Author Archives: rossjpalmer

10 more of the best Steely Dan lines

Presented once again without comment or context, 10 more magnificent lines from Steely Dan songs:

“Sure, he’s a jolly roger, until he answers for his crimes”
My Rival (Gaucho)

A tower room at Eden Roc, his golf at noon for free/Brooklyn owes the charmer under me
Brooklyn Owes the Charmer Under Me (Can’t Buy a Thrill)

Watch the sun go brown/Smoking cobalt cigarettes
King of the World (Countdown to Ecstasy)

I crawl like a viper through these suburban streets
Deacon Blues (Aja)

She takes the taxi to the good hotel/Bon marché as far as she can tell
Haitian Divorce (The Royal Scam)

Alan owns a chain of Steamer Heavens/And Barry is the software king
What a Shame About Me (Two Against Nature)

Well I hear the whistle but I can’t go/I’m gonna take her down to Mexico
She said “oh no, Guadalajara won’t do”
My Old School (Countdown to Ecstasy)

When Black Friday comes I’ll fly down to Muswellbrook/Gonna strike all the big red words from my little black book
Black Friday (Katy Lied)

You were a roller skater/You gonna show me later/Turn up the Eagles, the neighbors are listening
Everything You Did (The Royal Scam)

Maybe it’s the skeevy look in your eyes/Or that your mind has turned to applesauce
The dreary architecture of your soul
Cousin Dupree (Two Against Nature)

Thanks to Nick Elvin for some more killer suggestions.


Things We Lost in the Fire; the Masters Lost in 2008 Universal Backlot Fire

There is no commercial analogue playback format that is capable of reproducing the sonic quality of an analogue master. Unless you’re into storing and playing back your digital music as 24 bit WAV files at a sampling rate of 192kHz, there’s no way to come close in the digital realm, either (and how close 24 bit/192kHz actually gets to accurately representing the soundwaves captured, well, that’s a huge can of worms it’s better not to open right now as it’s a side issue).

Whether held on 2-inch analogue tape, or 1-inch, or as digital files on a hard drive, masters are the recording, from which all commercially released mixes of a song are derived. They are the primary source. Let’s say it again: the masters are the recording.

It’s only when we grasp this that we can understand what was lost in the fire on the Universal backlot in 2008, the full details of which have apparently been something of an open secret within the industry but are only now being reported to a wider public thanks to Jody Rosen’s excellent piece for the New York Times Magazine.

In 2008, a fire swept through the backlot, destroying several iconic sets (the New York skyline, the town square from Back to the Future and more) and swiftly consuming a building known to Universal employees as the video vault. That would have been bad enough, but the vault also contained a large store of audio masters. Rosen itemises what has been lost:

There were recordings from dozens of record companies that had been absorbed by Universal over the years, including several of the most important labels of all time. The vault housed tape masters for Decca, the pop, jazz and classical powerhouse; it housed master tapes for the storied blues label Chess; it housed masters for Impulse, the groundbreaking jazz label. The vault held masters for the MCA, ABC, A&M, Geffen and Interscope labels. And it held masters for a host of smaller subsidiary labels. Nearly all of these masters — in some cases, the complete discographies of entire record labels — were wiped out in the fire.

Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Al Jolson, Bing Crosby, Ella Fitzgerald, Judy Garland. The tape masters for Billie Holiday’s Decca catalog were most likely lost in total. The Decca masters also included recordings by such greats as Louis Jordan and His Tympany Five and Patsy Cline.

Virtually all of Buddy Holly’s masters were lost in the fire. Most of John Coltrane’s Impulse masters were lost, as were masters for treasured Impulse releases by Ellington, Count Basie, Coleman Hawkins, Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach, Art Blakey, Sonny Rollins, Charles Mingus, Ornette Coleman, Alice Coltrane, Sun Ra, Albert Ayler, Pharoah Sanders and other jazz greats. Also apparently destroyed were the masters for dozens of canonical hit singles, including Bill Haley and His Comets’ “Rock Around the Clock,” Jackie Brenston and His Delta Cats’ “Rocket 88,” Bo Diddley’s “Bo Diddley/I’m A Man,” Etta James’s “At Last,” the Kingsmen’s “Louie Louie” and the Impressions’ “People Get Ready.”

