Monthly Archives: November 2013

Everytime You Go Away – Hall & Oates, Paul Young

It was like looking down into a sea of mullets. I think I even had one myself back then. They were very popular.

Andy Kershaw, Rocking All Over the World

So said the BBC’s troublesome voice of world music, and one-time scourge of dinosaur rockers, in a 90-minute documentary about Live Aid from a year or two back. Perhaps for the benefit of some of the younger readers of this blog, Live Aid was a 1985 benefit concert for the victims of the famine in Ethiopia, organised by Bob Geldof and Midge Ure, in collaboration with music promoter Harvey Goldsmith, the BBC, ABC in the US, sundry TV channels and networks around the world, and the ‘help’ of Bill Graham. It was the biggest event of its type ever organised, an enormous feat of satellite communications technology, which was very much in its infancy.

There are fascinating, and still relevant, debates to be had about the usefulness of this type of ‘celebanthropy’, whether it is self-righteous, self-promoting do-goodery, or whether it is genuinely helpful in the face of structural, governmental and/or macro-economic inequalities which go unaddressed by first-world governments simply because it’s not in their interests to do anything about them.

However, the BBC discussed these issues only briefly, bringing on a nurse who’d worked in famine relief in Ethiopia to say that she had once believed Geldof’s motives to be cynical and ended up converted. On the whole, it stuck to discussing the music (where it was snide), the behind-the-scenes wrangling and technical details (where it fascinating), and the hair and clothes, where it was predictably groan-inducing. Someone had obviously decided they’d be on safe ground sticking to mullet jokes. Hey, everyone had one! Bono had one! Paul Young had one! Daryl Hall had the biggest one of the whole decade! Even mullet-bashing Andy Kershaw himself had one back then.

This is what happens, you see, when a decade’s worth of music is reduced to a joke about hair. It becomes very difficult to get anyone to discuss it seriously. Regular readers of this blog will know that my heart belongs to the seventies and nineties, but I grew up in the eighties, I was born in the eighties and my earliest memories of music are largely of eighties music.

When I was young, whenever my mum put the radio on in the car, Paul Young seemed to be on it. Wherever I Lay My Hat and most particularly Everytime You Go Away were never off it. I absorbed their strange soundworlds before I knew what was making those noises. I didn’t know what I was listening to was a fretless bass, a digital piano, an electric sitar, digital synths with wobbly pitching, drums fed through a delay and a Lexicon 224 digital reverb box. I had no context and no knowledge of wider musical history, so I simply took these sounds and their overall effect at face value. I knew what a Paul Young record sounded like, but would have struggled to describe it.

I’d have been even more flummoxed by Hall & Oates’ original version of Everytime You Go Away, released on their 1980 album Voices, if I’d heard it. Voices as a whole embraced slightly leftfield new wave (as had Hall’s recent but then unreleased solo album, produced by Robert Fripp), which had been an increasingly prominent part of their sound for a couple of albums, but Everytime You Go Away was the album’s outlier: stately and churchy, with a dominant gospel organ and soul/R&B guitar, the drums kept to quarter-note rimshots, bass drum and soft, unobtrusive hi-hat. It’s a sound that had nothing to do with mainstream pop or rock at the start of the eighties, instead recalling the Band, Sam Cooke, Ray Charles. The discipline of the players leaving wide-open spaces for a moaning  brass section and Daryl Hall (the song’s sole author) to holler in. Some of the time in his long career, there’s been a sense that Hall was playing at being a soul man; he had the chops to do it and a genuine love for the music, but there was just a little distance between him and his material. Not on Everytime You Go Away (and not on She’s Gone, my favourite H&O record). He puts his heart into every note of it.

Issues of authenticity don’t impinge on Paul Young’s version at all. That’s not what the man was about. The churchiness of Hall & Oates’ original is entirely gone, replaced by new-fangled, modern production and instrumental touches that reached back to the previous decade (the electric sitar, for example, which is impossible to use without recalling the Chi-Lites) but no further.

