Monthly Archives: May 2013

Slaves & Bulldozers – Soundgarden

Soundgarden were one of the original Seattle grunge groups, a term the bands involved would quickly come to hate and resent, but which in 1988 Mudhoney’s Mark Arm had used to describe his own band’s music: a dirty, scuzzy blend of mainstream seventies metal, late-sixties garage, and early-eighties punk. Mudhoney leaned towards the punk end of things; in fact, their biggest debt was to Iggy Pop’s proto-punk outfit the Stooges. Early Nirvana was pretty much equal parts punk and metal – plenty of Sabbath, but plenty of Flipper, too. Soundgarden shared some of those influences, but in Chris Cornell had a singer with a classic hard-rock voice, which made it easier for mainstream-label A&R guys to work out where the band was coming from.

Badmotorfinger, Soundgarden’s breakthrough released in 1991 on A&M, was actually the band’s third record, but they’d outgrown Sub Pop’s ability to distribute their albums nationally. This problem had plagued the more successful underground bands for years (since Hüsker Dü’s Zen Arcade, at least) and was a key reason why they began signing to majors – if fans can’t find your records in shops and the label can’t press enough to keep up with demand, what’s the point in staying with that label?

Badmotorfinger got somewhat left behind by the Nirvana juggernaut, but in any event it was a little too arty and dissonant for the mainstream. Chris Cornell might have had an accessible, incredibly versatile rock voice (his vocal on Slaves & Bulldozers is a tour de force: one minute he’s out-shrieking Cobain, the next he’s Ronnie James Dio, then he’s Bruce Dickinson), but Kim Thayil wrenched every conceivable noise out of his guitar, and some inconceivable ones, too – like a less schoolmasterly Robert Fripp. Most rock guitarists given the awesomely sludgy bass riff that Ben Shepherd plays in the intro (placed hard to the left by mix engineer Ron Saint Germain) would have chosen simply to double it while throwing their hair around. Not Thayil, God bless him. His was a cerebral take on metal. There is a guitar track that doubles the bass riff, but the listener’s ear is instead drawn to the squonky, squealing noises up top that are pure Kim Thayil.

They made frequent use of odd meters, but they never made a big deal of it; they simply threw in an extra beat in this measure and took one away in that measure as if it were the most natural thing in the world. On Fell on Black Days and Spoonman they’d even make math rock into pop music. For this and much else they haven’t really received due credit. Even now, not enough people talk about how great their rhythm section was. Yet Matt Cameron was a monster drummer (inventive, powerful and groovy, never stiff and always musical) while Ben Shepherd’s bass playing was intense and furious – you can hear how hard he’s hitting his strings on those occasions where he’s not quite tight with Cameron’s snare drum.

Soundgarden’s next album, Superunknown, did get them the big mainstream hit that A&M wanted from them. The shift towards a slightly more commercial songwriting style felt like an evolution rather than a cynical change of direction – like Cobain, Cornell had always been a Beatles fan – and like its predecessor it’s an essential nineties rock record, but Badmotorfinger is the Soundgarden record where they sound most like themselves, the record that only they could have made.

They’re back touring and making records again, and that’s great. They’re unlikely to do anything cheesy or regrettable, but it’s also unlikely they’ll do anything to top the music they made in the first half of the nineties. I’d love to see it happen though.


The Garden of Sound

I’m Down to My Last Cigarette – The Jayhawks

Let’s hear it for those quietly impressive, hard-working sidemen and women. Every band needs one or two. Standing behind Jayhawks singer-songwriters Marc Olson and Gary Louris for most of the 1990s was the unfortunately named Karen Grotberg, with her catseye glasses and slightly bouffant hair, looking like a small-town librarian who hadn’t quite made it out of the eighties (in my head her speaking voice is like Marge Gunderson’s but perhaps I’m just playing with stereotypes now). On the cover of her first album with the group (Tomorrow the Green Grass), she’s pushed off to the side, sitting on her own branch of the tree, looking up rather than at the camera. She was a great country pianist, enlivening even the most pedestrian moments of their occasionally lumpy career, while singing fine harmonies too. When she left the band after the not-country-at-all Sound of Lies album from 1997, the group lost something key to its identity, for sure.

