Tag Archives: cover versions

Underrated Drum Tracks I Have Loved 2017, Part Four: Fool (If You Think it’s Over) – Elkie Brooks

Apologies for my elongated absence. I moved house last week, so it’s been crazy busy.

If you didn’t know anything about Middlesbrough’s Chris Rea, born into an ice cream-making family, or Salford’s Elkie Brooks, formerly an English Tina Turner-style screamer in Vinegar Joe and latterly an MOR Pebble Mill at One regular, you could easily hear Fool (If You Think it’s Over) as a species of yacht rock. Especially in Brooks’s version, it’s smooth, opulent, adult and eminently yachty. Have JD Ryznar and Hunter Stair claimed it as one of their own? Maybe they have.

Fool (If You Think it’s Over) was first cut by Rea for his 1978 debut album, Whatever Happened to Benny Santini. It’s an undeniable song, but I always feel like his version’s a little too slow, and as a result doesn’t feel quite as effortless as it could do. Elkie Brooks’s 1982 cover, from her album Pearls, picks up the tempo by a few bpm, and this makes a world of difference.

The same producer, Gus Dudgeon, was in the chair for both recordings, so it’s instructive to compare the two, even if we need to be a little careful in suggesting that the differences between the two versions amount to Dudgeon “fixing” the flaws he heard in Rea’s version. Especially as so much of it is the same. While the tempo is faster for Elkie’s version, the basic layers of the drum track are constructed in the same way, and it’s an excellent construction. Both recordings begin with drum machine, which runs throughout the track. The rhythm box on Rea’s recording is notably more lo-fi than on the Brooks version, but they sound like the same machine to me: the Roland CompuRhythm CR-78. You’ll have heard this classic drum machine on countless recordings from the late seventies, including In the Air Tonight, Heart of Glass and I Can’t Go For That.

With the drum machine in place to give the song a steady four-square chassis, on top are laid some sort of shaken percussion (shekere, I think) congas and then full drum kit. On both versions, the drummers are almost heroically understated*, just playing two and four with a good feel and keeping fills to an absolute minimum. Brooks’s drummer plays the odd pssst on the hats, a little double tap on the snare going into the chorus and a few gentle cymbal crashes.

It’s beautifully simple, but the effect when all the layers are added together is an ultra-smooth, great-feeling rhythm track (aided by some superlative bass playing) that has a machine-led tightness and a very human sense of power kept in reserve – and if you’ve heard Brooks belting her way through Proud to be a Honky Woman or Pearl’s a Singer, you’ll know how much vocal power she keeps on reserve during this song, too.

I almost never do a post like this when I don’t know the identity of the drummer on the recording, but unfortunately, since Pearls is a compilation album, three drummers are listed on the sleeve, and no resource I could find online breaks down who plays on which song. So the drummer was one of Trevor Morais, Graham Jarvis or Steve Holley.

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A Thousand Kisses Deep – Jackson Browne

I first heard Leonard Cohen’s A Thousand Kisses Deep, from 2001’s Ten New Songs, while staying at my friend Yo Zushi’s flat after a recording session in London, six or seven years ago. It hit me immediately as a wonderful song, and this is not a reaction I have had that often to Cohen’s music, much of which I like, but almost all of which I have to feel my way into slowly over repeated listens. Late at night after a long, draining day, as semi-background music, in a city that I knew well but no longer called home, it sounded remarkable.

The next time I listened to it was at home, after acquiring my own copy, on my big old hi-fi (God rest it, wherever it now may be). The spell was broken. The song was still a multi-layered thing of wonder, but it stood revealed as, like so much of his post-seventies work, a risible piece of recorded music. His semi-spoken vocal wasn’t the problem, and neither was the arrangement. It was the execution. Sharon Robinson, Cohen’s collaborator (producer, backing singer and occasional co-writer) on Ten New Songs, had put together the backing tracks to all the songs, but on what sounds like the cheesiest, chintziest keyboard that Casio manufactured in the mid-1980s. It wasn’t what had been played, but what it had been played on. Up loud on my big hi-fi speakers, the recording’s deficiencies were no longer ignorable.