[Also probably lost in the fire were] recordings by Benny Goodman, Cab Calloway, the Andrews Sisters, the Ink Spots, the Mills Brothers, Lionel Hampton, Ray Charles, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, Clara Ward, Sammy Davis Jr., Les Paul, Fats Domino, Big Mama Thornton, Burl Ives, the Weavers, Kitty Wells, Ernest Tubb, Lefty Frizzell, Loretta Lynn, George Jones, Merle Haggard, Bobby (Blue) Bland, B.B. King, Ike Turner, the Four Tops, Quincy Jones, Burt Bacharach, Joan Baez, Neil Diamond, Sonny and Cher, the Mamas and the Papas, Joni Mitchell, Captain Beefheart, Cat Stevens, the Carpenters, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Al Green, the Flying Burrito Brothers, Elton John, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Eric Clapton, Jimmy Buffett, the Eagles, Don Henley, Aerosmith, Steely Dan, Iggy Pop, Rufus and Chaka Khan, Barry White, Patti LaBelle, Yoko Ono, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, the Police, Sting, George Strait, Steve Earle, R.E.M., Janet Jackson, Eric B. and Rakim, New Edition, Bobby Brown, Guns N’ Roses, Queen Latifah, Mary J. Blige, Sonic Youth, No Doubt, Nine Inch Nails, Snoop Dogg, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Hole, Beck, Sheryl Crow, Tupac Shakur, Eminem, 50 Cent and the Roots.

I’ve quoted from Rosen at length as it’s only when we see his lists written down that we begin to grasp the full extent of what was lost.

Why does this matter so much?

Two reasons: firstly, session reels contain sessions, not just the final take of a song and its attendant overdubs. Every time you buy an expanded edition of a record with alternate takes and unreleased songs, someone has been going through the archive to source that material. Who knows how many incredible alternate tales of canonical recordings we now have no chance to discover in future, how many stunning outtakes? You may think, well, we still have the released records, and that’s right, we do. But I’ve been delighted by too many work-in-progress versions and rough mixes and outtakes in my lifetime to be cavalier about what may have gone up in smoke.

Just yesterday, I listened to some of the material that Radiohead have made available from Thom Yorke’s leaked Minidisc archive from the OK Computer sessions. Within 10 minutes of the first disc starting, there is an astonishing early version of Airbag – a much looser, live-sounding take with Colin Greenwood and Phil Selway playing very different parts to those that made it to the album. What burned in the fire are the millions of potential instances of the delight I took from hearing that kind of audio snapshot of a song’s development.

But that’s not all. As I said up top, commercial playback formats lag a long way behind both analogue and digital masters in terms of the sonic quality. Neither vinyl nor any commercially widespread digital standard get close to the 24bit 44.1kHz masters of the recordings I make, let alone a 2-inch 24-track analogue master made by a good engineer in a world-class studio.

While new, higher-resolution digital formats are becoming a little more widespread among listeners, we have lost the ability to go back to the master tapes to create higher-res digital masters. You can’t simply take a CD and upsample it – you can’t put back what wasn’t captured in the first place. You need the masters. This is before we begin to factor in all the “audiophile” vinyl releases sourced from copies of the master or even the CD mixes. That’s why many of us prize the expanded/remixed/remastered editions of catalogue releases. Going back to the source is the only way you can improve on older-generation transfers made in a hurry on inferior equipment, as was the case for the first CD releases of the majority of heritage artists.

My apologies to Rosen for stealing his metaphor but it’s the best way to explain the issue. Listening to a vinyl record or a CD or an MP3 is like looking at a print of a great work of art. Some formats get closer to capturing the true experience of seeing the artwork, but there’s always a gap between the two. What burned in that fire were the paintings, not the prints.