On their cover of the Harlan Howard/Billy Walker chestnut I’m Down to My Last Cigarette (recorded far less frequently than one might expect for a song that sounds ready-made to be a standard, but revived in the late eighties by KD Lang), Grotberg gets a rare lead vocal and has a ball with it. The track sounds like it might have been recorded live in the studio, although this audio-verite feeling is undercut by the decision to give her voice a Sun Records echo. But it’s still a great performance, fun and spontaneous-sounding, down to Grotberg having to cue in Louris for his solo.

The song appeared as a B-side to their 1995 cover of Grand Funk Railroad’s Bad Time, on which Grotberg was elbowed aside in favour of lungs-for-hire Sharleen Spiteri, odd-jobbing as a session singer around LA during Texas’s mid-nineties hiatus. Perhaps Grotberg was given this one by way of an apology. She ain’t Patsy Cline, but on this evidence (and that of a even more impressive recent live recording on YouTube) she’s a better singer than the nasal Olson and hoarse Louris, who on the evidence of the 2011 reunion album Mockingbird Time still haven’t learned to sing close harmony without lapsing into doubling each other’s notes. They still do this one at live shows, Karen getting her well-earned turn in the spotlight.


Karen Grotberg. © 2009, Steve Cohen

Rainy Night in Georgia – Brook Benton

When you’re listening to a song about somewhere, your reaction to it is inevitably coloured by whether you know the place in real life. And by how well you know it. To appreciate some songs maybe it’s better not to know somewhere too well, but just to have an idea of it. Songs glorifying London don’t work on me – I’ve lived there, worked there, studied there. I know it too well. I can get sentimental about places where important things have happened to me. I can smile at the memories of little backwaters I can pretend to myself only I know about. I can appreciate the little details noticed and included by a writer who knows whereof they sing. But for the most part, any song that finds romance in London isn’t aimed at me.

New York, though – that’s another matter. I eat up songs about New York. Never been there. One day I might, although I do worry that no version could ever be as good as the one put in my head by Odyssey’s Native New Yorker. Nothing could be that good, that sophisticated, streetwise, worldly. Certainly I couldn’t.

Laurel Canyon, Woodstock, Maxwell Street, Beale Street – I have ideas and images about all these places that songs put there. Georgia, too, a place that has done pretty well by songwriters, as perhaps any state that has given the world James Brown, Ray Charles, Gladys Knight, Otis Redding, OutKast, the Allman Brothers and R.E.M. should do.

Of course, Rainy Night in Georgia has become a standard since Tony Joe White wrote it in 1962. It had to. A cynical soul might conclude that it was designed to. It’s a song you hear often, tackled by singers great and indifferent. And Rod Stewart, too. In Britain, it seems, you’re likely to hear Randy Crawford’s 1981 version, with its plastic backing. You might hear Brother Ray’s over-egged, rather hammy version. You certainly won’t hear Tennessee Ernie Ford’s sepulchral country-baritone rendition (it’s great, though!). But the one you want to hear – and too seldom do – is the 1970 Jerry Wexler-produced recording by Brook Benton that popularised the song in the first place.

Benton had had number-one R&B hits in 1959 and 1960, and Rainy Night saw him return to the top of the R&B charts a decade later, still only 39, but with a more authoritative gravelly voice, perfect for the late-hour weariness of this kind of material.

There’s always a danger when a singer gets hold of a standard (or one in waiting) that in trying to rise to the material, they become stilted, mannered and singerly. Perhaps because the song was still just Rainy Night in Georgia and not yet Rainy Night in Georgia that Benton’s performance retains a predominantly soft-voiced intimacy, quite the best vocal anyone who’s tried to tackle the song has delivered.


Brook Benton

Twelve-string guitars, part four

‘But Mr Songsfromsodeep,’ I hear you say, ‘I don’t have a twelve-string guitar. Is there anything I can do to simulate one?’

