Tag Archives: Chuck Berry

Down Down – Status Quo (Rick Parfitt RIP)

2016 just won’t go quietly. Carrie Fisher in intensive care and Rick Parfitt dead on the same day. What a year. Status Quo are not favourites of mine, but I do think their best records are undervalued, so by way of tribute to Parfitt, here’s a piece about my pick of the Quo’s many records.

It’s been easy to take the mick out of Status Quo for, what, thirty years? In 1985, Bob Geldof asked them to play at Live Aid because in his mind they were almost a cartoon of the idea of a rock band, and they seemed to him like the only men for the job of opening the concert. But the public perception of loveable old salt-of-the-earth Francis and Rick – your embarrasing uncle’s favourite band – and the music they were capable of making at their peak are a whole world apart. Status Quo and the Beach Boys doing Fun Fun Fun in 1996 is one thing; Status Quo doing Down Down in 1974 is quite another.

Down Down is the sort of music that hooked many of Quo’s life-long fans: stripped-down, fuss-free rock ‘n’ roll, all sinew and muscle. Yes, it uses the Chuck Berry-once-removed boogie riff of several dozen other Status Quo songs, but the amount of variety and interest crammed into the song – the sparkling semi-clean guitar breakdown sections; the chromatic ascents from B back up to E halfway through each verse; the way that Rick Parfitt’s bass-string, Chuck Berry-style riffing in standard tuning complements Francis Rossi’s wiry open-tuned Telecaster – for me makes it the standout Quo single, and one of the best rock records full stop.

Down Down’s greatest pleasure, though, is the glorious texture of those guitars.

There’s something magical about the sound of an electric guitar that’s really cranked up loud, so it’s just on the edge between clean and distorted. That’s where Francis Rossi’s guitar on Down Down lives. It’s clean but with an aggressive edge to it, and when you play that kind of blues-rock riff at 180 bpm while the drummer plays big smacking quarter notes on the hi hat, it’s got all the rock ‘n’ roll attitude in the world without needing loads of gain to prove its point.

Rossi’s tone on its own is ear-grabbingly gorgeous, but what makes Down Down really great is the blend of Rossi’s sound with Parfitt’s. Parfitt’s tone is fatter, more distorted and fills in the bottom, underneath Rossi’s guitar. The extended intro keeps you guessing as to what kind of form the song will take when it properly begins, but when the drums and bass (yeoman work from John Coghlan and Alan Lancaster) come in along with Parfitt’s fatter and more distorted boogie riff, and the song proper reveals itself, it’s a glorious moment.

No wonder John Peel’s 45 of Down Down was in the box where he kept all his most treasured singles. If you needed a record to try to explain to an alien visitor what rock ‘n’ roll music is, you could do a lot worse that reach for Down Down.

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Give some to the bass player, part 7 – Promised Land by Bert Jansch/Outside In (live at Leeds) by John Martyn

One of the chief pleasures of Bert Jansch’s Birthday Blues is hearing musicians whose work you’ve loved in other contexts playing together in a combination you’ve not heard before. On his 1969 album, Jansch teamed up with his Pentangle rhythm section – drummer Terry Cox and the genius double bassist Danny Thompson – and added saxophonist Ray Warleigh and Duffy Power (a 1950s rocker from the Larry Parnes stable), on harmonica, to the team. Warleigh’s alto sax had haunted the street corners of Nick Drake’s At the Chime of a City Clock from Bryter Layter and it’s a treat to hear him and Jansch react to each other’s playing on the bluesy Promised Land (not the Chuck Berry song).

The busy playing of Warleigh, Jansch and Cox, as well as the brutally simple two-chord structure, necessarily casts Thompson in something of a supporting rule. While not familiar with all of the records Thompson played on as a for-hire session man, I’ve heard a fair bit of his work, and it’s a bit of a novelty to hear one of the most dazzlingly inventive musicians relegated to the sidelines of anything, although it speaks well of his judgement that he stays out of the way of Warleigh and Jansch and lets them have at it, simply holding down the riff and occasionally adding small variations.

To get a sense of what Thompson capable of, there’s only one place to go: his work with John Martyn. Thompson played with Martyn through most of the 1970s and the pair developed a sensational musical chemistry (although the tales of their boisterous on-the-road behaviour has overshadowed that somewhat). Their partnership is best illustrated on Martyn’s two finest albums (Solid Air and Inside Out) and the jaw-dropping Live at Leeds, recorded in 1975 with the Spontaneous Music Ensemble’s John Stevens behind the kit.

The 19-minute version of Outside In that opens the concert makes the album cut sound like a mere rehearsal demo (albeit one that features absolutely thunderous drumming from Remi Kabaka, outdoing Stevens for ecstatic release if not subtlety). While Martyn’s Echoplex guitar work is at its most fevered and exploratory, it’s always Thompson that my ear keeps getting drawn to. The speed and imagination with which Thompson reacts to every nuance of Martyn’s and Stevens’s playing is dazzling. In contrast to Jansch’s Promised Land, where Thompson played a supporting role, on Outside In from Live at Leeds its Stevens who steps aside and lets the two guys who’d played with each other night after night and developed a sort of telepathy venture into the songs darkest corners. As with everything else they did, they go fearlessly.

Thompson is a mighty presence in British music where folk and jazz meet. There’s no one else like him.

