Tag Archives: Dave Grohl

Double Live Gonzos, part 1: MTV Unplugged in New York – Nirvana

On 18 November 1993, Nirvana taped an acoustic performance for MTV’s Unplugged strand. I’ve been meaning to post something about the resulting show/album since I saw someone post something on Facebook about the 25th anniversary of the recording last month. Other writing commitments and general seasonal business got in the way. I decided to write about the record as the first in a series of posts about live albums (all old staples of my record collection).

So here we go, the first of them (which as we shall see isn’t a double album and is generally not very gonzo).

*

They obviously had a very clear vision of what they wanted to do. And they were secure in that, and it turned out to be incredibly right.

Joel Stillerman, Executive Producer, MTV Unplugged

MTV Unplugged in New York was recorded at Sony Music Studios, Hell’s Kitchen, on 18 November 1993. The show’s production team had been after Nirvana for a while, although quite what they had expected the band to do in such a setting is a little mystifying. Nirvana had included a couple of acoustic songs on Nevermind, but essentially they were a rock band, and an unusually raw and ragged one at that. Whatever it is that MTV producer Alex Coletti had wanted them to do at the outset, Nirvana’s performance turned out to be one of the absolute signature moments of the show. In the annals of MTV Unplugged, it’s Nirvana, Clapton and then everyone else.

The first problem the band had when approaching the show, other than Kurt Cobain’s basic unreliability due to his drug use, was material. That old saw about a song not being a good song if you can’t play it with one acoustic guitar or a piano is actually a vast oversimplification. Would Strawberry Fields Forever sound like Lennon’s best work played on one guitar? Would, say, I Feel Love sound like a classic that needed to be heard over 12 minutes to get the full impact if played by one earnest guitar player? Cobain was a first-rate songwriter, but that didn’t mean that all of his songs sounded their best played on an acoustic guitar and a brushed snare drum. They relied on the intensity of a full-bore rock band to put them in their proper context. Shorn of the power of volume, which of their songs would work?

Something in the Way and Polly from Nevermind were natural fits, of course. As was Dumb from In Utero, and it would have been easy enough for the band to imagine About a Girl being played on acoustic guitars. What else would they do, though? They needed, like, 10 other songs.

In the event, they chose to play acoustic arrangements of a few other Nirvana songs, then filled the rest of the set with works by other songwriters. Cobain, Grohl and bassist Krist Novoselic had always sought to deflect attention away from themselves and on to their peers and influences; it was a big part of how they handled their runaway success, and a very laudable part, too. So naturally, they covered shambling twee-pop duo the Vaselines for the umpteenth time, recorded a song popularised by Lead Belly (a big hero of Cobain’s since Slim Moon had played him Lead Belly’s Last Sessions in the late 1980s), did an obscure David Bowie song (again, a favourite from the early days of the band; this time the man who got Cobain hooked was Chad Channing, Nirvana’s pre-Grohl drummer) and invited their friends the Meat Puppets to sit in with them as they played no fewer than three of the band’s songs.

Having already expanded to a four-piece for the In Utero tour with the addition of former Germs guitarist Pat Smear, the band also incorporated cellist Lori Goldston for the Unplugged show. When Curt and Cris Kirkwood sat in on bass and guitar for the three Meat Puppets songs, Goldston and Smear sat out, Cobain put down his guitar and Novoselic moved to play second guitar.*

They began with About a Girl, sounding a little tentative; Cobain’s tempo in the intro is all over the place. As it progresses, the band seem more at ease, and the song, played acoustically rather than electric, sounds more Lennon-esque than ever (despite, or perhaps because of, its bizarre key change from E minor to C# for the chorus).

Come as You Are, enthusiastically received by the audience, demonstrates the good and the not-so-good of the band as an acoustic ensemble. Cobain is as committed vocally as he was in any rock show, and Grohl’s adaptation to the acoustic environment is impressive for a legendarily hard-hitting drummer. But Novoselic is often ahead of the beat and Smear, whether by lack of imagination or diktat from Cobain, never explores what different voicings or complementary parts could do for the song. Cobain plays the riff; Smear doubles it. Cobain strums open chords; Smear does too. It’s not a bad approach, but it’s noticeable how arranged the next two songs are in comparison.

Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for a Sunbeam (the Vaselines cover misidentified by Cobain as a rendition of a Christian song) sees Novoselic pick up an accordion (his first instrument) while Grohl plays bass and pedals his hi-hat. Immediately, the sound opens out, and the effect is charming even if the song’s snidiness is not as clever as it thinks it is.

The Man Who Sold the World sees Nirvana stretch the Unplugged format. Cobain refused to play unless he could use his usual Fender amp and effects pedals, so Alex Coletti had the set dressers build a box to disguise the amp and make it look like a monitor wedge. His tone was horrible (the result of playing a rare Martin dreadnought, a D18-E, that came outfitted with two large magnetic pickups. It sounded so bad that Martin ceased production after one year). However, if Cobain hadn’t insisted on using his amp and pedals, we’d not have got the gorgeous arrangement the band put together for The Man Who Sold the World, where Cobain’s guitar and Goldston’s cello merge and become one instrument for around a minute in the outro. As for the reading of the song itself, it’s spellbinding, with one of Cobain’s best vocals. In Bowie’s recording, the jolly organ and the let’s-all-play-our-scales chorus distracted the listener somewhat from the song’s unsettling premise; Nirvana cut right to the heart of it, and there is unease (dread, even) in Cobain’s voice as he sings it.

