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subject appears to be a white male, early 50's, pathologically tall/skinny. brain patterns show evidence of a life in alcohol - first swimming in it then running from it. fingers show wear from years of guitar playing. heart presents slow repair, through writing, from being broken by rock and roll.
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PLEASE THE PRESS IN BELGIUM: THE ALBUM OF A YEAR
And so it goes again, one minute it's Memorial Day and the next thing you know it's Halloween, and then Thanksgiving and don't those Christmas decorations go up earlier every year? And, of course, we're bearing down on all those 'year-end best-of music' lists that dot the media horizon at this time of year like crows on a phoneline, all trumpeting their Album of the Year. Well, this year I haven't heard a whole lot of new music, what with moving 6 or 7 times and spending most of my time and money on survival ( a specious accomplishment at best, but that's another post. Don't worry, I'll talk about it more in future posts, made all special for Christmas). I started the year in Denver, where my good frien Simmons shipped me a box of CDs of (as he put it) "Christian Music that doesn't suck".
We, Simmons and I, had been e-corresponding both privately and on a Christian band's message board. I had been trying to convince myself, ultimately to no avail, that I was recieving the call to be a Christian. Regular readers know I have a godproblem, right? Anyway, Carl sent me these CDs that I was unfortunately unable to listen to more than once. I played them all basically in 2 sittings as I packed my stuff up yet again after the Denver expedition failed. I was completely unable to give them anything close to a fair listening at that point and have been without a CD player since. I will give these CDs a fair listening ASAP and will post my thoughts and impressions then and only then. Although I have concerns that I'll be able to get past the 'message' of the music and review it on strictly musical terms. And that's not a problem I have with Christian music exclusively. I'm that way w/music in general, never able to seperate the style from the substance. Actually, the 'musical merit' of any recorded work is usually way down the list as far as my criteria when 'rating' a record. I'm more concerned with what I percieve the record's intentions to be, where does it heart lie, or tell it's truth or whatever. Case in point: I like everything about Marily Manson except the sound of his music. But I still recognize it as great work, 'cause it'll make you feel something, Jack, right or wrong whether you like it or not.
The only other music I got this year was the Kate Bush CD which is talked about below, and a copy of Lester Bangs' 'Jook Savages' I got as a Birthday present. But, with the magic of reissues/repackages , courtesy of a generation who, like me, loves themselves all to pieces, I can write about a record that really matters, at least to me. So without further ado, the Punk Rock Blues Album of a Year.
HORSES: Patti Smith Group
November, 1975 saw the release of Horses, the debut record bythe Patti Smith Group, a milestone in modern music which has recently been reissued as a double CD, the second CD being a live performance of the record with special guests in 2004. But it's the orinal record I know and love and one I'm gonna talk about today. In 1975 I was in much the same situation as I'm in now. Newly divorced and rootless, bouncing from couch to couch and playing in bands like it could save me from myself. The main differences then were, on the plus side, I was young. On the minus side, I had been revving up my drinking problem for about 6 years then and was just about to let that clutch out and tear off into a dark ride that lasted another 20 years. But enough about me (hahahaha) let me tell you how that record felt the 1st time I played it in a room full of Black Sabbath/Bad Company fans who thought I was a creep to begin with.
The opening piano chords of 'Gloria' thrummed seditiously at the edges of my catholic guilt, the hushed bourbon cornhusk voice intoning that 'Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine' spoke directly to the confusion and growing suspicion that, ass the great poet once wrote '99% of my life I'd been lied to.' As the song took up steam, as the garageband genius guitardrums swiveled on hinges of greasy, hipcat swagger, as Smith's voice yelped in untrained but unrestrained passion, my heart stood a little taller. As my friends hooted and told me to 'take that crap off, man', I felt that I wasn't alone. I felt like someone understood. As the band brokedown near song's end, slowdragging the opening lines in a burlesque of triumph before gallopping off into the sunset of Van Morrison's spelling of a woman's name chorus, my whole body, my soul played along on the worlds biggest air guitar.
'Redondo Beach' came on like a new druggy mix of reggae and doo wop, an ancient Uncle Tom and exotic revolutionary cocktail that simmered and swayed like the girl/boy of yr dreams. A sexy song of suicide that looked to a redefintion of all experience, a tune of finding beauty in the corpse found on the shore on which the 'girl was washed up".
'Birdland' upped the ante for everyone, for all time like no one since Dylan. Really. A 3D fever dream of multiple voices channelling multiple emotions all at once, the songform too small for the story, for the tale of life streaming, tripping from the poets tongue and the guitars and drums and piano rippled in waves like a fireman's blanket, tossing the song updownbackforth, supporting the ceremony, supplanting the sins of pride, envy and murder.
'Free Money' should have been a hit single with it's acidlaced bubblegum drive and it's rolling down a hill joy at being alive and dreaming. The song invites you to become a drum, to pound in sympathy with the freedom of the rock and roll song, the flat out majesty of wanting, of breathing and bleeding, recieving and giving.
'Break it Up' clicked and twitched like hypnosis, it's singer calling up spirits, Verlaine's guitar shrieking that the ghost of Morrison, trapped by stone wings to his forever grave as Patti danced in her shoes on all that had come before her; standing on the shoulers of perceived giants and pointing toward a promised land.
'Land' was/is that promised land, the 'sea of possibilities' that calls for us all, but only those precious few rise to answer. Three Patti's crosstalk in wave after wave of beatnik revelation, of expolratory oratory up against the backbeat like a sidestreet where murderers roam free. The harrowing tale of Johnny belongs to us all. Pretending to know where the day might take you might be comforting, but like everything else is an illusion, so choose illusions wisely, hook up to the train. At the end of the day, I wondered then and wonder now, does it really matter if you know how to pony?
'Elegie' felt/feels like a goodnight kiss from mother, a sweetness that can only be imagined 'cause blood and guts and jelly just don't shake like that. The record was/is at varying times, to varying degrees a throw down, a chillroom for the battered soul, a war cry of the human heart, a sockhop soundtrack for the human spirit's natural state of rising and falling and rising again.
A lifelike gift from a stranger that gives still and again today. I'm not gonna tell ya that 'Horses' is the greatest record ever made, only that it is to me and I hope with all my heart that you can find something that makes you feel the way listening to this record makes me feel.
Posted by: timbyrnes at 17:56 |
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