The Dock Of The Bay: The Definitive Collection - Otis Redding

Provenance: When I were a lad, Bournemouth had two local radio stations that, seemingly, the entire town listened to - 2CR FM and Classic Gold. 2CR FM was the 'popular contemporary' station, based out of a rather scruffy building on Southcote Road. It once played a song recorded by my brother's Year Two primary school teacher, and it was the launchpad for Christian O'Connell's media career. Gosh!

Classic Gold (828 MW - burned into my memory banks) was the oldies station. Alarmingly, the relative time periods now dictate that I must consider 'Don't Cha' by the Pussycat Dolls as an 'oldie', given the gap between its release in 2005 to today corresponds with that of the material being played on Classic Gold in the 1990s. 

I have a lifelong habit of leaving a radio on at low volume as I sleep; these days it's tuned to a talk station, but it began with Classic Gold. As such, I now possess a fairly comprehensive knowledge of popular music from the 1960s and 1970s due to it being zapped into my skull in the moments between slumber and wakefulness. And one of the songs I feel like I heard on this endless looping timewarp was '(Sittin' On) the Dock of the Bay' by Otis Redding.

So, when the opportunity arose to buy this cheap Atlantic Records compilation for, I believe, about three quid, I bit. A small price to pay for a big slice of one's childhood.

Review: When you're young and know no better (as opposed to being old and knowing no better), one's imagination - operating on a level of overdrive - fills in the gaps. For example, when I first heard 'The Logical Song' by Supertramp I was genuinely scared by this article of truth, that transitioning to adulthood would render life cold, grey and meaningless. Another example is the picture I held in my head of Otis Redding purely on the basis of hearing '...Dock of the Bay'. Evidently, on the basis of this song, I was listening to an old man, wearied by life's tribulations, probably fated to die a vagrant's death on the dockside. It was much, much later that I learned Redding was twenty-six when he recorded it.

I implore you to bear two things in mind - one, to a young mind, the literal 'truth' is much easier to buy into than that of the performer or fabulist. The world seems much more obviously delineated, and so when a man sings of whiling away the time at 'the Frisco Bay', I believed that was precisely what happened. I wasn't so gullible as to not understand the concept of acting, but both then and now there's an aura of verisimilitude in music that has the ability to wrong-foot me. The other factor is that in the early-to-mid 1990s it was the norm to not know things like a legacy artist's biographical information or appearance. No Wikipedia, no internet, and no guarantee that as an eight- or nine-year-old you would encounter Otis Redding in a magazine or book you might be reading. Simply put, the Voice was the Truth.

Forgive me my ramblings on youthful befuddlement, especially as I grew up and learned the documented tragedy of a life cut short at twenty-six due to a plane crash. It's humbling, therefore, to reflect on how much was accomplished in such a short space of time. Otis Redding's recording career lasted less than seven years.

Yet, virtually every cut on this twenty-track compilation has something to commend it; and the best material absolutely soars. Of course, the moving parts revolve around Redding's agonised, rough-hewn country-soul voice. It is an astonishing instrument that can be deployed to almost any end, whether it's the braggadocious strut of 'Love Man', late-night rumination on 'Cigarettes and Coffee' and, yes, the sleepy-eyed shoulder-shrug that is '...Dock of the Bay'. He is every bit as adept at interpreting the work of others, as demonstrated on '(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction' or his breath-taking version of Sam Cooke's 'A Change Is Gonna Come'. The latter is a remarkable song in its original iteration, but Redding somehow unlocks even greater depths of emotion - the moment he wails "I was born by the river, in a little tent..." the power and history unleashed upon the listener is enough to provoke a physical reaction.

So, we've got one of the most potent, emotive voices of the twentieth century; and on virtually every track he's backed by one of the greatest backing combos ever assembled. Yep, it's the Stax house band, Booker T. & the M.G.s, so we've also got the collective genius of Booker T. Jones, Steve Cropper, Isaac Hayes, Donald Dunn et al. to contend with. Unsurprisingly, every track crackles with an electricity borne out of the band's rare alchemy. There's a fizz and pulse to proceedings, most obvious when the band are rocking and horns are blaring as on 'Hard To Handle', but even the slower numbers possess a coiled sense of energy and purpose. 

(I should also add that, 'A Change Is Gonna Come' aside, every track clocks in at less than three minutes. In, out, job done - every song a little bullet of stuffed with soul and feeling.)

What else is there to say? The Dock of the Bay: The Definitive Collection is an ugly, unwieldy title but as an overview of a career, it's a triumph many times over. Otis Redding's talent burned briefly but with a magnesium brightness. Comedy, tragedy, vulnerability, loss, wistfulness and passion - it's all here. The best soul singer to ever do it? Discuss.

Screaming For Vengeance - Judas Priest

 

Provenance: My ownership of this album is most likely due to the fact that I'm, uh, a massive Judas Priest fan.

Review: When I first got into Priest, they were in the career doldrums. In fact, for those who only consider Halford-fronted albums as canonical (such as I), they weren't even a proper concern.