Well, yes. There’s one thing.

Apologies to those who know this, since this is not in any way a new or innovative technique, but you can double a part played on a six-string guitar with the same part played on a guitar in Nashville tuning. Nashville tuning is when you take the four octave strings from a twelve-string (the low E, A, D and G) and put them on a regular six-string guitar. That means the D and G strings will be higher in pitch than the B and E strings, leaving you with a guitar that sounds jangly indeed. If you can tightly double the original six-string part on a recording, it will sound very like a twelve-string. D’Addario and Martin do a ‘high-strung/Nashville tuning’ set (10-27 and 10-25 respectively), and possibly other manufacturers do too.

You don’t need to present Nashville-tuned parts in this way, though. Try panning the two parts left and right to create a stereo version of the effect. To hear examples of both techniques, have a listen to Hips and Makers and Strange Angels, the first two solo albums by Throwing Muses/50 Foot Wave singer/guitarist Kristin Hersh. Examples of Nashville-tuning parts are numerous on Strange Angels; you’ll have to hunt harder for them on Hips and Makers but they’re there (on Velvet Days and Teeth, at least, I think).

You can also hear Nashville tuning on on many, many country records. Where’d you think the name came from?


Kristin Hersh, 2006 (Dina Douglass). Guitar probably not in Nashville tuning.

Twelve-string guitars, part three

OK, another tuning for you. CGCFCE

This is a nice tuning for the keys of C, a minor and F, and not too adaptable beyond that, but what’s nice about it is the range it spans: two octaves plus a major third, which is just about as much as practical without having bass strings that are too floppy and treble strings that are too tight and liable to break.

Those of you who’ve studied alternate tunings might know this one as a favourite of Nick Drake’s – it’s the tuning behind Pink Moon, Which Will, Parasite, the two Hazey Jane songs and the Introduction instrumental. But the tuning works equally well on a twelve string, where the added octave strings make the range of the tuning even wider (two octaves plus a fifth).

The approach that Drake took on Pink Moon (and Place to Be, which uses a similar tuning with the B string tuned down to G rather than up to C) is to fret the lowest three strings and play the top three strings open: 222000, 555000 and so on. Those two shapes will give you a d minor and F respectively.

D minor you say? But it’s got a G in it! And a C and an E! Bu that’s really the point of alternate tunings. You can create these wide, harmonically open chords that would be impossible to play in standard. In the context of Pink Moon (and Place to Be), the ear hears that as a minor chord built on the second degree of the scale. Which is to say, it hears d minor. The beautiful ambiguity of this kind of chord is what made Drake’s guitar playing so expressive and what attracts so many of us to alternate tunings in the first place.

If you play these kind of shapes on a twelve-string it won’t sound earthy and intimate, as on Pink Moon. ‘Earthy’ isn’t what twelve-strings do. Instead it will sound bright, airy, ethereal. But that’s good, too.

Two more chords: 000200 (C major). x20200 (a minor7).



Nick Drake. Just imagine that his guitar is a twelve-string

Things to do with a twelve-string guitar, part two

Actually, I lied: I’ll get back to the tuning stuff tomorrow. Today I’d like to talk very quickly about double-tracking acoustic guitars.

All the reasons that you might double electric guitar parts can apply equally to acoustic guitars parts: you could do it to provide width, to blend different voicings of the same chords, or to blend the tones of two different instruments to create a sound that wouldn’t be obtainable any other way, and so on. The practice of mass acoustic overdubbing is somewhat rarer than it is with electric guitar parts, though, which might be for no other reason than the fact that it’s more difficult to do well.

Acoustic guitar is an extremely percussive instrument. When you record two of them (whether you personally record two parts or the two guitarists in your band record one track each), it becomes very important that the two parts are in time with each other and in time with the snare drum. The further out the strums are, the more the ear is likely to hear them as flams. This can get distracting for the listener pretty quickly.