The prints we still have, the paintings are lost for ever. And until yesterday, most of us didn’t know what we’d lost.

In a Free Land – Hüsker Dü

When I was around 15 or 16, in 1997 and 1998, I was constantly on the lookout for records by bands I’d read about and never heard. I’d read whatever American guitar magazines I could get my hands on (never passing a newsagent when I was out cycling around town without going in to see what they had) and any book about rock music in any of the libraries in the borough. Through the interviews I read in guitar magazines and books, I learned about Sonic Youth, Hüsker Dü, the Replacements, Dinosaur Jr, the Minutemen, as well as a host of big-in-the-US acts that never made it over here.

One article in one of these magazines (a sort-of history of alternative rock that I really wish I’d kept. Talk about a time capsule!) was a retrospective of the Minneapolis music scene in the 1980s, which is where I found out all about Hüsker Dü, the Replacements, the Jayhawks and Soul Asylum*. So when I saw an expanded edition of Hüsker Dü’s debut studio album, Everything Falls Apart, in Southend Library, I picked it up right away, barely pausing to ask how such an aggressive, low-budget artefact ended up in a public library, 4000 miles from where it was released on the band’s own label in 1982, when I was less than a year old. Frankly, I still don’t know who on earth was acquiring the records for Essex Libraries’ CD catalogue, but I’m mighty glad that said catalogue included Hüsker Dü.

Everything Falls Apart is a hardcore album, with several songs less than a minute long, and a total running time of around 25 minutes. So the label in charge of the reissue, Rhino, filled it out with the band’s early 7-inch singles and B-sides. One of which was In a Free Land, a track that hinted at what the band would go on to do as a more focused melodic force, rather than three guys playing so fast and screaming so hard the music was a barely coherent blur.

Hardcore was by its very nature political. All the bands were anti-government, some out of leftist convictions (they were appalled the country was now run by Reagan), some because of anarchist sympathies. In a Free Land, a rant against the education system and the wider society that it serves, was more in tune with the latter strain of hardcore (the hard-to-hear last line of the verse is “The only freedom worth fighting for is what you think”). Mould would revisit some of these themes later in his work (as on Copper Blue‘s The Slim, Mould’s response to losing someone to Aids), but his solo songs and those he recorded with Sugar were on the whole more concerned with his emotional life than the ones he wrote for Hüsker Dü.

In a Free Land, like Grant Hart’s Turn on the News from Zen Arcade, exists in a strange state. Familiar only to Hüsker diehards, it should be a standard. If it had been recorded by the Clash, it would be. So it was an enormous treat when I saw Mould play the Electric Ballroom in Camden a couple of months ago that In a Free Land was one of the Hüsker Dü songs he performed that night, alongside New Day Rising, Makes No Sense at All, I Apologise and Never Talking to You Again. It deserves its place in that elevated company.

In a Free Land

*Actually, I knew Soul Asylum via Runaway Train and owned Grave Dancers Union already, but had no idea they’d once been a hardcore band mentored and produced by Bob Mould.

My Finest Work Yet – Andrew Bird

The title of his latest album is no doubt a winking provocation, but perhaps Andrew Bird is right.

Obvious things out of the way first: it’s his best-sounding record yet. OK, it has the usual contemporary unsubtle mastering job that ensures My Finest Work Yet is several times louder than the jazz records from which it takes its sonic inspiration. However, the small-band arrangements and Rudy Van Gelder-inspired recording techniques Bird and his producer Paul Butler favoured for the recording sessions (the band tracking live together in a big room with no separation), give the songs that most precious and rare commodity in all forms of recorded music these days: space. Luxurious acres of it.

