the ability of radio to manipulate as well. There were times when the right amount of money spent in the right places (both above board and not) bought the attention of radio and mass media; just as a unified front can do a lot of good for worthy artists, so can it also cheapen itself and the music for presenting what was bought and diluting the entire product. That's a push between good and bad.

The other "tie" I can think of is simply human nature. There's two ways that I can see where people would become very attached to streaming services. First, you can look up something you enjoy and explore all the "similar artist" recommendations (some of which are accurate, some of which aren't, of course, but that's a throwback to forever). I've found some really good music that way, and it easily reminds me of the days spent browsing the bins in the record store looking for something "kind of like last week's favorite album." However, streaming services also provide those "pre-selected" menus - listen to OUR choice of the best Rolling Stones tunes, listen to OUR choice of the best old skool funk. That's not necessarily a horrible thing, but it slides very easily into the worst of old radio (and what a lot of horrible new radio has become). I don't WANT The Stones to be reduced to a catalog of twenty songs, I don't WANT to be reminded of only the "greatest hits" of British blues or Southern Rock... and I certainly don't necessarily want somebody else's opinion about it. But... it's easy, and as time goes on, it gets easier and easier for me to take the easy way out. Human nature. Call it a draw.

So...?
On the overall, for me, the ability to discover and own more diverse and more new music than ever before makes the "win or lose" decision about internet music easy - I call it a win, usually a huge win. Yes, there are disadvantages, but there were serious disadvantages to the old ways as well. Nothing is perfect; we take what's made available to us and use it to our best ends, and these days, technology has made it easier than ever for me, personally, to feed my eternal new music jones.

So yeah... I win!

Lagniappe
I wrote this darned post three times before posting it, that coming on the heels of thinking this would be a really easy article to write. The first two times I chucked the results because I felt I did a poor job of being a journalist; my purpose was to try and make this an exploration of what the collective "we" gained and lost, and I found that I had way too much "I" in there the first time. It was difficult, because as I mentioned - in both retail and radio, I experienced it from both sides of the coin. It's impossible for me to completely discount my experiences in the industry when I consider plusses and minuses... but I have to say, if I factor in all the astonishing experiences and memories that came as a result of being on the air AND a record store owner, well... I, personally, have lost a lot. "We" win, and in a lot of ways, "I" win... but it does make me a little sad to think of some of the things that are probably lost to me forever.

I also had to do a re-write on this because of an emerging idea for another post. Originally, I had worked a lot of thoughts into this one as to how the internet has completely changed the music business model from an artist's point of view as well as a fan's. It got to be too much for one post... so I've begun working on an entirely new post regarding the change in the industry from the artist's view. I'm contacting some of the people I know in the industry to sample their thoughts and opinions; I think it will be a good read when it's done, and you know I'm not shy... I'll let you know when it's ready!

Ah, the Sixties... so many changes in the world, and of course so many changes in the world of music. The business model of the industry never stops evolving, and among the biggest changes of that decade was how albums were perceived. The Beatles are an easy example; when their career started, albums were essentially collections of singles, almost as though each release was a "greatest hits" compilation on its own. By the time the Summer of Love rolled around, the band was putting time and thought into the concept and execution of the album as a legitimate and important part of their artistry... and from Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band onward, the argument can easily be made that a complete reversal in attitude had taken place; the albums were made with an eye to consistency and solidarity of presentation and the singles were chosen after. The change was so complete that names like George Martin and Jimmy Miller became as important and, in many places, as well known in the industry as those of the recording artists themselves. Picking the right producer for ambitious album projects became an essential part of the creative process as well as pretty popular gossip for the rock press back then.

When you start taking about studio masterpieces of the Sixties, Pet Sounds from the Beach Boys (released May 1966, produced by Brian Wilson) and Sgt. Pepper (released June 1967, produced by George Martin) come immediately to mind, and for all the right reasons. Fans and rock historians often rank them as numbers one and two on those "Best Albums Ever" lists... and depending upon your definition of "fun," it can be interesting to put a couple of proponents of either album in a room and let them argue it out as to which album is the better of the two. For me and many others, the contributions of those two classics did not stop with their release, instead proving that the creative potential of rock 'n roll had hardly even been touched. As sights got set higher and recording (and budget) boundaries were stripped away, plenty of other masterpieces were recorded. Two of my personal favorites from the era were Forever Changes from Love and Music In A Doll's House from Family.