If you knew Young’s version first, and then hear Hall & Oates playing the song, it’s possible to fool yourself into believing that the makeover that Young gave it was obvious, just waiting to happen. It wasn’t. Given the song and its original arrangement, it’s a very imaginative record, a strange combination of textures and elements. OK, giving it a pop treatment and a backbeat – that’s straightforward enough. But who decided to put those clattering, banging-metal noises in the mix during the solo? Whose idea was the electric sitar? The Leslie guitar? The drums through the delay? Who hired Pino Palladino and let him loose to do his post-Jaco fretless noodling? That the whole record coheres, and was a successful enough blend to be a US number one (and a British number four), is a testament to the creative hunches of Young and producer Laurie Latham. A Paul Young record really does have its own sound, and that kind of immediate distinctiveness is largely a thing of the past in pop music now.

Young was a walking punchline for rock fans in 1985, so he didn’t get a fair hearing. And true, No Parlez  had been a weak brew. His version of Love Will Tear Us Apart was spectacularly ill-conceived and borders on the unlistenable. His cover Love of the Common People revived a song that was overdone and tired already. But a good record is a good record, and in the recorded performance and again at Live Aid, Young sang the hell out of Everytime You Go Away. Yes, yes, the clothes and the hair were dreadful, and no, it doesn’t move me like Hall & Oates’ original does, but getting on for thirty years after I heard it, if Paul Young’s version of Everytime You Go Away comes on the radio, I’m still glad to hear it.

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Top: Hall & Oates, Voices (pre-mullet Daryl Hall, left)

Bottom: Paul Young

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Boulder to Birmingham – Emmylou Harris

Boulder to Birmingham is Emmylou Harris’s shattered – and shattering – response to the death of Gram Parsons, from her solo debut Pieces of the Sky (she had put out a pre-Parsons folk record, Gliding Bird, that had sunk without trace, and so Sky is usually considered her debut proper). Pieces of the Sky features many of the same musicians who had played on Parsons’ GP and Grievous Angel, which I have written about before here. In that post I made a few grouses about the work of the backing band – Elvis Presley’s TCB Band – on those albums. Some of those same guys are present here too (James Burton, Glen D. Hardin, Ron Tutt), along with such quality players from the world of country rock as Bernie Leadon, Ben Keith, Billy Payne and Byron Berline. But Harris and producer Brian Ahern pulled much greater performances from the supporting cast than had been evident on Gram’s records, though. With Emmylou leading them, the band do far more than just take care of business. This isn’t showbiz. Instead, there’s a real emotional wallop on this record that I don’t find on the majority of Parsons’ solo material (but do find on the first Burritos record, just in case it seems like I’m being a Gram hater. Parsons was a frequently inspired songwriter, but I think his best recorded work was done with Chris Hillman, not James Burton, regardless of who was the better guitar player).

Harris is a reliable singer and can breathe life into even the flimsiest material (God knows she’d have to do some of that in her time), but when paired with a song of substance, she’s devastating, the keening edge of her voice just cutting right through to the song’s emotional core. But in all her long career, she’s probably never topped this vocal, and as a writer, she’s never topped this song.

The aural integrity of the recording and the quality of the musicianship evident on this record don’t come cheap, though, and Pieces of the Sky was apparently the most expensive country record ever made at the time of its release. Fortunately it was a mainstream hit and began Harris’s successful Nashville career, which lasted until 1995, when, in her late forties and facing diminishing returns in the era of Shania Twain and Faith Hill, she released Wrecking Ball and began a second career that straddled the worlds of alternative rock and trad country.

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Wide open spaces, tiny little rooms; or, recorded drum sounds in the late 1970s

In the seventies somebody decided that all ambient sound was bad. Studios created this completely unnatural environment with not a hint of any reverberant sound coming off of anything. And if you listen to a lot of records from the seventies, the deadness on them, I find, it makes my skin crawl.