Next were two songs from In Utero. For my money, of Cobain’s material, Pennyroyal Tea was the only song to fall down in its acoustic incarnation, despite his instruction to the band that he would be playing it by himself (he phrases it as a question – “am I going to do this by myself?” – but it’s clearly not a question). The idea of Cobain doing one of his songs solo, all the audience’s attention on Cobain’s voice and lyrics, sounds great. The problem is that, structurally simple and melodically repetitive, Pennyroyal Tea feels like an unfinished first draft without Dave Grohl’s bombastic drums and vocal harmonies. Dumb fares much better – again, its the extra touches (Grohl’s harmonies and Goldston’s cello) make it sing.

Polly and On a Plain were dispatched without fuss, the latter adding a note or two of levity to the performance with a lyric that contained several in-jokes and an admission from Cobain that he didn’t always know what he was trying to say. Grohl later said that he felt Cobain wanted to bring the Unplugged performance “down to just the lowest, most dirge-like, Leonard Cohen level”. If so, Something in the Way succeeded in this aim. The cello is, again, a nice touch.

The three Meat Puppets songs are all great. I’m a particular fan of Oh Me, which has a gorgeous E major riff and a lovely short lead guitar passage by Curt Kirkwood that’s beautifully phrased and possibly the prettiest moment in the whole set. Kirkwood’s guitar playing is impressive throughout, actually, from the fingerpicking riff to Plateau to the pentatonic lead at the end of Lake of Fire.

Looking at the gig as a whole, the Nirvana songs that work best acoustically for me are About a Girl and All Apologies. I genuinely can’t choose which versions I prefer, the acoustic or album versions. That said, there’s something about the version of All Apologies on Unplugged – it’s so naked and vulnerable, and in the end as Cobain and Grohl sing the mantra “All in all is all we are” in harmony, so weirdly celebratory, it may even beat the In Utero recording, which is probably my favourite song on my favourite Nirvana album.

Which just leaves Where Did You Sleep Last Night, Nirvana’s take on Lead Belly’s take on In the Pines. Cobain had history with this song. As we said earlier, he’d been listening to Lead Belly since he was played Lead Belly’s Last Sessions by Slim Moon, founder of the indie label Kill Rock Stars, in the late 1980s while living in Olympia. In Nirvana’s early days, he and Novoselic had a side project with the Screaming Trees’ Mark Lanegan and Mark Pickerel playing electric arrangements of old blues songs: they cut their version for Lanegan’s solo debut album, The Winding Sheet, a record that everyone in the band thought was magical and was consciously trying to emulate in their Unplugged set.

Where Did You Sleep Last Night is hard to write about now, with so much myth-making surrounding it. Suffice it to say, it’s as breathtaking as everyone says it is. Cobain’s vocal in that final verse is unearthly, his screech on the word “shiver” so hair-raising it seems to bring the whole band to a halt, as if they’ve been shocked into silence by what they’re hearing. The band did no encore. As Cobain protested to Coletti when he tried to talk them into doing another song, there was no way they could top what they’d just done.

MTV Unplugged in New York is not a flawless album. It’s full of mistakes and flubs and missed notes. The arrangements are sometimes simplistic, the guitar tones tinny. It is, though, an incredibly human album. A lot of listeners have no use for live records; why hear a rough approximation of a song’s studio incarnation when you could listen to the real thing? But for fans who do love live records, it’s the humanity that we’re drawn to, I think: the subtleties of real-time reaction between musicians, the knife-edge moments where the performance seems dangerously close to coming apart but doesn’t.

Unplugged in New York is full of those moments, and if you’re of the opinion that Nevermind is too slick to be the real Nirvana and In Utero downplays the band’s melodic side too much (I hold neither of these opinions, by the way), I can easily see how Unplugged could be your favourite Nirvana album. Even without electric instrumentation – the serrated edge of Cobain’s distorted Fender, the thrilling power Grohl brought to the snare drum and cymbals – it genuinely captures the spirit of the band, and remains essential.

unplugged

*The mix for the audio released, by Scott Litt, puts Cobain’s guitar a little off centre to the left and Pat Smear’s about halfway over to the right. Curt Kirkwood plays Smear’s guitar, which Litt turns up for the three songs and brings slightly closer to the centre. Novoselic’s guitar on those is about halfway to the left and tends to come in and out of the mix, plainly audible in some sections and all but absent from others.

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Voice-&-guitar one-offs – is originality possible for singer-songwriters in 2015?