Fast forward to my first year of university - and the Priest are back, baby! And to top it off, I had a ticket for Arrow Rock Festival in the Netherlands, at which a reunited Painkiller-era lineup were due to headline. 

To prepare, I shaved my head and grew a goatee, just like Rob. I endured a yomp through the Dutch countryside, Hell's Angels who insisted on listening to AC/DC's 'Cover You In Oil' on repeat, Golden Earring and a Tannoy that played 24/7 hard rock (and Van Morrison's 'Moondance') in the festival campgrounds so I could see the Metal Gods. And hey, I made some Dutch friends, drank some Gouden Zegel beer and discovered the joys of mayonnaise on fries (the cheapest food at Arrow Rock).

And, of course, I saw Judas Priest - a live music experience that remains one of my favourites to this day. First song in the set? 'Hellion/Electric Eye', from today's album, Screaming For Vengeance. I've since seen Priest a number of times, but for me, this bad boy - almost precision-designed to be an opener - is their hottest out of the traps. (I should add that in the summer of 2004 Judas Priest had nothing to promote, so their seventeen-song set at Arrow was a virtual greatest hits parade - sixteen belters and 'United'.)

Is Screaming For Vengeance the best Judas Priest album? I think it has the best title. and arguably the best artwork (vying with Painkiller in sheer over-the-top ridiculousness). The best music? Possibly. I have a sweet spot for both Painkiller, being my first; and delving further backwards, I really rate Killing Machine (another great album title, come to think of it) as a cohesive, consistent and badass collection of songs. I think Screaming... just about wins, though, by a nose. Priest have been reasonably chameleonic throughout their career, but as a statement and summation of classic British heavy metal, this feels like a biggie. Other bands had speed, theatrics, guitar pyrotechnics, aggression, songcraft - but rarely did it come together as consistently as it ever did on today's platter.

I'll register a minor gripe - the production sounds expansive compared to earlier Priest albums, but can also sound a tiny bit messy. This could just be me and my warped perceptions of what sounds pleasant, aware as I am that I tend to like the relatively tight, dry sound of a lot of 1970s rock. Still, this is small beer, and in any case when you've got the volume pumped and 'Electric Eye' is ripping out of the speakers, you simply don't give a shit.

Speaking of 'Electric Eye', it's right up there in terms of my tip top Priest ditties. For a band whose songwriting can be wobbly, to pick the sinister, antiseptic menace of remote surveillance as the lead-off to the album is an incredibly badass choice. Halford sounds imperious, the embodiment of some digital panopticon as cymbals clash and guitars howl around him. It's about as metal as metal gets, frankly. 

Nonetheless, having tasted some commercial success in the recent past, there's a rich seam of melody throughout, and the chorus of 'You've Got Another Thing Coming' even veers towards stadium rock. Not a bad thing, really, to mix sugar in with the spice. In fact, Screaming... is a remarkably balanced album in terms of sequencing, gallopers like 'Electric Eye', 'Riding On the Wind', and the title track being broken up with prowlers like 'Bloodstone', 'Fever' and sneaky fave 'Pain and Pleasure'. The latter song really should be considered throwaway compared to the rest of the menu but I find Halford's yelping irresistible, especially when he's hamming it up with stuff like "You've got me tied up / Dog upon a leash." I respect anyone who commits to the bit as much as Halford does. Incidentally, he sounds great throughout, sounding as if he's constantly teetering on the edge of lunacy. Few do 'wound up aggro' like the big man.

I don't really know what else to say; it's brilliant, it's raucous, it's catchy. Once upon a time I attended a Paul Gilbert guitar masterclass. Gilbert lamented that he had a 'Dave Jones from the Monkees' voice, and that he always wanted to sound much more metal, and to illustrate his point he busted out the first verse of 'Devil's Child'. I don't remember anything from that evening other than Gilbert chugging out some Priest. Pretty potent stuff, I say. Anyway, stop reading this bilge and go listen to Judas Priest.

Rise - The Answer

 

Provenance: The Answer, hailing from Northern Ireland, were one of those bands hyped by Classic Rock back in the day. If memory serves, they won the magazine's best new band award back in 2003-ish (NB: I've checked now, it was 2005), their bluesy rock influenced by acts like Free, Led Zeppelin and the like.

This was also about the same time that Classic Rock was crusading for acts like Rose Hill Drive and Roadstar, both of whom I've seen live. I feel it was a time and place where rock music was seen as somewhat moribund, lost in the dregs of nu-metal, neo-grunge and the flowering of chirpy indie that all occurred when I was at university. It is understandable that CR went to bat for the new generation, but I only recall with any clarity two bands from that era whose live act left an impression on me - Airbourne and the Answer.

I actually got to see the Answer at the height of that initial buzz, probably right around the time that Rise was being released. They played a club in Exeter called the Cavern (where I also saw Wednesday 13 and My Ruin, among others), and it was wild. Never before had the demographic skewed so much older, but neither had it ever been quite so rammed. And the Answer? Yeah, great. Star of the show was singer Cormac Neeson; experiencing that much lungpower in close proximity was quite something.