So, frankly, Bird had me on his side from the moment he premiered Bloodless, the album’s second track. Its glorious drum sound, fat but not overpowering, and gorgeous piano tone quite overruled any concerns I had about Bird building his song around the hook “it’s an uncivil war” – a sentiment that, while a decent summation of today’s political landscape, is not exactly trippingly on the tongue. The effectiveness of a pun is somewhat diminished when the shape of the melody barely gives you enough time to enunciate the syllable upon which the pun depends.

We’ve started, then, with the second of our obvious things. Bird is a words guy of long standing. But when you make lyrics and your delivery of them the focus of your music, you encourage your listener to nitpick. Bird is a far more imaginative and risk-taking lyricist than 95% of songwriters, and he’s very good. Brilliant at times, in fact. The first verse of Sisyphus is ingenious but also funny:

Sisyphus peered into the mist
A stone’s throw from the precipice, paused.
Did he jump or did he fall as he gazed into the maw of the morning mist?
Did he raise both fists and say, “To hell with this”, and just let the rock roll?

But in pushing himself so hard, Bird is also apt to fall over himself. When things go wrong, as on the second verse of Sisyphus (a song which I should say I do like enormously), the result is a pile-up of contorted polysyllables barely contained within the metre and stressed in the wrong places, with – more important – a tune you can’t hum:

I’d rather fail like a mortal than flail like a god, I’m a lightning rod
History forgets the moderates
For those who sit recalcitrant and taciturn
You know I’d rather turn and burn than scale this edifice, yeah

I’m enough of a stick in the mud to find this a problem. Sure, personal taste and blah, blah, blah, but if you value economy and precision, Bird may infuriate as much as he delights.

Fortunately, lyrics aren’t the only component in pop music, and musically Bird is rarely less than superb. If you’re unfamiliar with him, Andrew Bird is a singer-songwriter who plays 5-string violin and guitar, but is principally a violinist making frequent use of loops of his violin playing within a live-band context, often pizzicato (ie plucked) melodies, rather than bowed lines. He’s also a champion whistler, with an enviable controlled vibrato, and a great sense of when to deploy his whistling chops to create instrumental hooks. Consequently, his music is pretty much a one-of-a-kind affair. As much as he shares kinship with some of the Largo crowd – Jon Brion, Aimee Mann, Fiona Apple – he sounds little like any of them.

So, some reservations about Bird’s more outlandish lyrics (which I wanted to get out the way early) aside, My Finest Work Yet starts very strongly. Sisyphus and Bloodless are definite album highlights.

Third track Olympians spins its wheels a little, but the album hits what may be its highest point with fourth song Cracking Codes. A sparse, piano-led ballad, it builds patiently over the course of a vocal verse, a bridge and a second instrumental verse in which the piano carries the main melody while Bird whistles a counter-melody, to its climax, in which Bird’s voice is harmonised by bandmate Alan Hampton and a guesting Madison Cunningham. The blend of the three voices gives me chills.

Here’s a live version of Cracking Codes.

Fallorun, by contrast, is almost shockingly conventional indie rock by Bird’s standards. It even starts with some guitar feedback. It does give drummer Ted Poor a chance to play two and four at a moderate-fast tempo, a rarity for him within Andrew Bird’s music, and he seems happy to go at it. The chorus melody is fine, but it’s one of those songs that yields all the pleasures it can offer in half a dozen plays, and it hasn’t kept me coming back like Sisyphus, Bloodless and Cracking Codes have.

After a free-time intro, the main violin melody of Archipelago is as warm and comforting as a hug. Lyrically, though, it’s another song that seems to address the polarised political climate (“We’re locked in a death grip and it’s taking its toll/When our enemies are what make us whole. Listen to me: no more excuses, no more apathy. This ain’t no archipelago, no remote atoll”). The song’s humanity – wisdom, even – ensure that the big ending, in which the backing vocals follow Bird’s in a call-and-response fashion, feels earned rather than by the numbers.

Proxy War begins with a funky side-stick drum intro, over which bass and piano are joined by layers of Bird’s violin and (I think) a distorted guitar – an arrangement that nicely mimics an R&B horn section. The chorus switches to 7/4 time and Poor gets to play some cool fills. One of the least lyrically dense tracks on the album, it works as a mood lightener, and offers a sort sideways reminder that long ago Andrew Bird began his career playing violin with the Squirrel Nut Zippers.