If you’re undeterred, though, here’s a couple of tips. Blending a standard-tuned part with an open tuned part can be fun. Imagine using one of the C tunings I talked about yesterday in the context of a song where the main progression is something like C / Dm / Am / G – you can create a rich, resonant blend that wouldn’t be possible from two standard-tuned parts, really taking advantage of the drone strings and the low C bass. And of course, the effect of this will be even greater if the open-tuned part happened to be played on a twelve-string.

Another tip, particularly if you don’t want to get involved in open tunings, is to use a capo to track a second part using different chord shapes to the first part. Take the progression from the previous paragraph. How about putting a capo on the third fret and playing A / Bm / F#m / E – yeah, that’s right: it’s the same sequence as before, with the second guitar sounding a minor third higher than concert pitch because of the capo. Once again, this can be used to create a sonority that simply can’t be drawn out of q single instrument. Again, if one of these parts is played on a twelve-string, the effect is amplified still further.

All of these ideas are time-honoured, copper-bottomed arrangement techniques that have been around for decades. I’d like to be able to tell you who did it first in order to give them their due credit, but I simply don’t know who we have to thank. So give them a go yourself, practice until you can double acoustic parts tightly (there’s no shortcut: you have to earn it through hard work, I’m afraid), and then go crazy in a 1971 George Harrison, All Things Must Pass stylee.


George, contemplating another guitar overdub

Things to do with a twelve-string guitar, part one

OK, so you’ve got yourself a twelve-string guitar, so you’re obviously willing to suffer for art. That’s a good starting point. But what if you’re actually a crazy masochist and want to go beyond strumming chords in standard tuning?

Here’s a couple of tuning ideas for you.


This is my favourite tuning. In fact, it’s my de-facto standard tuning. My main six-string acoustic is left in this all the time, pretty much, and has been set up specifically to accommodate heavy-gauge strings and a low C. But it sounds great on a twelve-string too. One problem with twelves is that in standard tuning the high G string is prone to snapping, because it’s just a top E, tuned a minor third higher. This tuning gets round that by tuning the G string down to E and extends the overall range of the guitar downwards, by tuning the low E to C.

For a taste of what you can do with this, play this shape: x 0 0 3 2 0, low to high. That’s a G major. Now this shape: 0 0 2 3 3 2. That’s C major. You getting it?


Now we go lower. This is a less all-purpose tuning than the previous one. There are things that you can’t sensibly play in this tuning and it really only makes sense in C, A minor and maybe F. But you can get very droning and modal in this tuning if the mood takes you – I’ve used it to play Lady Margaret with my folk-rock band Carterhaugh: six minutes or so without any chord changes can be quite daunting, but this tuning lends itself very well to noodly modal explorations around a theme.

A chord shape or two? All right. Try this (C): 0 0 0 2 0 0. Or this less droney C major shape: 0 0 4 5 5 4. Here’s an A minor: x 2 0 2 0 0. Here’s an Fadd9: 5 5 0 3 0 0. And slide that up two frets for a G: 7 7 0 5 0 0.

More tuning madness tomorrow!


Be bold with your tunings. You’ve nothing to lose but the skin on your fingers and hours you’ll never get back.

The twelve-string guitar

Cliff Richard famously likes both small speakers and tall speakers. Good man. I can relate to that.

Ella Fitgerald loved Paris in the springtime, and she loved Paris in the fall. I understand that, too.

I love six-string guitars but I also love twelve-string guitars. And never want to have to choose between them.

True, some twelve-strings are formidably hard to play, and some twelve-strings fold in on themselves within a year or two, but a good twelve-string is a joy forever. Nothing, not even Kay Kyser’s spurs, can jingle-jangle-jingle like a twelve-string.

I’ve spent the last two weeks getting closely reacquainted with my old twelve-string acoustic for a show I played the other evening. I’ve put more hours in on the thing in the last couple of weeks than I have for several years. I’ve recorded with it frequently (including – shameless plug alert – on my new single Little Differences), but in recent years have never pulled it out to write on and seldom just for the hell of playing it.


Once you’ve got the hang of getting your fingers around it, a twelve-string has a magical quality. They’re so rich, so full and so resonant that they can make almost anything – even the simplest chord progressions – sound like music. Good music. It’s almost like cheating.