Review: I must confess, I haven't listened to Rise much over the years. Half the point of this blog was that I actually delve through my CD collection anew, and indeed, I really did anticipate a quality of 'newness' to the music purely due to my neglect. And is there? Yes and no. On one level, yeah, I don't recall much of Rise save for lead track 'Under the Sky' and 'Memphis Water'. On another level, it's entirely familiar because the music on Rise cleaves so tightly to all the tropes and cliches of that most conservative of genres, rock music. 

The cynic in me wonders whether the Answer boys set out, a la Def Leppard or the Cult, to make an album that plays well in big live arenas. The tempos are played straight, the riffs are big and meaty, and we never really stray far from the minor pentatonic scale. At all. Consequently every move feels awfully telegraphed, even if the execution is all of a relatively high standard. This is a problem. Go back and listen to first-run 'classic' rock bands and you'll hear a surprising amount of variety; an easy example to highlight would be ZZ Top, twisting Texas boogie-rock into something weird and wonderful, but even the unfairly-maligned Lynyrd Skynyrd have albums full of unexpected touches. These elements, when stacked alongside more straightforward adherences, are what give those bands and their music spice and interest.

Unfortunately, the Answer, at least on Rise, seem to think the juice is found in the other appurtenances of hard rock - volume, bluster, power chords and guitar solos. All of these things are cool, damn cool, but if you build a band solely from these breezeblocks you get Bad Company. Even then, Paul Rodgers might wander off and write a song about a fucking seagull, which would be a blessed relief on Rise. I'm not asking for Captain Beefheart, but the lyrics are some of the limpest I've yet encountered when reviewing albums. Calling them 'cookie cutter' does them a disservice, because cookies are enjoyable - here, we have the most watery, milquetoast sops to songcraft imaginable. I don't even know what half of these songs mean - 'Come Follow Me', eh? Where to? Jonestown?

Which brings me on to 'Memphis Water' - recall that I remembered this song? It wasn't for very good reasons. Quelle surprise, it starts off as a blues shuffle, because of course a song called 'Memphis Water' would. However, my biggest beef is that this lump-de-dump nonsense earned its title much in the same way that Kentucky Fried Chicken's Kansas BBQ Bites earned theirs. In both cases it's a vague groping towards authenticity; KC does indeed have a reputation where good BBQ can be had, and Memphis is steeped in the blues. However, there's a huge difference between experiencing Cowtown BBQ in person versus a side-order to your Zinger Tower Meal from Newhaven KFC, and likewise, the desultory word-associative babble of 'Memphis Water' resembles B.B. King as much as I resemble Bebe Neuwirth.  (NB: I've been to Kansas City, Memphis and Newhaven, but that's neither here nor there.)

Oh, and this is mid-2000s hard rock, so the loudness levels are pushed way past their peaks, which hardly evokes the likes of Sleepy John Estes. Metallica's Death Magnetic and Rush's Vapor Trails are both bigger culprits where clipping is concerned, but this bad boy is a pretty painful listen at times too.

What a shame. I feel that the Answer are a good, serviceable band let down by material that isn't so much poor as it is too, too safe. It's focus-grouped hard rock, and in the live environment that is sometimes fine, advantageous even. Hell, in the intro I hinted that the Answer are a good time in the flesh, and perhaps that's sufficient. Alas, the overall effect of Rise is like being bludgeoned over the head by your most boring relative. I probably won't listen to this again in a hurry.

Back In Black - AC/DC

 

Provenance: No big story behind this one, I'm afraid. The story is that this is the sixth-biggest selling album ever, and it's by AC/DC. 

Review: This one should be easy, no? It's baby's first hard rock record. It's part of the headbanger's canon. No self-respecting air-guitarist would go without.

However, I have been a bit of a contrarian in the past, making sport of sacred cows such as Deep Purple and Kiss. At least I haven't doled out any shoeings as a pose; my opinions may seem wrongheaded to you, fair reader, but they're forged in white heat of honesty. So with that being said, what do I find amiss with Back In Black?

Er, nothing much. It's pretty fantastic.

As a fan, I hold the uncontroversial opinion that Bon Scott was the greater frontman whilst maintaining that Back In Black is the best overall AC/DC album. This, despite the fact that, with the advent of Brian Johnson, its shorn of many of the aspects Scott brought to the band that made them so indelibly AC/DCish - the boozy bonhomie, leery (albeit often self-deprecating) innuendo and a bucketload of sleaze. Johnson is a different beast altogether, a man who sounds on the brink of imploding every time he opens his mouth, as strained and intense as Scott was relaxed and cheery. Upon listening today, it struck me as it never has before that Johnson actually sounds a fair bit like Dan McCafferty of Nazareth, another fella who sounded like he was dying every time he sang.