Bruce Springsteen, The Promise: The Making of Darkness on the Edge of Town

In 1976 a long-running, well-respected band with roots going back to the English blues-rock boom of the late 1960s were in a California studio, making the follow-up to their first popularly successful record in the US. While astutely and occasionally adventurously arranged (principally by the group’s guitarist Lindsey Buckingham), Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours is not a sonically radical record and it adheres to the engineering and production orthodoxies of its time in most respects. The drums may be mixed a bit louder than the Eagles had theirs, but they were recorded close and dry, and presented that way in the mix. The snare has a pillowy, plumpy sound: it goes ‘duh’ rather than ‘tssch’. The drums on Dreams go ‘buh duh, buh-buh duh’, not ‘boom tssch, boom-boom tssch’. This dampened drum sound, coupled with the sense of closeness to the band that results from the relative lack of echo and reverb, is the defining sonic quality of seventies records.

In the autumn of 1977, Bruce Springsteen, working at the Record Plant in New York, had had enough of it. Perhaps his band only rehearsed in vast, reverberant spaces, but he felt that the sound of the times was unnatural and that the music should be as big on record as it was at a big show, which, since the success of Born to Run, was the increasingly the sort of show he now played, as he moved out of clubs and into theatres. In particular he wanted a big, reverberant drum sound that was all about body, not attack. This type of drum sound felt “bigger” to him than the standard, damped-and-dry 1970s sound, and he was willing to suffer for it.

In The Promise: The Making of Darkness on the Edge of Town, Springsteen, bassist Garry Tallent and engineer Thom Panunzio recall ruefully the torturous process Bruce put them through trying to get a drum sound that discarded the sonic qualities that had thitherto been synonymous with high-budget records in the seventies. While Springsteen sat on a couch in the control room, with engineer Panunzio and producer Jimmy Iovine working the desk and attending to microphones, drummer Max Weinberg was required to hit his snare drum. If Bruce could hear the attack of the stick hitting the skin – which naturally enough he always could – he’d drawl “Stick”, and the engineer and producer would be required to do something to lessen the apparency of the stick hitting a skin. But, of course, that’s exactly what was happening. He nearly drove his bandmates and the studio staff crazy with his obsession. Usually it’s engineers and producers driving musicians crazy with their quest for perfect drum sounds.

The result of all this work is a drum sound that is the opposite of close. But Weinberg’s snare drum on Darkness goes “tssch” even less than Mick Fleetwood’s on Rumours. It’s more like a cannonball hitting a crash mat in a cathedral. It’s an absurd sound, and Darkness is one of the records that began a decade and a half of absurd drum sounds (other key influences being Bowie’s Low and of course, a couple of years down the line, Phil Collins’s In the Air Tonight from Face Value).

In 1981, Fleetwood Mac’s breakout star Stevie Nicks fell into this enormous new soundworld when Jimmy Iovine (and Tom Petty) produced Nicks’s solo debut album Bella Donna at LA’s Studio 55, recreating the gargantuan Max Weinberg/Darkness on the Edge of Town drum sound on the West Coast. The subtext was clear: This is my own thing. This is not a Fleetwood Mac album. There’s tons of space around the instruments, Russ Kunkel sounds like he’s playing the world’s biggest drums with a pair of clubs – it’s all very impressive. But I do wonder what kind of acoustic spaces Springsteen was used to if this was his idea of a “natural” sound picture when he began work on Darkness. It’s as much an exaggerated presentation of music played within an acoustic space as the damped, small-room sound of seventies clichés. Record-making, after all, is not about documentary depictions, if it ever was; it stopped being that a long time ago, the first time someone panned a drum kit in stereo.

Fleetwood Mac themselves never really went the way of the ambient drum sound, even at the height of the silliness in the late eighties. As much as it was possible for a superstar band to go a different way from the crowd to pursue their own sound, they did, and so Fleetwood’s drums on Tango in the Night are relatively small, relatively close, by the standards of that decade at least. Certainly they are not the musical heavy artillery of, say, Bad or Hysteria from the same era. Listening to Stevie Nicks on Bella Donna, then, represents the sonic road not taken for Fleetwood Mac. It’s a curious experience, not always pleasant for someone like me who loves dry drum sounds and thinks Rumours the best-sounding record ever made.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to listen to Gypsy, from the 1982 Mac album Mirage, on which the band went back to their little room, where they should be.