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Danny Thompson and Victoria, his 1865 bass

Still No Clapton, Part 5 – I’d Run Away by the Jayhawks

The first batch of these posts that I did at the very end of 2013 I called “No Hendrix, No Clapton, No Vai”, and not because I dislike those players. It’s impossible to have any feel for rock’n’roll music and dislike Jimi Hendrix. I’m not a shred fan, but I can appreciate Steve Vai’s chops and dedication to his craft, and I genuinely loved No More Amsterdam, his 2012 co-write/duet with Aimee Mann. God, even some Clapton is OK, too, though don’t get me started on his politics. We’ll be here all night and I’ll lose all my good humour.
The point of doing these, then, has been to talk in brief about some tracks I might have struggled to discuss at length in a conventional post, but also to pick out some less heralded players along the way. Sure, J Mascis and David Lindley aren’t unknowns, and Robbie Robertson is a bona-fide legend, but they’re all at least a step down in renown from Clapton and Hendrix, who simply are rock guitar for many people, or Vai, who stands for the 1980s shredders (a school of metal-ish guitarists whose extreme technical proficiency was their key selling point for many of their fans, and who are still high-profile players in guitar geek circles).
Not every great solo proclaims its greatness by being the centrepiece of a classic song, or by lasting for minutes on end, or by being the work of a celebrated player. Today’s choice is indicative of this.
The dominant instrument on my favourite Jayhawks album, Tomorrow the Green Grass, is not Gary Louris’s guitar, but Karen Grotberg’s underrated country-soul piano. The band always sounded more expansive with her on board, and her harmonies sweetened the pinched and nasal vocal blend of Gary Louris and Marc Olsen. All in all, she’s the easily overlooked Jayhawks MVP, like a great defensive lineman.
Nevertheless, Louris remained a powerful presence as lead guitarist. Louris’s playing is ultimately blues derived – most of the licks he plays, Chuck Berry played first – but the Jayhawks have always drawn strength and vigour from Louris’s lead guitar interjections. They add uncomplicated vigour, a swagger even, to a group who’ve rarely strayed all that far from medium-intensity mid-tempo country-rock.
His solo on I’d Run Away is a perfectly constructed little gem with the full range of Louris tricks: an ear-grabbing opening lick that sees him making use of the Vibrola arm on his SG for a strong vibrato, some melodic double-stop licks and a bit of old-fashioned bluesy pentatonic wailing of the type that’s been the backbone of rock guitar since Mr Berry, I guess. It’s the highlight of a song that in typical Jayhawks fashion mixes breezy music with doleful lyrics.

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Gary Louris, still rockin’ that Vibrola-equipped Gibson SG

The Poor Boy is Taken Away – Richard & Linda Thompson

Fairport Convention’s history is famously one of constant reorganisation, replacement and redefinition, initially forced on them in the most terrible of circumstances when their first drummer, Martin Lamble, was killed in motorway van crash after a gig. But even in the glow of the success of Liege & Lief, Fairport Convention swiftly reconstituted itself again. Sandy Denny was more interested in furthering her development as a songwriter than interpreting old British ballads, and not without justification since she had written Who Knows Where the Time Goes before even joining Fairport. Meanwhile bassist Ashley Hutchings cared little for anyone’s original material, no matter how good it was; he had taken up more or less permanent residence in Cecil Sharp House, the headquarters of The English Folk Dance and Song Society.

There wouldn’t have been room in any group for two members pulling in such different directions, but inevitably neither of them would stick with the band for very much longer; Hutchings began Steeleye Span as a vehicle for further experiments with the Child ballads, while Denny formed her own band, Fotheringay. Richard Thompson, Fairport’s baby-faced lead-guitar prodigy, did stay, but he would stick it out for only one more record before departing to pursue his own solo career. After just one coolly received album, though, Henry the Human Fly, he began making duo records with his new wife Linda.

Linda Thompson is a wondrous singer who is somewhat overshadowed in the history of Brit-folk by Denny. And Sandy was, in any dispassionate assessment, in a class by herself, with what Clive James characterised as a “lavish delicacy of sound” and a stylistic and emotional versatility that is close to miraculous. But it would be extremely unfair to damn Linda Thompson for not quite living up to that. Few singers in any generation can. What she did share with Denny was versatility, in feeling and in genre: her voice is cosmopolitan in a way that can make the hewn-from-the-soil Norma Waterson and Shirley Collins sound like untutored bumpkins, and earthy enough to make the trilling, precise Jacqui McShee sound prissy and piercing. Steeleye Span’s Maddy Prior has some similar vocal qualities to Thompson, yet was often saddled with a lumpen band and the production talent of Mike Batt (since inflicted on us via Katie Melua), a choice of collaborator that rather suggests a shallow emotional response to music. Neither Thompson would have given the time of day to a hack like Batt.

Richard Thompson may have done more than any other musician to weld British traditional song to electric rock and roll, but his guitar playing is in the final analysis more American than British; three parts Chuck Berry to one part Billy Pigg. Indeed it’s little remarked upon that few British guitarists can interpret country songs as well as Richard Thompson, which he manages to do without sounding callow or pretentious or fake, and frankly without hitting you over the head with the fact that he’s playing country either. On songs like the devastating The Poor Boy is Taken Away, he taps into the emotion of country music without duplicating its standard riffs, licks and clichés. Like his Fairport bandmate Sandy Denny, who cut the definitive version of Silver Threads and Golden Needles with Fotheringay, and like his former wife and musical partner Linda who sings it so beautifully, he’s able to inhabit and interpret American music without burlesquing it.

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