So what makes Back In Black so good? Some obvious points - catchy, precision-tooled riffs in every song; a big, roomy production coupled with unfussy music; the eye-popping weirdness of Brian Johnson; and the fact that, amidst the heavy blooz 'n' bluster, there can be detected the occasional stab at grandeur. There's a quality approaching stateliness in 'Hell's Bells' and 'Rock 'N' Roll Ain't Noise Pollution', a quality that even the tautology of the latter's chorus line cannot diminish. Back In Black was the first AC/DC album after Scott's passing, and the tolling of the bell that signifies the start of the album pulses with a rare power, no matter how many times you care to listen.

I should also observe that some of the plus points I've briefly sketched out would prove the seeds of AC/DC's downfall as a creative force, even as they became the stadium behemoth they are today. As with Def Leppard's Hysteria, also produced by Mutt Lange, Back In Black is shorn of any twisty intricacy - not that AC/DC would ever be confused with Bach, but this is definitely them at their most stripped-back. It works here, bold riffs against a stark canvas, but on later albums where the ideas weren't quite up to snuff, it began to sound boring.

Likewise, where Brian Johnson sounds quite demented here, there's little variation from album to album. Again, the effect wore off, and whilst a better singer in technical terms than Bon Scott, he doesn't possess Scott's ability with mood, colour and shading. Feel free to disagree with me on this, but I've listened to a whole lotta DC, and these are the conclusions I've reached. Also, whilst commendably keeping the spirit of sleaziness alive, 'Let Me Put My Love Into You' and 'Givin' the Dog a Bone' barely reach the qualifying bar for single-entendre. Still, very good rock songs both!

Listen to me, harping on about all the things AC/DC did subsequent to Back In Black. Suffice it to say, I can't add much to the fund of knowledge about the album - it's there, it's brilliant, and right now around the world fumbled attempts at 'Back In Black' emanate from one thousand guitar shops. I suppose it's remarkable in the sense that it's both an elegy and a celebration, yet never comes across as either mawkish or, at the other end of the spectrum, inconsiderate. How do you mourn the death of your revered frontman? By making one of the greatest rock and roll records of the era. 

Trash - Alice Cooper

 

Provenance: By the time I bought Trash I was already a big Alice fan. I was deep in the Cooperverse.

I will say this, though - I vividly recall hearing the song 'Trash' for the first time at my friend Chris' house. It was Chris who pointed out that Jon Bon Jovi provides backing vocals, and delivers the immortal line "If my love was like a lollipop, would you lick it?", on the bantering outro. Odd, as said outro is structured as a dialogue between Coop and Jovi.

Review: There's a time and place to revel in sumptuary; likewise there exists occasion to ponder the sublime. And then, there are those instances in life where all you want to do is yell along to "And when you hit the sheets you just turn to - trrrrraaasssshh!".

In many ways, this imperative sums up much of the appeal of Trash. The verses to each song range from the catchy to the workaday but essentially act as a series of previews to some absolutely huge choruses. That's what Trash is - an album of massive choruses. There are ten songs here, and I could sing you eight of the choruses, easily, before giving this its most recent spin.

The act of listening again has really driven home this point - Trash is one of the lesser-played Cooper albums in my collection, and I reckon I haven't listened to it straight through for maybe three years, at least. So, the first twenty to forty seconds of every song bamboozle me, and then the chorus hits and I go "ah! It's this one!". Rinse and repeat nine times; if nothing else, Trash has been a gentle ride featuring a succession of miniature surprises.

Now, I say this process happened nine times, because there's no mistaking opener 'Poison', a song so ubiquitous that even non-rock fans have a fighting chance of knowing it. I certainly heard 'Poison' more than once at Student Union nights. It has an instantly identifiable riff, but - whisper it - I find 'Poison' a little pedestrian. Without totting up the figures I believe I've seen Alice Cooper more than any other live act, and common to all these gigs is my impression that the band drag the tempo of 'Poison' somewhat. But upon review, nope, it really is this plodding. But - crucially - it does have a big dumb chorus!

As, indeed, do the next three tracks - 'Spark In the Dark' (maybe my favourite?), the poppy 'House of Fire' and the bratty 'Why Trust You' - as decent a sequence in the mature (a term I use advisedly where hard rock is concerned) Cooper oeuvre as you'll find. However, because this is hair metal era Alice we have two ballads, 'Only My Heart Talkin'' (featuring Aerosmith's Steven Tyler doing that weird 'bum-de-duppa-do-way' scat that I can't unhear) and 'Hell Is Living Without You'. I suppose you needed a cigarette lighter moment or two, despite the air being freighted with Aquanet hairspray, and these are...serviceable, I suppose. By the books, you could say.

Probably the biggest shame is that Trash cleaves so closely to hair metal tropes, including the key change emotional bump (key changes that present-day Alice probably regrets now, given his limited vocal prowess) and squealy guitar soloing. Chief among the disappointments are the lyrics. If Last Temptation is his grunge-light, Mephistophelean Christian rock record (and a very good one too) and Brutal Planet is his belated stab at high-alienation nu-metal (also pretty good), then Trash is his "I'm a good sex man" album. The late 1980s was rotten with performance braggadocio, replete with fire/desire rhyme schemes and almost-threatening promises about what's gunna go down when the bedroom door closes. No exception here.