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Who’s draggin’ whose heart around? Stevie Nicks, Tom Petty, 1977.

She Said – Longpigs

In my office, the nineties never ended. The radio’s on almost all of the time. Most of the time it’s tuned to a certain station that plays mainly rock music from the last twenty-five years, with a sprinkling of other, non-rock, things, which always sound very strange by comparison – Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s Relax sounds positively avant-garde in the context of endless Stereophonics and U2 and Kings of Leon.

Most of this rock music is, in the end, polite. Even the fiercer-sounding bands (Nirvana, say) are somewhat neutered in this context; the huge wall of guitars of the majority of nineties rock being less likely to jump out of the speakers as something spindly and angular, the music ends up sounding somewhat samey.

But now and again a song does poke its head up and demand to be heard by virtue of sounding different. Such a song, which I’ve only heard a couple of times on this station since starting in this job four months ago but which has been a delight on each occasion, is She Said by the Longpigs.

The ambition held by Longpigs frontman Crispin Hunt in 1996, it seemed, was to have a band that sounded as much as possible like Radiohead, with whom the Longpigs toured in 1995. In the context of their later work, Radiohead’s The Bends sounds like a conventional mid-nineties rock record, but it’s worth remembering that no one else at the time was ploughing quite the same furrow as them. Yes, you could hear debts to R.E.M., to U2, to Nirvana, to Jeff Buckley, and going back further, to Magazine* and to David Bowie, but it added up to a sound that was the band’s own, which is why it was notable how much the Longpigs’ sound owed to The Bends. Vocals that jumped suddenly up an octave? Yep. Squalling, trebly Fenders? A general sense of over-caffeinated nerviness? Songs that were anthemic, bombastic and over the top, but still managed to sound genuine and personal? Yep, yep and yep.

But despite being somewhat derivative, Longpigs made a couple of great records in their short career, and She Said is the pick of them. What’s so great about it is its lack of restraint. Hunt, sounding more than a little unhinged,  yelps and screams his way through the song while the band clatter along behind him, drummer Dee Boyle’s performance being particularly inspired. I love his playing during the bridge, just before the stop, and in the last chorus and coda – it’s not showy, it’s not spectacular, but he sounds fully inside the song and he sounds like he’s having a lot of fun. With the success of Travis and Coldplay, this kind of messy abandon would disappear from British indie rock within a few years.

The second Longpigs album flopped, and flopped hard. Nothing more was heard of them as a band. But the cultural reach of the band’s members is surprisingly long. Of course, the most famous former Longpig is guitarist Richard Hawley, who went on to a spell in Pulp (replacing Russell Senior), before releasing records under his own name, which are pleasant, if sometimes in need of a dose of whatever Crispin Hunt was taking in 1996. Bass player Simon Stafford has played with Joe Strummer and Jarvis Cocker. But Hunt has perhaps the most intriguing post-Longpigs story: he’s now a behind-the-scenes guy, co-writing with or producing Jake Bugg, Florence + the Machine, Newton Faulkner, Cee-Lo Green, Ellie Goulding, Natalie Imbruglia, Fighting with Wire, Ron Sexsmith, even Mark Owen.

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*Longpigs could, however, claim their own post-punk influences that didn’t come through Radiohead: drummer Dee Boyle was a former member of Cabaret Voltaire

Roy Harper charged with sexual abuse

This is not the post I wanted to write this morning. But I couldn’t think of much positive to say. Roy Harper was not my hero, but that’s not the point. Lifetime achievement awards, Mojo Hero awards, festival headline spots, even an interview on View from the Boundary on TMS – Roy Harper is part of the cultural fabric of this country. And so we can’t sweep him under the carpet. But if we are to retain a trusting love for music, we need to think more deeply about our relationship with those who make it.

Very few things in life are pure.

