The record shops have closed and the used bins that once collected dust are now collecting pretty pennies on eBay. With rare, out-of-print and lost classic discs just keystrokes away, it's time for idiom idiots like us to upgrade. This is genre-wise crate digging 2.0.
Though most of it is little known in the States, French pop has cultivated a number of often exciting and occasionally brilliant exports since the dawn of the rock and roll era. From balladeers like Jacques Brel to sleaze-pop pioneers like Serge Gainsbourg, much of French pop bears the influence of cabaret--both in its sexually charged ethos and its willingness to embrace the avant-garde. Gainsbourg's lust-filled Histoirede Melody Nelson is a compulsory rock snob listen, but equally good, if not better, is the 1971 psych-pop masterpiece Polnareff's by Michel Polnareff. Polnareff's is an astounding achievement by any measure--a record that combines symphonic pop with soul and funk to form a wholly unique and compelling listening experience. Take the first track "Voyages": it sounds like the New York Philharmonic playing a blaxploitation concerto with Herbie Hancock on the keys. "Le Desert N'est Plus En Afrique," on the other hand, sounds like Jacques Brelsings the Serge Gainsbourg songbook--grand vocals and blaring trumpets over thick rhythm guitars that ooze cosmopolitan cool. "Monsieur L'Abbe," with its electronic wa-was and effects-heavy guitar solos, sounds like an aural blueprint for Stereolab's career. Truly a one-of-a-kind album, Polnareff's shows that at its finest, French pop can reach American listeners with nothing lost in translation.
Hear high quality clips of all tracks from Polnareff's at Michel's website here. Select discographie, then pick Polnareff's (third from the left) out of the lineup.
Flamboyant. Excessive. Superficial. Glam rock was all these things, and yet it was also entertaining enough to establish itself a secure niche in the rock and roll firmament. The primarily British genre pioneered by Marc Bolan of T. Rex with his classic Electric Warrior in 1971 reached its peak with what is indisputably the greatest glam rock album of all time: David Bowie's The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. Along the way, the glam rock aesthetic found its way into the such acts as Queen and Roxy Music, and a few of its practitioners--the New York Dolls, in particular, influenced the development of punk rock. The glam ethos was all glitz and glitter--swooping pop hooks and triumphant guitar and piano licks set to androgynous words and visuals. Liberal use of makeup, effeminate male vocals, huge wigs, and drag outfits were all commonplace in the context of glam.
It is therefore not surprisingly that glam, of all genres, proffered the first pop artist to market himself as openly gay: Jobriath. Posthumously lauded by the modern sexual chameleon of rock music, Morrisey, among others, Jobriath is today usually either excessively lauded as an early gay-icon in music or unfairly dismissed as little more than a historical artifact. Jobriath is an amazing historical figure. The extent to which his label Elektra Records tried in vain to promote him into stardom is remarkable: the label reportedly spent tens of thousands of dollars advertising his debut album on billboards and in magazine ads. But Jobriath also left a musical legacy that, when given a fair shake, reveals him to be more than just a historical curiosity. That legacy is chronicled on Lonely Planet Boy, a compilation put out by Sanctuary in 2004. A crass dismissal of Jobriath's two LPs--Jobriath (1973) and Creatures of the Street (1974)--might read something like: "All the excess and grandeur of Bowie with none of the tight pop songwriting." This is a valid critique, but I think it goes to far. True, Jobriathis a poor man's Ziggy Stardust--he delivers epic piano ballads with anthemic pretentious but few memorable hooks. On the other hand, the sheer musical spectacle can be delightful, and Jobriath occasionally delivers a ballad worthy of its Meat Loaf-esque arrangement. "Be Still," at least, has an irresistible refrain: "Be still, I love you!" Jobriath shouts, in the shrillest, most impassioned voice he can muster. If Queen had done it, it'd probably be a karaoke anthem by now.
Hear Jobriath's "Blow Away," which sounds a bit like how I imagine Cat Stevens would sound, on platform heels and in drag.
I Am Robot and Proud The Electricity in Your House Wants to Sing
Composing one's thoughts during spring break is no easy task. With that in mind, I've decided to use today's post to revisit a review I wrote roughly one year ago, while I was experiencing the same sort of vacation-induced writer's block I'm feeling at this very moment. The review should give the reader a good sense of what IDM (Intelligent Dance Music) is, but just in case it doesn't, here's a simple memory devise: Intelligent Dance Music = IDon't Move. In short, IDM is dance music you can't dance to. (N.B.: I'm not so lazy that I haven't taken the time to pen a few new thoughts about this old review. You can find this commentary at the end of the post.)
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It's Saturday morning, the last day of my Spring break. I'm up earlier than I'd like to be, but I'll need as much time as I can find today. I've left a week's worth of work for a day, and suddenly all the time I've wasted is magnified in the Saturday sun. Nick Drake was right: it came without warning. Alas, here I sit at my laptop, cranking out words when I'd really like to walk outside and soak up the dew spots from last night's shower. Tiny raindrops on my window that have yet to evaporate tell the story.