At least he doesn't quite reach the nadir of 'Feed My Frankenstein', which is on successor album Hey Stoopid (still a great song in spite of its clunky single-entendre lyric sheet). I only highlight lyrics because, once upon a time, Alice Cooper was such a good and strange writer; think of the ground covered on Killer, Billion Dollar Babies or, hell, the first Alice Cooper solo (as opposed to the band) record Welcome To My Nightmare. Cooper is credited on every song - but then again, bar 'Only My Heart Talkin'', is Desmond Child. Now, Child's facility with writing slick, radio-friendly hits is unquestionable - his track record speaks for itself - but by being able to bottle a type of rock 'n' roll everyman appeal, he smooths away the interesting, quirky aspects of the performer's art. Perfect for Bon Jovi and Ricky Martin, with whom he's had huge success, but his contributions dilute the essence of artists like Alice Cooper. 

Saying that, what did Cooper himself have in the tank at this stage? 'Poison' signalled a career resurrection of a kind for, after all.

In summation, then; if you're after the wild and woolly Alice Cooper of the Alice Cooper Band days, you're not going to find it here. Not a jot. Outside of muttered sexual imprecations you're barely able to detect the shock-rocker Coop who scared a bunch of Top of the Pops-viewing grannies in the 1970s. What you will find is well-executed, punchy and extremely catchy hair metal, and I will say, probably at the top end of the hair metal spectrum in terms of quality. It's lightweight fun, but so what? Dump your brain for forty minutes and rock out, my dude. 

Greatest Hits - Molly Hatchet

 

Provenance: Does anyone recall that you could message people you were torrenting from in Napster? Some guy in the USA was downloading an Alice Cooper track from my account (this was around the turn of the twenty-first century, kids), and asked me what else I listened to. 

Being a mere stripling I didn't have a huge amount to say, but on the basis of my tastes he recommended three acts to me; Ted Nugent, Bob Seger and Molly Hatchet. I downloaded tracks from all three - 'Free For All', 'Old Time Rock 'N' Roll' and 'Flirtin' With Disaster' (a process that took about two days).

The Molly Hatchet track, with its twisty turnarounds and twin-lead breaks, was the standout. Evidently I couldn't shut up about 'em, because my girlfriend at the time bought me this - Molly Hatchet's Greatest Hits - for Christmas!

Review: Molly Hatchet, what a band.

I went to see a version of them with one original member (very good, by the way). They still tour today with zero original members. They have a mortality rate higher than Hot Shots: Part Deux, the Hatchet lead singer position akin to that of the drum stool in Spinal Tap. The Frank Frazetta album covers promise blood-soaked heavy metal, but what you get is southern-fried boogie. Bobby Ingram has two haircuts.

Yet, and yet, and yet - on the evidence of Greatest Hits, Molly Hatchet absolutely smoke ass. They're a southern rock band alright, lyrics replete with tall tales of desperadoes, whiskey drinkers and bush-dwellin 'gators - but a pretty heavy one, leaning more towards the Blackfoot end of the spectrum than, say, Lynyrd Skynyrd. (On the basis of their first three albums alone, Skynyrd should be considered one of the great classic rock acts, full stop. Up there with Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath. I'm being serious.) The riffs are bluesy but beefed-up, solos are flashy and trim, and selling all this is a whole load of cornpone aggrandisement about southron life.

There are two covers here, the first being a pretty good version of the Allman Brothers' 'Dreams I'll Never See'. I may even prefer it to the rather churchy original. The other is a  superb live version of cowboy saga 'Edge of Sundown', which was originally a Danny Joe Brown Band number (DJB was the singer of Molly Hatchet, quit due to diabetes, released a solo record and rejoined two years later). Two of the four songwriters were in Molly Hatchet at one point or another, but frankly, having been in the same room as them for two hours I may have briefly been a member.

That leaves ten joints of pure Hatchetry, and they're all pretty strong. You've got songs about the wayward town floozy ('Shake the House Down'), a thinly-veiled car-as-metaphor-for-woman stomper ('Ragtop Deluxe'), a swaggering number about drinking too much ('Whiskey Man') and so forth. Without listening to a single note of music, on the basis of these song titles alone try imagining what they sound like, and I guarantee you're pretty much on the money. The only element you might not have considered is Brown's quirk of whistling the guitar solo in, like he's directing a sheepdog. 