I don’t hear too much twelve-string on contemporary records, so picking some great twelve-string moments to talk about has forced me to go back in time somewhat. So here’s a not-at-all exhaustive list of favourite twelve-string moments from 1965 to 1983.

Little Bit of Rain – Fred Neil

Picking a favourite Fred Neil song is a nigh-impossible task, but I’ll go with Little Bit of Rain to illustrate how the added depth and harmonic interest of a twelve-string can enliven even the simplest chord sequence.

Buzzin’ Fly – Tim Buckley

Around the time of Happy Sad, Buckley was borrowing a fair amount of Fred Neil’s shtick. This included using a twelve-string guitar. Somehow a six-string just would not have been bright enough to convey the joy animating every last second of Buzzin’ Fly.

Love and Affection – Joan Armatrading

Twelve-string arpeggios, smoky folk-jazz ambience, a saxophone solo and Detective Lester Freamon on backing vocals.

Unsatisfied – The Replacements

The greatest song Paul Westerberg ever wrote. He may have been better advised to let someone else play the lap steel though.

A House is Not a Motel – Love

According to Johnny Echols, Arthur Lee didn’t play guitar on any of Love’s records except one tune on their first album, suggesting that the fingerpicking part on twelve-string that begins the songs and recurs throughout was played by Bryan MacLean (or possibly Echols himself, depending on whether any of his electric lead parts were cut with the basic takes). Anyway, it’s great. The whole album’s great. But you knew that already, right?


Fred Neil, looking unusually cool with his twelve

Something’s Gotten Hold of My Heart – Gene Pitney

Gene Pitney – a boy-next-door type if you happen to live in well-heeled Hartford, Connecticut – seemed to lurch from one emotional crisis to the next, if his records are to be believed at least. From It Hurts to Be in Love to 24 Hours From Tulsa, few artists have relied on the melodramatic as heavily as the clean-cut Pitney.

A trip back to that well in 1967 resulted in a hit version of Something’s Gotten by Hold of My Heart, a song by the Two Rogers, Cook and Greenaway. It reached number 5 in the UK (and a decidedly modest 130 in the US), but he later hit the top spot with it when he featured on Marc Almond’s 1989 cover. All respect to the pair of them, but the original’s the one that should have reached number one. Almond sings his remake with a nod and a wink, and whether Pitney was aware of it or not (and seeing as he promoted it on Top of The Pops with Almond while wearing a white tuxedo and red bow tie it’s probable that he was), the song devolved into camp.

The original is not camp. It is a man caught between ecstasy and torment. Neither of which lends itself well to understatement, true, but the emotion in Pitney’s original is real enough. Structurally, the song is appropriately knotty. It takes so many twists and turns that just when you think it’s reached its climax, Pitney is buffeted by another wave of despair, elated by a new possibility, and his brittle, nasal voice reaches still higher, fighting to make itself against an orchestra, a  choir and a drummer who can’t stop himself playing triplet drum rolls.

In its rather old-fasioned Bacharachian pomp, it stood out in a year defined by the psychedelia of the Beatles, Hendrix and Procol Harum’s A Whiter Shade of Pale (which shares its relentless piddly-piddly-piddly drum rolls). But it was Pitney’s last artistic hurrah. Until it resurfaced in 1989, Something’s Gotten Hold of my Heart was his last top-ten hit in the UK and he was done as a commercial force by 1970, only Blue Angel hitting number 2 in Australia breaking the pattern of low placings. Pitney was a songwriter (he’d written Rubber Ball, He’s A Rebel and Hello Mary Lou) but lacking the writing rep of, say, Neil Sedaka he wasn’t able to maintain songwriting as a career until his time as a performer came round again. Instead, he was lost to the oldies circuit, so it was no disgrace that he willingly participated in Almond’s desecration of his finest moment; after all, it provided him with a chance at damn near 50, white-haired but eternally boyish, to stand in front of a teenage audience in the Top of the Pops studio and all that cool stuff, just one more time.


Gene Pitney in 1967,