Everything feels a bit too serene this morning; the clothing, papers, books, and magazines scattered about my floor seem arranged by design, props in some art-house coming-of-age flick. Morning has a way of sentimentalizing, and a refreshing sleep can make consciousness less jaded. On this morning, to be sure, I feel a certain lightness of being. Mostly, it's due to a record I'm supposed to be reviewing with these very words.
I'm a newcomer to I Am Robot and Proud, but from what I've read, The Electricity in Your House Wants to Sing is the third proper album released under that mechanical-sounding moniker. I've also learned, from my key-stroke research, that 26-year-old Toronto native Shaw-Han Liem is the automaton. A quick background check reveals that Liem is that distinctly turn-of-the-century being known as the IDM (Intelligent Dance Music) creator.
Yet it requires listening to Liem's music, as I am now, to know that I Am Robot and Proud is a name that is at once fitting and misleading. Electronic music often has a robotic quality. It can sound stilted, mechanical, and distinctly not human. Indeed, there is such a processed quality about The Electricity. What resonates most strongly with this listener, however, is how human the album often sounds. The Electricity is warm, bright, and often downright effervescent. Like Stereolab, Liem seems to have an unlimited supply of sonic bubbles that bounce and sprinkle about his compositions, playing joyful motifs that soothe the ears. Liem combines these sounds into sonic tapestries that ache with the subtlety of humanity.
The Electricity sounds better than just a collection of Postal Service instrumentals because it's sweet and unwaveringly lighthearted--both qualities that could never be used to describe a Death Cab spin-off. More impressively, Liem sustains a relaxed, dreamlike mood from start to finish, without sacrificing complexity. The Electricity is buoyant but not hollow; paradoxically, the music is busy but also spacious. "Good Sleep," for example, consists of layers of synthesized chimes atop a steady atmospheric pedal that carries an emotional undercurrent. "Save Your Neck, Save Your Brother" begins with woodwinds that sound culled from the soundtrack of a French new-wave film from the 60s, then it picks up a rounded bass line and a back beat, transforming the track into something closer to a Boards of Canada production.
As immediately accessible and endearing as is Liem's latest effort, praise for the record must be qualified. As is frequently the case with electronic pop, the tracks on The Electricity quickly begin to blend together. This helps contribute to the consistent mood of the record (and its trance-like quality), but it quickly makes the music function as pleasant background noise-- muzak, or indie-pop elevator music. It's the perfect soundtrack for ambling through a half-awake morning, but The Electricity won't power me through a cynical afternoon.
-Ben Ewing (Delusions of Adequacy, 04/06/06)
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Sometimes when read old reviews I've written I cringe at the thought of key ideas I missed in my preliminary analysis and arguments I would, with the benefit of hindsight, subject to wholesale revision. This is not one of those times. Reading through this review, I can't help but think I was pretty much dead-on with everything I had to say. And if given a chance to rewrite it, I'd probably just kill the vibe of earnestness I cleverly cultivated to match the music by adding some pithy wise crack about the whole notion of IDM. Because let's face it: dance music you can't dance to is a pretty hokey idea? Isn't it? Maybe so, but I imagine some say the same thing about a world without irony.
Enough robotic earnestness to make your cold, post-modern heart thaw just slightly.
The phrase "old school" gets thrown around a lot, in reference not only to nearly any less-than-current hip hop, but also to oldies but goodies in a plethora of other contexts. If you're under the age of 30, chances are you've more than once heard someone use the term to modify such nouns as video games, pants, cars, glasses, hats--hell, even something as mundane as a rotary dial telephone! Frankly, this sort of co-opting is a shame because it has turned what was once a meaningful, complimentary distinction into a phrase so horrifyingly cheesy that it almost mocks that which it seeks to praise. It's as if anything one might call "old school" must be embarrassingly out of step with the zeitgeist simply because so many of the people who abuse the phrase seem to be trying too hard not to be.
Let me clear, I believe there is seldom, if ever, a good reason to call anything other than hip hop from the late 70s and early 80s "old school." When in doubt about the applicability of the term, use the Kurtis Blow rule: if (a) Kurtis Blow probably doesn't know who or what it is you wish to call "old school" or (b) you don't know who Kurtis Blow is, then you should refrain from uttering those two words. For the edification of those in the (b) category, Kurtis Blow was the first major solo rapper, a man whose history as a breakdancer, DJ, rapper and hip hop historian makes him a landmark figure in the development of hip hop culture. "The Breaks," Blow's best known track, is a bona fide hip hop classic, and two of his other cuts--"If I Ruled the World" and "Christmas Rappin'"--were turned into massive hits for Nas ("If I Ruled the World") and Next ("Too Close"), respectively. One of the first hip hop albums, Blow's self-titled debut LP from 1980 is an important historical document, full of great grooves, and without question worthy of the designation "old school."