Love
Forever Changes
Released November 1967
Produced by Bruce Botnick and Arthur Lee

Shew! Researching the history of Love, with the apparent unpredictability of founder/leader Arthur Lee and the constant personnel changes throughout the history of the band makes it almost impossible to even think of them as an outfit that could have created one of the best albums ever recorded... but that's exactly what happened. Forever Changes was the third album recorded from the Los Angeles-based band who were starting to make a name for themselves with memorable songs like "My Little Red Book" and "7 And 7 Is." Those who prefer their bands to have neat and easy identification labels had to stray far, far away from Love; their music was categorized with such diverse labels as rock and roll, garage, psychedelic or psycho-folk... and honestly, every one of those labels actually fit various aspects of the band's music. This diversity/schitzophrenia is, in my opinion, a large part of the reason why Forever Changes remains a classic recording to this day.

Artistically and aesthetically, the album goes right for the throat immediately, opening with "Alone Again Or," still the album's best-known track. The opening guitar riff is as catchy as it gets with it's sort-of-flamenco flavoring, and pretty soon all those categories and influences seem to converge at once. The song title and lyrics speak to their psychedelic influences; the folk influence is obvious with the melody and the absolute killer vocal harmonies and the subtle-yet-essential string and horn flourishes pull us in and let us know that we're at the start of a very well crafted ride here. Reading that description sounds like the track could be cacophony, but it's as perfect an integration of elements as you'll ever hear. That's essentially the greatest strength of this release - the near-seamless integration of what could be clashing elements in most situations.

Forever Changes also benefits from a superb variety of hooks in the individual tracks. "A House Is Not A Motel" works a catchy staccato drum part into the song's intro and it remains a cohesive element through the duration of the track, including some excellent interplay between the drum and guitar during a late break. "Andmoreagain" always seems like it should be a dismissable track with the schmaltzy rhythm and strings; instead, it lures the listener into exploring the excellent lyrics and, in the long run, completely works. "The Daily Planet" is a very full sounding track within the most traditional rock instrumentation on the album. Depending upon who you believe, Neil Young may or may not have arranged this track (Young says no, Arthur Lee always said yes). Young was originally set to produce the entire album but had to back out of the project due to his commitment at the time with Buffalo Springfield; frankly, that fact alone makes me believe Young did arrange the track, since it's not very far removed from sounding like a Springfield effort. "Old Man" (not the Neil Young song) would potentially be the weakest track on the album to me, but brilliant use of horns and strings more than saves the song. "The Red Telephone" is the track that got the most airplay after "Alone Again Or," and it completely deserved it. This piece again draws heavily on their folksy side with typically understated and brilliant vocals, complemented by one of the sweetest string arrangements I've ever heard in a rock song. There's a little touch of psychedelia at the end, and as the track fades away, it remains a permanent etch in your head.

Side two (on the original release) began with "Maybe The People Would Be The Times Or Between Clark And Hilldale;" the song is far too good to need such a clumsy title. More superb guitar and vocal work, more outstanding accents from strings and horns, and... yawn... just another brilliant piece of work. The only moment that annoys me at all on the album is the opening line from "Live And Let Live" - I've never been terribly interested in hearing about snot caked against somebody's pants, but truly, if it's the only weak moment on an album, I can forgive it. I love the interaction between the guitar, harpsichord and vocals on this track - with the exception of the one annoying line, it's another beaut. "The Good Humor Man He Sees Everything Like This" harkens back to "Andmoreagain," taking what could in weaker hands be a forgettable track and making it interesting and vital (though a very strange horn ending that sounds like a mistake always made it a tough song to mix out of on the air). "Bummer In The Summer" contains my favorite vocal performance on the album (and that's going some) - the rhythm and style of the vocal actually reminds me of Bob Dylan, which matches the very folksy stylings of the tune. "You Set The Scene" finishes the original release in flawless fashion. The opening riff is a fantastic bookend to "Alone Again Or," the tune is uptempo catchy, there's a cello accent that melts me every time I hear it and I've never really had any idea why this wasn't the third classic track on the release; at times, it is often my favorite track on the album, but then again, at times any of them are.

