...to the Sublime

The Greatest Love

1967. 5th grade. My 7th grade neighbor has deemed me cool enough to be invited to her class parties. (Yes, from the beginning, older women.) And one of the songs that got played a lot was Billy Joe Royal's "The Greatest Love." That was a lesser hit for Royal, his bigger smash was "Down In the Boondocks." But they were both written by Joe South, a singer/songwriter from Atlanta. South didn't register with me until his own recordings hit the charts, especially "Games People Play" (1968), which won the Grammy for Song of the Year. South's also recorded "Walk a Mile In My Shoes" and "Don't It Make You Wanna Go Home." And then there was his biggest hit, Lynn Anderson's (I Never Promised You a) "Rose Garden" (1971), which won Grammys for her and South. And Royal and Deep Purple both had hits with South's "Hush." South's guitar playing was also much sought after, with his appearances including Aretha Franklin's "Lady Soul" (that's reportedly his intro on "Chain of Fools"), and Bob Dylan's "Blonde on Blonde." South gradually retreated from the spotlight, but a new generation of artists played tribute to him on the 2005 album pictured above, which features a soulful remake of "Walk a Mile In My Shoes" by Otis Clay. My favorite South remake is Aaron Neville's 1977 version of "The Greatest Love" (available on iTunes). It was produced by Allen Toussaint and Marshall Sehorn, so it's definitely funkier than Billy Joe Royal's version, replete with a snaky guitar line, punchy horns, and Toussaint's rollicking piano. Southern soul at its finest. Here's a happy 69th birthday wish to Joe South.

 

Mardi Gras Mambo

I've never been to N'awlins for Mardi Gras, but every Fat Tuesday I make a pot of red beans 'n' rice and wash it down with some bourbon. And my playlist always includes Professor Longhair's "Tipitina," which is an astounding display of piano playing. And then there's "Mardi Gras Mambo" by the Hawkettes, which was Art Neville's first band. Speaking of mambos, I recently pulled out a compilation of New Orleans music that I hadn't listened to entirely and discovered "Shrimp and Gumbo" by Dave Bartholomew. He's best known for having produced and co-written many of Fats Domino's greatest hits, but Bartholomew was also a trumpeter and longtime bandleader. In 1955 he recorded "Shrimp and Gumbo," which is a mind blower. The song starts with a cowbell-and-drum rhythm line that sounds like "Iko Iko"--something one of the black Indian tribes would strut to. Then the vocalist comes in: "Mambo, mambo/gumbo filé/mambo. Okra gumbo/crab gumbo/shrimp gumbo/mambo." And then the craziest thing happens: the horn section jumps in with the bouncy melody from Perez Prado's "Mambo #5." It's all in keeping with the influence of Latin music, especially from Cuba, on the New Orleans sound. "Shrimp and Gumbo" can't be found on iTunes, and I haven't figured out how to embed MP3s on this site yet. But, if you're lucky, some Mardi Gras I'll have you over for some shrimp and gumbo--gastronomically and sonically. And if I get enough bourbon in me, I'll tell you all about the recessive mambo gene in my DNA. Laissez les bon temps roulez!

When Smokey Sings

Last week was Smokey Robinson's 69th birthday. Here's a piece I wrote for the Pop Music Conference at the Experience Music Project in Seattle a few years ago. The challenge was to write an essay about a given song that would last no longer than the song itself:

You can have "Tracks of My Tears" and "Ooh Baby Baby" and "Beauty's Only Skin Deep." Great songs all, but they are tragic victims of narrow playlists on oldies radio, which has killed the oldies. But that's another story. What we find then among the considerable ouevre of Smokey Robinson & the Miracles is this gem, "Save Me," from the album "Going to A-Go-Go," released in November of 1966. With its simple introduction distinguished by those pinging notes (what is that, a glockenspiel or a cheap toy xylophone?), the song's pulsing rhythm surges along, carrying Smokey's plaintive tenor. And of course, he's singing about a lost love. And he spoke to me because I had lost Susan Villarreal. Technically, we hadn't broken up because, well, we'd never been together. You see, we were in the 4th grade. But I knew that if someday we were to become a couple, she would break my heart. Because with her bouncy jet black hair and pixieish smile, she was simply too beautiful. And she would know the power of that beauty. And this would be the song that I would sing. I first heard it as I hunkered down on the backseat floorboard of my older brother's best friend's GTO. My parents had gone out for the evening and I was 9 years old, too young to be left alone, so I was left in my 18-year-old brother's care. But he and his friend couldn't resist going for a ride to cruise past the hot discotheque in downtown San Antonio--the Pussycat A-Go-Go. If they spotted some cute girls and could beckon them to the car for a chat, I couldn't be seen. How uncool would that be? So that's how I found myself down in the well, looking out the back window. All I could see were neon signs and telephone lines as Smokey's bittersweet lament poured out of the radio. And even at that tender age, I knew what heartbreak sounded like. It sounded like a man looking for salvation, and deep down knowing it wasn't going to come. It sounded like a man I didn't want to become. So I vowed, right then and there, that I would never, ever let a woman break my heart. Not after you, Susan Villarreal, not after you. Damn you.  