Manifest – Bird at his most pastoral – reminds me strongly of Laura Veirs in its west coast setting, G major chord sequence and the string arrangement. I doubt it’s deliberate, but the resemblance is marked. It’s not structurally knotty or lyrically complex compared to other Bird songs, but it’s another one of the album’s high points for me: a lovely, unhurried song.

Don the Struggle begins like Bird chanelling Benny & the Jets. It’s thudding, stompy pulse eventually gives way to a double-time 7/4 section with Bird’s vocal exactly following the beats. While it was no doubt a struggle to write a lyric to fit the metre, he makes it sound surprisingly natural. As tension and release, the song works effectively, but it’s the tension part that keeps me coming back. Bird got it right, I think, by keeping the 7/4 part a brief mid-song interlude and having the song end with his dramatic violin solo over the 4/4 sequence.

The album ends with Bellevue Bridge Club. Its verse – built on a rudimentary drum pattern and a basic two-chord sequence strummed on electric guitar, with Bird playing his 5-string violin in its viola range – can’t help but sound like a Velvet Underground pastiche, which ordinarily would not do anything for me at all. Fortunately, after about a minute, Bird quits his Lou Reed impression, Poor locates his hi-hat, the song acquires a groove and the harmonies (with Madison Cunningham again) take the song somewhere far satisfying. It’s a fine end to a fine album.

Over the course of a dozen solo records, Bird’s music has become a little less unconventional than it was at the beginning of his career, with more songs that follow standard pop chord sequences and structures. This has had the tendency to make his records more cohesive and consistent, and to be honest, more to my taste. I’m sure he’s lost fans along the way, too – it’s impossible for a songwriter to grow in any direction while pleasing everyone who was into their work at the start. So, as I said up top, calling his album My Finest Work Yet is a good-humoured provocation. He might be right, though: it’s tighter than 2016’s Are You Serious, his voice gets better with every record, the playing is superlative and the sonics, at least by modern standards, are impeccable.

I’m seeing him at the Barbican next week, with Cunningham in support, and I can’t wait.


Plastic Factory – Captain Beefheart & his Magic Band

Don Van Vliet (or maybe Don Glen Vliet – wikipedia says the latter was his given name) spent his teens and early twenties collaborating with Frank Zappa, and their volatile friendship would endure long enough for Zappa to sign Beefheart to his own label in 1969. Both difficult and ornery men, their careers have obvious parallels, not least their need to stand out from the crowd, to run hard and deliberately in the opposite direction to the way everyone else was going.

So it was, then, that in 1967, during the Summer of Love – the height of the hippie era – while his contemporaries were ready to float off into the ether, Beefheart released his first album, a fractured but only lightly psychedelic take on Delta blues and gritty R&B. While everyone else wore their hair long, with robes and beads, the Captain and his bandmates dressed more like 1930s gangsters or British toffs gone to the bad; on the sleeve of Safe as Milk, guitarist Alex Snouffer resembled the aristocratic murderer Lord Lucan enjoying a second life as a James Bond villain.

Captain Beefheart’s records have a forbidding reputation, especially Trout Mask Replica. I own TMR, and I’ve never made it all the way through in one sitting. It’s as hard-going as people say. Guitarists play seemingly in different time signatures and at varying tempos. The drums seem chaotic and at odds with the guitars. The bass is in another world again. And Beefheart bellows over the top of it all, again seeming to pay little heed to the band. Throughout the album, whatever his instrumentalists are playing, Beefheart always seems to sing in the same key.