As a general rule in my life, I've grown very wary of extra tracks on the "expanded version" releases of classics. Usually, it's pretty obvious why the extra tracks didn't make it to the original, and in fact I can only think of two examples off the top of my head where the extra tracks were welcome to me in the long run - the Rolling Stones' Exile On Main Street and this album. Two alternate mixes, a "tracking session highlight," an outtake, a demo of an unreleased tune and the A and B sides of a followup single that never made it to an album before are mostly welcome additions to the album's legacy.... and legacy is a well-chosen word here. Oddly enough, upon it's release it was a commercial flop; even for the attention "Alone Again Or" got, even for good reviews, even on the heels of two previous albums that sold better than this one, it showed terribly on the American charts (though it did much better overseas, where is was embraced as a work of genius almost immediately). I can only speculate as to why; Lee's growing reputation of being difficult to work with may have scared off promoters... maybe he was uncooperative when it came time to doing legwork for the album... drug problems had begun to infiltrate the band, and personnel changes were coming on a seemingly daily basis... Regardless, the album initially tanked, but history has been very kind to it. Rolling Stone ranked it at number 40 on their "500 Greatest Albums Of All Time" list; the album has been inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame and has been honored by being added to the National Recording Registry; overseas, NME ranks it as the sixth best album ever made and has even been praised in Parliament as one of the greatest albums ever. Still, neither Arthur Lee nor any of the various incarnations and remnants of Love really reaped the success that should have been their due. 

Sadly, Arthur Lee died of leukemia in August of 2006 in his home town of Memphis (though his family moved to Los Angeles when he was five years old, I'm happy to call him "one of ours"). While I certainly wish he had gotten more respect for his masterpiece during what should have been its golden era, I'm glad the world finally came around and offered the album it's due before Lee's passing.


Family
Music In A Doll's House
Released July 1968
Produced by Dave Mason (2 songs produced by Jimmy Miller)

There are a lot of similarities between the two albums I'm revisiting today. While I honestly wouldn't say the albums sound much alike, they both use very adventurous production techniques to good effect. Both albums feature very good songwriting and, of course, great performances throughout. A few differences - Forever Changes has a more consistent sound all the way through, sounding more like an album project. Music In A Doll's House is a little more uneven; the album's fifteen songs (totaling under 37 minutes) feature a few genius pieces, a lot of very strong efforts and a few clunkers. Just as it's difficult to slap a genre on Love's album, this debut release (that's pretty impressive!) combines elements of psychedelic, progressive, pop-ish blues, some hints of R&B, even the occasional trace of pub rock. Though a touch less cohesive than Forever Changes, Music In A Doll's House is still varied and fascinating enough to stand the test of time.

I have to admit, I was very much a latecomer to this album's party. Family formed in 1966 and disbanded in 1973; during their relatively brief run, I wasn't terribly aware of their music. The little bit I was familiar with was from their later period, characterized by a more bluesy, more street-gutsy sound than this album. I own the entire catalog from Family and have for decades, and just never got around to listening to it. When I did, I began by revisiting the few tracks I knew and enjoyed, then went to give them a chronological listen... and was absolutely shocked at this release. I kept checking the credits to see if this was the same Family that I was familiar with (essentially yes), and if this album, which sounds WAY ahead of its time really was released in 1968 (definitely yes). As delighted as I am to have become familiar with the record, I'm pretty angry at myself for having missed out on it for all these years! A quick bit of interesting rock trivia; the Beatles were recording an album in 1968, and the working title at the time was A Doll's House. Due to this album being released first, the Beatles changed the name of the album they were working on to simply The Beatles... more commonly known as The White Album.

Like Love's album, Music In A Doll's House jumps at you within seconds. "The Chase" kicks off with an eerie haunted-mansion style vocal chorus, merging smoothly into what would have been commonly called progressive music back when the term was reserved for bands like Genesis and Jethro Tull (and in fact both Peter Gabriel and Ian Anderson cite Family as a strong early influence). Complimenting standard rock instrumentation, you'll hear some very unique instrumentations (both here and on most of the album's tracks) - violin, cello, harmonica, mellotron and saxophone are all used at various times through the album and generally used effectively, not in a gimicky fashion. Saying there's fifteen tracks on the album is a little misleading, as three clock in at under 60 seconds each (and all three are variations on the theme of another album track); still, of the remaining twelve tracks, only five go over three minutes (and only one over four minutes), so these songs are short, sharp, catchy and sweet. 