But still infatuated with the song, I went fishing for covers. Surely hundreds of singers had wanted to get their teeth into so meaty a text as this? And surely one of them was a recording worthy of such a piece of writing? Searching the song title on iTunes showed that while relatively few artists had attempted the track, among the ones who had was an A-lister. Jackson Browne. His version comes from a live album called Acordes con Leonard Cohen from 2006. It was recorded at a Cohen tribute concert in Barcelona, with Browne one of the few English-speaking artists on the bill (most of the songs are sung in translation). How and why Jackson Browne ended up on the bill, I couldn’t say.

Browne has always been a better writer than a singer, so I was really curious to hear how he’d do singing someone else’s material. To my surprise, his version allowed me to fall in love with the song again. Performing this song, singing Cohen’s words, the eternally boyish Browne sounds altogether deeper and darker, going to places as a singer I’d never heard him go before. He burrows into the song and explores all of its possibilities from the inside, sometimes just savouring the sound and feel of the words. There are still elements of Cohen’s version I prefer; Browne gives it a good go, but he can’t match the sense of condescension, menace even, that Cohen brings when delivering lines like “You win a while and then it’s done, your little winning streak”. Nevertheless, Browne’s reading of the song is thoroughly creditable, and the magnificent band utterly transfigure Robinson’s arrangement (again proving that what she’d written was good, but that she and Cohen had erred in not cutting the record with a real band), particularly Javier Mas with his reading of the instrumental of the instrumental hook on the bandurria

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Jackson Browne

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Sharon Robinson & Leonard Cohen

The author’s one-take guitar-&-vocal performance of a recent song

We’re All Alone – The Walker Brothers

This post was previously published on Yo Zushi’s Board of Fun blog, about 18 months ago. Hope you like it!

We’re All Alone was a standard almost the minute that Boz Scaggs finished writing it. Released on his masterwork, Silk Degrees, in 1976, within a year it had been covered by Frankie Valli, Bruce Murray, Rita Coolidge, the Three Degrees and the Walker Brothers. It’s been covered plenty more times since.

It’s easy to see what would attract a singer to such a song, but Scott Walker is no ordinary singer and in light of his work since The Electrician remade his career in 1978, one does have to wonder whether he sang the song with his arm twisted behind his back. Nonetheless the Walkers’ version is one of the most appealing, the track mixed drier and closer than the cavernous Scaggs version, Scott’s vocal managing to combine the warmth that Coolidge’s alto brought to the song with some of the soaring lightness of Boz’s performance.

Such AOR covers are not what Scott Walker is known for today. To the extent that he is known at all, it’s for his quartet of solo albums from the late 1960s — Scotts 1 through 4 — and the three arty, avant-rock albums he’s made since the Walkers broke up for the second time, a sound that was previewed on his contributions (including The Electrician) to the last Walker Brothers record, Nite Flights. These records are apt to leave reviewers groping for superlatives or scratching their heads.

Like many others, I often feel humbled in the presence of latter-day Scott Walker. His work is clearly that of a rare imagination and aesthetic sensibility. He creates music that wouldn’t occur to most people, and his sonic curiosity is obvious. Yet while prettiness and beauty are not the same thing, they’re not mutually exclusive either and since his music began moving away from conventional tonality, melody and rhythm in the 1990s, Walker has paradoxically limited his scope as a songwriter. For him to present a straightforward expression of an everyday feeling, like love, hope or empathy, in the declamatory, highly theatrical voice he has sung in since Tilt would be ridiculous; he knows it, so he doesn’t.

But people (myself included) like music that expresses of love, hope and empathy. Walker’s writing is now so ornate, so stagey (“Samuel Beckett at La Scala”, as one critic described it), that it can no longer be a vehicle for reflection on the small moments in life, the minor disappointments and simple consolations. Death, disease, pestilence, terrorism, the fathomless horror of existence — these are the subjects he’s left himself. And while that is radical subject matter within popular music (at least, outside of thrash and death metal), surely what would be truly radical would be a sensibility that allowed for both The Cockfighter and covers of We’re All Alone? That treated both the same? I’m not being conservative here; I’m not arguing that he should stop recording the sound of himself punching dead animal carcasses; I like that, too. Tilt and The Drift are excellent records. But his first producer, John Franz, was right when he judged Walker one of the great ballad singers and it’s a shame that we no longer get to hear him do something he was so good at.

Yet Walker is on his own little-travelled path — from teen idol to intrepid adventurer in form and sound — and it’s reassuring to know that such journeys can be made by anyone, wherever they start from. I’m looking forward to hearing the found-sound records that Justin Bieber will no doubt be making in 2050.

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Scott Walker