Etta's a Gangsta

I've been on an Etta James jag ever since I watched "Cadillac Records." I pulled out all her CDs and even re-read her autobiography, which reminded me why she sounded so much more worldly when she recorded "At Last" at the age of 22 than Beyonce does now singing it at the age of 27. (See posting below from January 22.) Etta had already packed a lot of living into those 22 years. She was born and grew up in LA with a prostitute mom who was in and out of her life. They moved to San Francisco when Etta was about 12 and she proceeded to become a juvenile delinquent. She went on to become a junkie and a hustler, and she and her husband once got busted in San Antonio. (He took the fall and ended up serving 10 years.) Somehow she managed to survive it all. But Etta still has a little gangsta in her. At a recent performance in Seattle, she said this to the crowd: "You know your president, right? You know, the one with the big ears? He ain't my president. He might be your president. But I tell you that woman he has singing for him, singing my song. She's gonna get her ass whipped." Etta later said she was kidding. Who knows? All I know is, even though she just turned 71, I wouldn't want to mess with her.

I have a couple of more fond memories of Etta. Once, on a flight between LA and Texas, I stepped into the cabin and found Etta and one of her sons sitting in the first row. I took the opportunity to thank her for her music and she said thanks, seemingly surprised that she'd been recognized. But how could anyone miss her? She was well over 300 pounds at the time, as she was for much of her adult life. (She recently underwent gastric bypass surgery, which explains her new, svelte look.)

But my most lasting memory of Etta James is hearing her voice for the first time. It was the fall of 1963, I was 6 years old, and my father had just opened a bar. The jukebox was stacked with mostly Mexican music, but there were a handful of English songs and one of them was "My Dearest Darling" (released on the Chess sub-label, Argo). Something about those swirling strings and that New Orleans two-step written by Paul Gayten and Edwin Bocage (Eddie Bo to the cognoscenti) grabbed me.  But it was Etta's alternately smooth and gritty vocal that really brought it home, and to this day it's my favorite song of hers. Thank goodness Beyonce didn't take that one on.

PS--On Eddie Bo's 1957 recording of "My Dearest Darling" on the Chess label, the song is credited to Gayten and C. Henry--presumably Clarence "Frogman" Henry, another New Orleans stalwart whose hits included "Ain't Got No Home" and "I Don't Know Why, But I Do." Who knows who really wrote it? Credits were a pretty loosey-goosey arrangement back in the day, especially when the Chess brothers were involved.

Van the Man

There's a slight gap in my early Van fandom. I certainly knew his big hits with Them, "Here Comes the Night" and "Gloria." And I knew his first solo smash, "Brown Eyed Girl," which was a favorite of the brown-skinned girls at my grade school dances. But I knew those songs from AM radio, and by the time I started listening to FM, they were playing "Moondance." What I missed in between was 1968's "Astral Weeks"--his first album for Warner Bros. And even though Van is one of my all-time favorite artists, and "Astral Weeks" is considered a landmark recording in rock, I managed not to hear it until last year when a friend burned a copy for me. I have to say the first four songs, including the title track, didn't knock me out. They all sounded like loose Celtic jams. Irish music, especially featuring the flute, is one of the few genres I can't bear too much of. But things pick up with the jazzy, vibraphone-fueled "The Way Young Lovers Do." And the lilting violin on "Madame George" dances around Van's soulful vocal. (Am I wrong but doesn't the string vamp toward the end get echoed in Van's vocal at the end of "Caravan"?) Anyway, last year Van fulfilled a longtime desire by performing "Astral Weeks" in its entirety, on the 40th anniversary of its release. I missed the show at the Hollywood Bowl, but I've got an advance copy of the CD, which is being released on Feb. 10 (a DVD is in the works too). Van assembled some of the musicians from the original recording and the concert is a fairly faithful reproduction, with The Man in good form. There also are a couple of non-"Astral" tracks: "Listen to the Lion" from "St. Dominic's Preview" and "Common One," which was the title of a 1980 Van album that was re-issued last year. "Common One" is actually the re-titled "Summertime in England" from that 1980 album, and the song ends with one of those classic Van chants: "Can you feel the silence/In the mystic church?" Yeah, brother man, preach that crazy black Irish gospel.

PS--Did Van get some new teeth, or have I just never seen him smile so broadly?