Now, 'Gator Country' is a song that has taken a few years to work its charms on me, but I now fully appreciate it. Virtually every southern rock band does a song about how cool it is to be from the south, or if not, they've recorded its related cousin, having a pop against critics. Skynyrd did it. Charlie Daniels did it. Drive By-Truckers did a whole album about it. In many ways Molly Hatchet, natives of northern Florida, outflank everyone on 'Gator Country' by picking off nearby states (and their associated musicians) and bodying them one-by-one. Nothing like a bit of internecine cattiness, eh? In fact, 'Gator Country' is almost the complete inverse of the Charlie Daniels' band earlier number 'The South's Gonna Do It', virtually namechecking every musician that Daniels saw fit to praise. (Daniels later expressed resentment that the Ku Klux Klan used 'The South's Gonna Do It' on radio commercials - that such a thing existed is, frankly, sad and bizarre.)

Speaking of southern rock tropes - ever since 'Free Bird' it feels like every southern band (bar, perhaps, ZZ Top - but are they really southern rock? Answers on a postcard...) feels the imperative to write The Big One, a lengthy song that shows off their chops. Molly Hatchet are no exception, and it comes in the form of album closer 'Fall of the Peacemakers'. A nice enough tune with a fair sentiment alright, but after forty minutes of shit-kickin' and raising hell, it feels like a slightly anaemic way to bring proceedings to an end. I just want one more whammer-jammer about some narrow-eyed dude living outside of the law, y'know?

Listen, if you like hokum about bounty hunters and bar brawls, you're gonna lap this up. If you're seeking musical complexity and refined sentiment, it ain't here, hoss. Good drivin' music. Good grillin' music. Good for any activity where an apostrophe suffices in the present continuous tense. Hellllllll yeah!!! 

Hot Shots #14 - Get A Job - The Silhouettes

A week late for the Platinum Jubilee weekend, but hey-ho - 'Get A Job' by the Silhouettes is nonetheless pretty apt when the British royal family are at the forefront of the mind. However, I submit that 'Get A Job' can be enjoyed at almost any occasion (bar funerals, maybe?), not just those moments when you're ruminating as to why a nation kowtows to a bunch of inbred ne'er-do-wells.

I don't know much about doo-wop - next to nothing, really - so I cannot pretend to have any great insights. To me, there's an appealingly loose feel to the harmonising; whether that's due to the relatives prowess of each Silhouette or the imbalance in dynamics (the bass voice sounds overpowering) I can't say. Whatever the case, this slightly ramshackle feel is to the song's advantage, marrying up nicely with the hard luck story of the narrator.

On the one hand 'Get A Job' feels reasonably conventional; a three-chord trick punctuated with a bombastic saxophone solo, as was de rigueur. There are glimmers of something else shining through, though - the refrain of "Dip dip dip dip dip dip dip / Mmm-mmm-mmm" stands out, even in an age of zany vocal effects. The "Sha-na-na-nah" backing the underpins each verse might even be more revolutionary; not only is this possibly the origin of this oft-imitated (in doo-wop) hook, but it also inspired the name Sha Na Na. Consequently, a straight line can be drawn between the Silhouettes and the third president of East Timor. 

Another touch that feels modern is the dropout, leaving the vocals backed by nothing more than drums and handclaps. A slightly more wonky line, the, could be drawn between 'Get A Job', the 'Amen Brother' drum break and modern hip-hop. Am I reaching here? Perhaps, perhaps, but I'm hearing something potent going on.

That, for me, is the crux of what makes 'Get A Job' so exciting; it feels like the moment one river begins to flow into another, a mingling of currents. One one level it's simply a fun, wry pop track delivered in a fairly gusty manner, but between the lines you can hear the future calling out. Grand stuff. 

Angel Witch - Angel Witch

 

Provenance: The song 'Angel Witch' by Angel Witch appeared on a heavy metal compilation I was gifted during my teen years. Not long afterwards I bought a second hand copy of the album, Angel Witch.

Review: Angel Witch by Angel Witch kicks off with a track called 'Angel Witch', the chorus of which (witch?) goes "You're an angel witch / You're an angel witch." Suffice to say, you're going to see the words 'angel' and 'witch' crop up fairly regularly in this review.

For the uninitiated, Angel Witch fall squarely into the New Wave of British Heavy Metal, who can count as their London-based contemporaries Iron Maiden and Praying Mantis. One of the bands to haunt the Soundhouse in its heyday, Angel Witch released their debut album (this one 'ere) in 1980 and then took their sweet time following up with 1985's Screamin' and Bleedin', by which time the NWOBHM had, bar its big beasts, largely run out of puff. 

Was it this gap between releases that meant Angel Witch were never destined for the big leagues? Within that same span, Saxon managed six albums, Iron Maiden five, and even the largely ponderous Def Leppard managed three. Meanwhile, three-piece Angel Witch managed to sack their drummer, split up, re-form with an entirely different lineup (excepting main man Kevin Heybourne), split up again, re-form with the sacked drummer, finally record the tricky second album - oh, and sack the drummer again. In a scene reasonably infamous for the shifting sands of band membership, Angel Witch seemingly took it upon themselves to show their competitors how to truly meltdown.

A shame, because Angel Witch is a classic of NWOBHM. Never mind that it sounds like it was recorded in the back of a meat truck - never an impediment in the genre - the songs and performances shine through. Or, should I say, Kevin Heybourne's talents shine through; which is no disserve to Kevin Riddles (bass) and P45 addict Dave Hogg (drums), but this album is all about guitar and vocals, which are Heybourne's department. 