From the start of the music industry, those who worked at the top of it have exploited those underneath them for commercial gain. The practices used to separate people from their money, dignity and self-determination have been legion, from managers tying young and naive artists to hugely unfavourable contracts, through in-house producers and label owners insisting on taking 50% of the publishing on a song before agreeing to so much as set up a microphone, to successful and wealthy musicians paying their session players no more than a small flat fee for coming up with instrumental parts so unique, so inspired, that the only fair arrangement would have been a point on the record (meaning a share of the artist’s royalties off the back end, as opposed to a permanent renegotiation of songwriting credit and royalties). This is before we even touch on DJs and payola and concert promoters.

The music industry is, like so much else in life, a body of murky water, the depths and pollution of which the young person often goes in only partly aware. We overlook much when we admire a musician, rather than a merely admire piece of music. At the very least, we don’t judge them for their eagerness to be involved in an industry which has always been corrupt, and is often corrupting. Music may stand for much, may provoke many emotions, may seem so powerful that it has a life of its own, but no piece of music ever used its power or celebrity for criminal and abusive ends. Admire the music, not the musician, is a sound piece of advice if you want to maintain a pure relationship with it.

All of which is an oblique way of talking about Roy Harper, who has been charged with sexually abusing a girl for two years between 1975 and 1977. The victim was 12 when the offences are alleged to have begun.

Let’s not pre-judge anything, but it’s hard not to feel anger and a certain despair when one reads about cases such as these. The last year or two has shone a light on what a lot of rich, powerful and influential men in public life thought they could get away with in the sixties, seventies and eighties, and the details are often chilling.

The sad truth is that musicians are people, and people do horrendous things to each other, sometimes for reasons that are unfathomable, sometimes as part of a repeating pattern of abuse, sometimes just because they are cruel and enjoy it.

No amount of hand-wringing after the fact can undo what was done to this girl, and I am sure that all of us just want to see justice done for her, no matter who the perpetrator is and what artistically valuable works he may have done.

I’ll be back here tomorrow, if time permits, discussing something worthy of celebration. At the moment, I must admit I don’t know what it will be, but there are thousands of notable artistic works that deserve celebrating, and that’s what we’re here for.

Normal Service Resumed Soon!

Hi folks. Sorry for the lack of posts this week. I’ve been very busy with rehearsals for a gig this Sunday (playing drums with singer-songwriter Sumner – debut show for the full band), an extra day at work to cover for a colleague, and trying to focus on a couple of recordings where I could grab an hour or two, which hasn’t left much time for this blog, so I decided to hold off until I had the time to put something together properly

That looks like happening tomorrow though, and after Monday everything should be back to normal, so check back soon!

Take care.

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Underrated Drum Tracks I Have Loved, Part 5

9) What You Won’t Do For Love – Bobby Caldwell

I wish I knew which of the three credited drummers on the album actually played the drums on What You Won’t Do For Love (which, as regular readers know, is one of my favourite songs). Alas, I haven’t been able to find out. Andy Newmark is one of the drummers listed on the sleeve, and it could be him, but I’m not going to take that leap here.

Still, the drum track is great. 16th-note hats, cool semi-quaver bass drum, the most damped, low-tuned toms in the history of popular music and some great fills in the extended outro, which (as with Careless Whisper) seems to have been extended just because the drummer caught a groove that was so undeniable it needed to be heard. And all of this while playing so tight the track could almost pass as programmed.

10 Mars, the Bringer of War – Gustav Holst

To all the percussionists who’ve had the pleasure of hammering out the brutally exciting quintuple-metre drum pattern to Mars, from Holst’s The Planets, you lucky, lucky, lucky drummers, you!

A combination of reading material, current interest in odd metres and topicality (yesterday was the 95th anniversary of the Armistice) has recently led me to listen to The Planets, and Mars in particular, for the first time since my teens. So many allusions to it, quotes from it, uses of it on soundtracks and so on haven’t yet robbed it of its power to overwhelm. When two-thirds of the way through, the opening rhythmic pattern reasserts itself, louder than ever before, as if the downed Mars had suddenly sprung back to his feet, ready to finish things off this time, and the tympani and snare drums take a good battering, it’s hard to think of a more brutal, terrifying evocation of war.

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