An older but still active Blow doing "The Breaks."
One of the lesser-known, great British punk groups of the late 70s, the Adverts are generally remembered, if at all, for the songs "One Chord Wonder" and "Gary Gilmore's Eyes" or for the fact that they were one of the first acts to feature a female punk rock star, bassist Gaye Advert. Indeed these are excellent reasons to keep the Adverts in mind. On top of the fact that it cleverly plays with the "one hit wonder" adage and a knowingly references punk rock's harmonic simplicity, "One Chord Wonder," assaults the listener with pounding percussion, blistering guitar work and snarling vocals that perfectly match lyrics such as "The Wonders don't care (We don't give a damn!)." "Gary Gilmore's Eyes" has an even more memorable hook; the short line "Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes" is repeated over and over again until it plants itself firmly in your brain. The Adverts also deserve to be considered gender innovators in the context of a hyper-masculine genre that, in its early going at least, was almost the exclusive domain of anti-social men.
To leave the Adverts legacy at that, however, would be unjust, because they also left a magnum opus of British punk rock in the form of their debut album Crossing the Sea with the Adverts. Hard-edged but still melodic, the Adverts were raw but accessible; a shade less pop-oriented than the Jam, the Undertones, and the Buzzcocks, they were also aesthetically similar to the Damned, whose guitarist, Brian James, was an early fan. Crossing the Sea with the Adverts is one of those tightly packed punk records that clocks in at about 35 minutes or less and doesn't waste a minute. In addition to the aforementioned "One Chord Wonder" and "Gary Gilmore's Eyes," Crossing the Sea includes such anthemic numbers as "Bored Teenagers" and "No Time To Be 21." The lyrics to the latter track exemplify the class consciousness and conflict implicit in British punk, which helped distinguish it from the punk coming out of New York, Boston and L.A. at the same time. "No chances, no plans...we'll be your untouchables, we'll be your outcasts," lead singer T. V. Smith yells. Maybe England in the late 70s really wasn't a good setting in which to come of age, but it sure had a hell of a soundtrack.
Encompassing much of the jazz played and recorded from the mid 50s through the 60s, hard bop is a fairly broad designation whose umbrella covers works by many of the all-time jazz greats: a few records by Miles ('Round About Midnight,Miles Ahead) and Trane (Blue Train, Giant Steps), but also many others by such artists as Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers (Moanin'), Horace Silver (Song for My Father) and Cannonball Adderley (Somethin' Else). Hard bop emerged in the wake of bebop as a subtler, more soulful idiom; the new mode of expression continued to value virtuosity but sought to reconcile it with other virtues, such as greater rhythmic fluidity and flexibility, and sustained mood. Hence, slower, more lyrical melodic lines were mixed in with feats of strength and endurance and bass parts were given more breathing room.
In 1961, arranger, composer and alto and tenor sax player Oliver Nelson brought together an all-star cast to record one of the finest records in hard bop history, The Blues and the Abstract Truth. Featuring legendary pianist Bill Evans at his peak (1961 was the same he recorded both Sunday at the Village Vanguard and Waltz for Debby!), a young Freddie Hubbard on trumpet, Eric Dolphy on flute and alto, Paul Chambers on bass, Roy Haynes at the kit, and Nelson himself on alto and tenor, the sessions were destined for greatness, and The Blues and the Abstract Truth never fails to deliver on the promise of its stellar cast. The opener, "Stolen Moments" is aptly named: it steals the show. Evans, Chambers and Haynes provide a spacious and graceful backdrop that often hearkens to that most pristine modal masterpiece, Kind of Blue, and the solos are at once masterful and emotional. "Yearnin'" betrays an even more obvious relation to rhythm and blues about a minute and half in: a start-stop rhythm section and soul-styled melodic motif are almost Staxian.
"Stolen Moments" set to some unrelated video imagery.
You don't have to be easily susceptible to claustrophobia to appreciate ambient music, but it helps. It's surely a cliche or rock crit conceit by now, but when I feel like the noises of the world are closing in on me, there's no better escape than the ethereal soundscapes of a Brian Eno or a Harold Budd. It should come as little surprise then, that when those two masters of atmospheric music collaborated, the results were heavenly. 1984's The Pearl was particularly successful. The album is so serenely beautiful that it makes allegations that ambient music is inherently boring or hokey "new-age" seem superficial and foolish. My favorite ambient record outside of Eno's seminal masterpiece Ambient 1: Music for Airports is at times comforting and at other times haunting, but never less than engaging. Ambient music has often been compared to visual art in that it can be the subject of active appreciation, yet may also easily be pushed to background and still greatly enrich a setting. The comparison is an apt. Before I began writing this entry I was focused intently on the minute details of Budd's faint piano and Eno's production; as I write these words, on the other hand, I am a passive listener. Yet the mood has sustained itself--The Pearl still glistens.
Music from another Eno/Budd collaboration, The Plateaux of Mirror.
Michel Polnareff