However difficult Trout Mask Replica is, though, not all Beefheart’s music is so forbidding. His debut album, Safe as Milk, is a delight, and positively accessible in comparison, a surreal take on Delta Blues with occasional stylistic diversions into doo-wop (I’m Glad) and even children’s music (Yellow Brick Road). Nevertheless, despite being easily the most conventional of Beefheart’s classic works, Safe as Milk, and the song Electricity in particular, horrified his label A&M, whose boss Jerry Moss heard a demo of Electricity and decided that he wouldn’t want his daughter listening to this kind of negative music. Such was the way of things for Beefheart. He instead released his debut on Buddah (sic), subsidiary of Kama Sutra.

Plastic Factory, written by Beefheart, the enigmatic Herb Brennan and bassist Jerry Handley, shows off Beefheart’s dead-on Howling Wolf impression, and was improbably released as a single. It didn’t fly out of record stores, but it did help to build the good Captain a cult audience that would follow him down even his most elliptical paths.

Like Safe as Milk generally, Plastic Factory is very portable: you could listen to it and get a lot from it without knowing anything about Beefheart’s wider career, just purely on its own terms. If you’re into electric blues generally or Delta blues particularly (or you want an overview of late-1960s California music), then you definitely should hear it. I’ve listened to it a lot down the years, even while my lack of success extracting much pleasure from Trout Mask Replica has led me to conclude that Beefheart fandom was not for me. Safe as Milk stands well on its own.


Twyford Down – Galliano

Before American rock music became my musical obsession, I mainly bought and listened to compilations of contemporary music, some of which was rock and some of which decidedly wasn’t.

One of the records I listened to most, which I loved wholeheartedly, was called Groovin’. It was woven together from a few different musical threads: contemporary West Coast hip hop (nothing too hard, though), slightly older East Coast hip hop, soulful R&B-flavoured pop, some very late new jack swing, and miscellaneous British tracks, most of which you could broadly call acid jazz.

The most famous group that ever got tagged with that label was of course Jamiroquai, whose Stevie Wonder-fetishising music is, if I’m forced to be polite, not to my taste at all. But if you’re not familiar with the term and want to know what the style sounded like, early Jamiroquai singles like Too Young to Die and Blow Your Mind encapsulate it pretty well: soul- and funk-derived music, led by bass and keyboards, with live drums and often lots of additional percussion.

Included on Groovin’ was a song by a band called Galliano, an early progenitor of the sound, but commercial also-rans compared to Jamiroquai, Incognito and the Brand New Heavies. I had no idea until around ten years later that the Galliano song on Groovin’, Long Time Gone, was actually a Crosby, Stills & Nash cover (and a David Crosby song at that). At the time, I liked it well enough, I suppose. But it seemed a bit earnest, in comparison to the more nihilistic gangsta stuff elsewhere on the CD or the more whimsical likes of De La Soul.

The following year, Polygram brought out a rather inferior sequel, The Essential Groove, containing tracks by many of the same artists who featured on Groovin’. Galliano were among the returnees, with another track from their 1994 record, The Plot Thickens.

This one, Twyford Down, made little impression on me, clearly, because I barely remembered it until I revisited the compilation last year. But, actually, it’s a bit of a belter.

In the early to mid-1990s, a spate of major road building under the Thatcher and Major Tory governments met with heavy, justified, resistance from protesters appalled at the disregard being shown to areas of sensitive environmental importance. The most famous of these protests was probably the one against the Newbury bypass, but Twyford Down was possibly even more significant, as the proposal to cut through the down (a Site of Special Scientific Interest) to make the M3 a continuous road drew a wide coalition of protestors, many of whom were solidly middle-class (conservative in every sense of the world) professionals of the sort the government and the right-wing media couldn’t simply dismiss as troublemakers, anarchists and hippies.