There are a few bands who can lay claim to foundations of thrash metal - Judas Priest, Motorhead and Venom all fed into the sound - but I have rarely heard its precedent articulated so clearly as it is on tracks like 'Angel Witch' (yes, that phrase again), 'Atlantis', 'Sweet Danger' and the outro section of 'Sorcerers' (which sounds a bit like speeding up a cool Uriah Heep track). All of these examples push tempos into the red and are underscored with imaginative lead playing, that frequently breaks off into hot-fingered fret-worrying solos.

Interestingly, you can see the joins - inasmuch as, considering how forward-looking Angel Witch is, the voice of its ancestors ring through loud and clear. I mention Uriah Heep - well, 'Gorgon' (on my version of the album, misprinted as 'Gordon') is essentially the midpoint between 'Easy Livin'' and, say, one of the heavier numbers off Thin Lizzy's Jailbreak. Elsewhere, its possible to make out Rainbow, the Judas Priest of 'Exciter' and 'Hell Bent for Leather' and the Scorpions (the intro to 'Free Man', especially). It's all good though, Angel Witch borrow from the best and synthesize their influences with their own trademark sound. This is, namely, Heybourne's haunted yelp and the superior guitar playing he brings to the party. I don't think there was a better musician in the NWOBHM mix than Heybourne.

Nothing strikes fear into the heart like 'Gordon'

Were Angel Witch able to avoid the tumult that occasioned their frequent implosions, they could have been contenders. Angel Witch is now seen as a classic NWOBHM release, and with its combination of skill, melody and aggression it's not hard to see why. The only oddity is the rather beery, terrace-chant backing vocal on the title track - it almost sounds like, for a brief moment, Cock Sparrer or Sham 69 had gatecrashed the studio. It breaks the spell for a moment, removing you from the atmosphere of darkness and occult mystery that Heybourne so adroitly infuses the rest of the album with. Three years later, Mercyful Fate would release an album - Melissa - which is very similar to Angel Witch, but at no point does it take the listener to the Shed End on a Saturday afternoon.

Maybe I'm reaching, but perhaps here was the seed of discord - the esoteric Heybourne versus his more prosaic bandmates? Nonetheless, an excellent collection of distinctive metal that has weathered the test of time. Now, time to give that 'Gordon' another listen...

Cruising with Ruben and the Jets - Mothers of Invention

 

Provenance: I have mentioned before that my dad's Zappa fandom continues to echo through my musical tastes. What I probably haven't mentioned so much is where we diverge. Although my dad's favourite albums are probably mine, too (we're talking Overnite Sensation, Hot Rats, Apostrophe here), I certainly have more patience for the jazz-oriented stuff. Oh, and I really like 1950s doo-wop and rock 'n' roll, which makes me the perfect mark for Cruising with Ruben and the Jets.

Review: For those not up to speed, this is the Mothers of Invention playing dress-up - in 1968 - as a 1950s combo. It's the music they grew up listening too, but the passage of a decade must have seemed remote enough, in musical terms, that there was mileage in the notion. And the Mothers weren't alone - a year later Sha Na Na would debut with a schtick entirely around recreating the doo-wop phenomenon. In the 1970s, perhaps as a bastard offshoot of glam rock, the UK caught the bug with bands like Darts and Showaddywaddy. And what is the Rubettes' 'Sugar Baby Love' if not a hyperreal recreation of the doo-wop sound? Were Mud, with their matching wide lapels and spoken-word middle eights, a thousand miles away?

(Incidentally, Sha Na Na prove an interesting etymological bridge between the Silhouettes (whose 'Get A Job' is one of the great pop songs of all time) and the first president of an independent East Timor.)

Still, arguably, Frank Zappa and his mates were the first to breathe life back into the 1950s, but Cruising... is a peculiar record. One leaves with the impression that Zappa loved the music, but can't quite come down off his perch to play it straight. That would be too earnest, too po-faced by half. Which is a great shame, because it feels like every time the Mothers get close to producing something heartfelt and beautiful, there's a discordance or sneering that sours the deal. 

As a consequence, the full effect of swooning slow burners like 'Love of My Life', 'Fountain of Love' and the wonderful 'Anyway the Wind Blows' are undermined with a mocking condescension, usually with some silly falsetto or bass vocal. Sadly, these aren't the only crimes to report.

To prepare Cruising... for release on CD in 1984, Zappa (in full control of the Mothers catalogue) decided to re-record the rhythm parts with Arthur Barrow and Chad Wackerman providing new bass and drum tracks respectively. Well, it sounds shit - farty, rubbery bass tones and crispy, plastic and utterly unsympathetic percussion. For an album that sets its stall out to recreate a particular era, to have these anachronistic sounds pulsing through the mix takes you as listener right out of the moment. Bring back Jimmy Carl Black (but not Roy Estrada).