When I hear songs like "Mellowing Grey," "Me My Friend" or "The Breeze," I get particularly annoyed that I wasn't familiar with this record when I was on the radio. Production values are both excellent and quirky; at times, I hear the heavy mellotron stylings of early King Crimson, at other moments, I'm reminded of some of the oddball attitudes that The Move often used to such good results on their pop masterworks. I would truly have enjoyed playing these pieces in "compare and contrast" mode on the air. On the other hand, tracks like "Old Songs New Songs" or "Peace Of Mind" exhibit a solid knowledge of more traditional rock forms... albeit still with a unique outlook on the production and engineering qualities. In regards to this often being called a psychedelic album, "See Through Windows" is probably the most half-psychedelic-half-pop number here, "Winter" wanders into psych territory, though with more of a Syd's Pink Floyd feel and "3 X Time" closes the album with a more subtle exploration of the psych mindset, taking what might be the most ordinary tune on the album and turning it into a memorable closer through the use of interesting sounds and tempo changes. Track by track, I love this album nearly as much as Forever Changes; there are times, however, when I listen to it and it just sounds a little TOO varied from song to song, almost like it was less of an album project and more a matter of a bunch of interesting sounding pieces that all wound up on the same record.

Still... a debut album? Dayam!

Like Love, Family underwent frequent personnel changes. There were substance abuse problems and there were differences in opinions about the direction the band should take. During their first tour of the United States, multi-instrumentalist Ric Grech left the band to join the new supergroup Blind Faith. Replacing him (in mid tour, even!) meant a very different sound for the band. Throughout their turbulent history, Roger Chapman's distinctive vocals (often criticized but always referred to at least as "unique") and John "Charlie" Whitney's solid chops on guitar kept the band interesting, even as they morphed their sound to a less psychedelic, more hard rock style of playing. Still, for only having officially been a band for some seven years, they recorded seven full length albums (most released to at least decent acclaim), and the musicians who played in the band for varying amounts of time accomplished a lot in the world of music; Jim King, Ric Grech, Rob Townsend, John Wetton and Tony Ashton were among the musicians who were officially band members, and Family received recorded contributions from the likes of Dave Mason and Nicky Hopkins. Mason also produced the debut album, though Jimmy Miller was originally slated to handle the job due to a long relationship with the early incarnation of Family. However, at the time of the recording he was involved with the Rolling Stones Beggar's Banquet album. Mason was a longtime friend of the band and so was a good choice to guide their debut.

History, at least on this side of the Atlantic, hasn't been as kind to Music In A Doll's House as it has been to Forever Changes. When researching the album and talking with friends, I found a lot of people who were as completely as unfamiliar with the record as I was three or four years ago. Prog fans are a little kinder to the band (and this album in particular); on specialized lists of "Best Ever" or "Most Influential/Important" prog album's, Music In A Doll's House generally finds its way to the list.

In retrospect, it's not the album Forever Changes is, but few are. Both albums show incredible vision and brilliance, both helped further the cause of rock as a legitimate art form, and both are albums I'm convinced will remain in my collection for all time.

Lagniappe
Some bits and pieces of trivia I picked up in my researching these albums... Bruce Botnick was a sort of "production consultant" to Forever Changes; you might recognize his name from working with The Doors... The title of the album reportedly came from a story Arthur Lee heard from a friend who had broken up with his girlfriend. When she cried that he had promised to love her forever, his reply was, "Well... forever changes..."  There was, as always, lots of turmoil within the band at the beginning of the recording sessions, and Lee was ready and willing to record the album completely with studio musicians instead of the band. Two of the tracks were recorded almost completely with studio musicians (the band later added minimal overdubs), at which time Love refocused, rehearsed and got back in the studio to finish the album... String and horn parts were the last thing to be recorded, and I read that Lee spent weeks in the studio with arranger David Angel, "playing, singing and humming" the string and horn parts to him...

Originally, Reprise Records had no plans to press or release Music In A Doll's House in the United States, but when it began to get positive attention overseas, they had a bunch of the British pressings shipped here for sale. American pressings of the album weren't actually available until the band's second album was released... While they generally received good reviews, Family was also described as "an odd band loved by a small but rabid group of fans," and Roger Chapman's vocals were once described as "a bleating vibrato" and "an electric goat..." Besides producing most of the album, Dave Mason also wrote the track "Never Like This," the only song Family ever recorded that they didn't write... The band's live debut was at Royal Albert hall in 1968, opening for Tim Hardin...