I didn’t know much of this at the time. Nor did I clock, aged 13, the references that Galliano were playing with in Twyford Down the song. OK, I got the opening quote from The Teddy Bear’s Picnic, but the resemblance of the fuzzed-out guitar riff to the style of Ernie Isley went straight over my head. As did the fact that the chorus – “Maybe it’s the time of year, or maybe the time of man, I don’t know” – is a more-or-less direct quote from Joni Mitchell’s Woodstock. Nor did I get the similarity of the massed backing vocals at the end of the song to the chant-like incantations you hear on, for example, Roy Ayers tracks like Everybody Loves the Sunshine. All these reference points were way beyond me. When I heard Twyford Down again last year and realised quite how much Galliano owed to Laurel Canyon rock as well as black soul music, I was surprised but also delighted.

The battle for Twyford Down was lost, of course, as these battles usually are in the end. But the protesters gave the government enough of a bloody nose to contribute to the  change in road-building policy in the UK. If you build more roads, you encourage more traffic, on and on, without end, until there won’t be any more green spaces to build roads through. The policy of building of yet more trunk roads, and the egregious proposal to carve another motorway through the Pennines, were dropped by John Major’s weakened government, and has not yet reappeared.

Galliano’s song stands as a monument to a time when the environmental battles we faced, or read about in the news, were localised, small scale and did seem winnable. Would that it were so now. As such, Twyford Down may seem almost quaint today. But we’d do well to listen, recognise its mix of cold anger and warm communitarianism, and learn from it. We need such songs more than ever.


Mama Roux – Dr John

Dr John’s latter-day reputation as an avuncular ivory-tinkling presence on the margins of pop culture, liable to pop up on TV every so often to sing a good-humoured rendition of Iko-Iko, before disappearing back to Louisiana to play ragtime piano in a bar, is at serious odds with his early music.

Dr John was born Malcolm John Rebennack in, of course, New Orleans in 1941. He was a promising guitar player, beginning to make his way in the local music industry, until an accident with a gun (he was trying to disarm someone holding up his friend and the gun went off) left him with a damaged ring finger on his fretting hand. Unable to regain the feeling and movement needed to play guitar as he had previously, he switched to piano, and developed a style indebted to Professor Longhair.

During a couple of years of session playing in LA, he cooked up an idea. What could you do by mixing up jazz and R&B and rock with voodoo mythology and a theatrical, Screaming Jay Hawkins-style stage show? He decided, after pondering a while, that you could do quite a lot, and his old friend Harold Battiste (who was an oboe player and arranger for Phil Spector) agreed.

Rebennack wanted another friend, Robbie Barron, to assume the Dr John persona, but Barron’s manager convinced him it would be a bad career move. So Rebennack, clad in a headdress that would never go over these days, took on the role of Dr John himself. His creation, Dr John Creaux, was a sort of witch doctor/voodoo priest, presiding over a band made up of LA session pros, some of whom were fellow NOLA transplants.

Gris Gris, Dr John’s debut album, was recorded at Gold Star in Los Angeles, where Spector and the Beach Boys did much of their work, but it could scarcely be further away in sound or mood from sunny LA pop. With its sound world of mandolin, bass clarinet, multitudinous percussion instruments, snaky bass grooves and sparing use of keyboards and electric guitars, the songs on Gris Gris sound like the accompaniment to a sinister ritual taking place deep in the Bayou Sauvage. Backing singers chant incantations and Rebennack slips in and out of English and Cajun French, as he wheedles you into trying his potions and gris gris, warning you all the time not to cross him. Three of the album’s seven tracks are eerie quasi-instrumentals with vocal chants.

Mama Roux is one of the album’s two relatively traditional songs – the tracks with the most connection to what Rebennack has done since his fifth album, Dr John’s Gumbo, remade his image and sound and cast him as a more cuddly, good-time kind of figure (I’d love it if he’d gone back to his voodoo-doctor roots when asked to provide the theme to the TV show Blossom, but alas no). The rhythm track isn’t straight two-and-four stuff on a drum kit (like the other songs on the record, it puts equal weight on shakers, congas, timbales, talking drums and other assorted percussion), and the ridiculously deep bass comes from organ pedals rather than a bass guitar, but it’s essentially an R&B tune at heart. If you like the weird edge it has, check out the whole album. It’s one of a kind.