(Incidentally, pre-everything being available on the internet, I saw the Grande Mothers whilst a university student. I would hazard that the Grande Mothers are probably the Zappa tribute act with the highest convicted sex-offenders-to-band-members ratio going. Probably. I even got a photo with Estrada. Sheesh.)

A pity, a pity. There are moments where everything works - 'Cheap Thrills' is fun, bouncy and irreverent in a way that bespeaks fondness, and 'Jelly Roll Gum Drop' is a fizzy showstopper that celebrates the inane potential of doo-wop lyrics in exactly the right way. And hey, it's nice that Zappa cuts loose with an outro guitar solo on closer 'Stuff Up the Cracks', just to remind you that you're not listening to an authentic forgotten relic from the Golden Age (a gag that would've flown better without the terrible 1980s overdubs).

Hey, it's still a decent listen and a bit of a curio, if somewhat ephemeral. Ray Collins' voice is great. Shame that, in places, it's utterly hamstrung by its creator. On purpose! You get the impression that Zappa hated pop music, deep down - and so, that being the case, why should the listener care either?

Kimono My House - Sparks

 

Provenance: Short version - my Dad owns this, and I listened to it when I was younger.

Slightly longer version - I also saw a performance of them on what must've been Top of the Pops 2; and if the recent Edgar Wright documentary is to be believed, I had much the same reaction as many kids did back in 1974.

Namely, why is that frontman singing with such a high voice? And why is he letting Charlie Chaplin play the keyboards?

(Per the aforementioned Sparks Brothers documentary, legend has it that John Lennon phoned Ringo Starr to tell him that Hitler was on Top of the Pops.)

Anyway, great album and an almost automatic purchase on CD, once I'd gotten the bulk of Blue Oyster Cult and Judas Priest out of the way.

Review: The songcraft, adroitness and execution of Kimono My House are so good that it's almost terrifying. Hyperbole? Perhaps, but I've listened to a lot of music, and played a fair bit too, so I like to think I'm not talking out of my hat all the time. I think it helps that I am generally in favour of this kind of arty, ambitious rock in the first place; even better when it has a strong melodic sensibility.

Sparks certainly weren't alone in this era - coevals include Roxy Music and David Bowie, whilst I'd argue that early Alice Cooper (up-to-and-including Welcome to My Nightmare) fit the bill too. Of that group, perhaps nobody - save Bowie - has gone on quite the creative journey that the Mael brothers have undertaken since their first flourishings, one that has taken in glam, power-pop, disco, New Wave, electronica, neo-classical and techno. 

Kimono My House is from their glam era, if you could call it that. At the more cerebral end of the glitter spectrum for sure. Yet, despite their tunefulness, there are moments that baffle as much as the most opaque Steely Dan lyric. 'This Town Ain't Big Enough For Both Of Us' as a narrative or conceptual whole makes little sense unless you imagine it as an impressionistic shifting between scenes in different Hollywood movies. The Maels are, famously, film buffs. Go on, say the title in the manner of a narrow-eyed silver screen desperado and you're halfway there. With such material Sparks create a mounting sense of tension and frantic disorientation. It's their biggest hit!

'This Town...' was the one I knew as a kid, and it's the reason I slapped Dad's album on the turntable. I'm glad I heard that song in a pre-streaming era, as I let the needle run on to 'Amateur Hour', a brilliant, witty song about early explorations around sex. Sample lyric: "It's a lot like playing the violin / You cannot start off and be Yehudi Menuhin." All this, I should add, is wrapped in some of the canniest pop music around.

Stick a needle anywhere in Kimono My House and you'll find a smart turn of phrase or allusion. Kant, the Rockefellers and the final act of Romeo and Juliet all crop up (in the latter case, a whole song structured around Romeo's confusion at finding himself alone in the afterlife). Is it too clever by half? Not when it's this fun. A paean to narcissism is delivered via lurching fairground organ in 'Falling In Love With Myself Again'; the chorus to 'Complaints' packs frustration and desperation into a sickly sweet clap-a-long; and best of all, 'Hasta Manana Monsieur' is played as a hard rock tango. Every song here is a winner, and a single Sparks song often carries more ideas than some artists stretch across a whole album. 

Before wrapping, I just want to make note of two of the bonus tracks on this CD, something I tend not to do. After all, I'm trying to meet the album on the merits of its original iteration. However, 'Barbecutie' and 'Lost and Found' were, back in the day, b-sides to two of Kimono My House's singles. B-sides! For any other band, these would be the highlights, especially the sugar rush of 'Lost and Found'. At this stage in their career, Sparks were simply too good.

Of course, it wouldn't last; subsequent albums would be uneven or confounding, sometimes by design. Still, it's this wilfulness to go against the grain that has guaranteed Sparks not only longevity but a genuinely interesting discography stretching across five decades. I was lucky enough to see them in 2018, and they covered so much ground, with aplomb, panache and a sense of mischief. It's in the top five live performances I've been privileged to witness by anyone, anywhere.