I’m very late to the party on Simon Reynolds’s Retromania, mainly because I felt like he was probably going to be talking about a lot of artists and genres about which I knew nothing, and to get much out of the book I was going to have to get familiar with swathes of new (to me) music. As it turns out, I enjoyed it hugely. I was familiar enough with some of the artists to get the general point, and a bit of listening to some key tracks here and there filled in enough of the blanks for me when Reynolds was discussing stuff I didn’t know.

The whole idea of newness in art (music especially, but art generally) is one that’s occupied my mind a lot down the years. If you’ve read many of the pieces on this blog you’ll know that there are styles and eras I’m fonder of than others, and that I’m particularly interested in alt.rock from the 1980s and 1990s, and 1970s singer-songwriter stuff (some, like Paul Simon, I heard in my young childhood, but much of which I discovered as an adult).

This music, it hardly needs saying, is not new. Not on the level of sonics, not on the level of song structure, not harmonically, arrangementally, or any other way you care to mention. And yet, when I listen to, say, Judee Sill, Nick Drake, Joni Mitchell or David Crosby I hear newness. At any rate, I hear uniqueness – I hear things that I’ve not heard in the music of any other songwriter, and I hear melodic, harmonic and lyrical ideas that seem to me could only have had one author. I don’t believe any other songwriter than Sill could have written Jesus Was a Cross Maker or The Donor. Only Crosby could have written Where Will I Be or The Lee Shore.

I’ve no grand rebuttal to Reynolds’s theories, but I’m thinking a lot about how we account for this kind of originality within his conception of pop culture, where newness is most often seen as being a result of either technological progress, or the bringing together of genres that previously seemed impervious to synthesis with others and so on. This sort of uniqueness, newness, originality, call it what you will, comes from an individual’s (or group’s, if we’re talking about a band) ability to resist the lure of pastiche, to express themselves through a given medium, whether it’s a guitar, a piano, a laptop or a sampler), and to do so in a way that’s expressive of their own, what, emotions? Personality? Sensibility? All three?

I don’t know. Someone like my friend Yo Zushi might say that none of this has a bearing on the quality of the music, that everyone simply takes consciously or unconsciously from their influences and that their filtering and reuse of these influences constitutes their originality). All I know is that when I listen to, say, Joni Mitchell or Kurt Cobain (to take an example from the era of rock that’s marked me most heavily) I hear musical one-offs, people whose work could not be by anyone else*, and when I listen to, say, Jackson Browne or Dave Grohl, I don’t. It’s not that Mitchell’s and Cobain’s work is always or in any fundamental way better than that of those other artists, but it is their own in a way that I think can be felt by any halfway sensitive listener.

For someone who’s a pop fan and also writes voice-and-guitar songs, this is a pretty interesting topic. It’s something I’m going to keep chewing over.

Joni-Mitchell
Joni

*Both artists did have an imitative phase. All artists do. I’m talking about the work they did when they reached maturity with Blue and Nevermind respectively.

Foo Fighters at 20

Gee, I got old. Twentieth anniversaries of records I bought as a teenage will start coming thick and fast now. Some I’ll write about fondly; others I might listen to and wonder what the hell I saw in this music. But, and this I can guarantee, it’ll be with a where-did-the-time-go bewilderment.

So Foo Fighters, then. Nowadays the acceptable face of mainstream rock and professional nice guy, albeit one with enough self-regard to deem the fact that he’s making a new record worthy of an 8-part HBO series full of slo-mo shots of the band walking purposefully, Dave Grohl didn’t always have quite such an assured position in the world.

In 1995, still processing Kurt Cobain’s death, Grohl didn’t know how to proceed (I assume anyone reading this knows Grohl played drums in Nirvana, right? OK, sorry. Of course). Like many musicians who go through a trauma, for a while he didn’t want to hear music, let alone play it. It reminded him of everything that had happened. And while he’d made good money from Nirvana and could afford to live quietly, take his time and see what came his way, he was still only 26, had a lot of working years ahead of him and not much idea of how to fill them.

Eventually, as the pain subsided into an ache, Grohl decided to treat himself to a week in a 24-track studio, Robert Lang’s, not far from where he lived in Seattle. If Lang’s isn’t the biggest name in studioland, with a Studer A827 tape machine and an SSL E series desk, it was still a major facility, so it was no small present Grohl was giving himself. Nonetheless, essentially he was just doing a more hi-fi version of something he’d done a few years before in 1992, when he recorded a collection of songs by himself and gave them to some friends in Virginia to release on their cassette label, Simple Machines. Pocketwatch, which has since been endlessly bootlegged, came out under the pseudonym Late! (Groh’s exclamation mark). He was planning to do the same thing again: release it under a band name, keep his own name off the sleeve and let the album find whatever audience it could.

Working with him as co-producer was Barrett Jones, his former drum tech in Nirvana. He and Grohl made the record in six days, with Grohl switching from one instrument to the next for each song, before moving on to the next one, burning through four songs a day. Jones has said since that he felt the album he and Grohl were making could be a big deal, but both were perhaps still naïve about the industry at that point and didn’t foresee the reaction his work would get among the big LA labels when they got wind of it (a process accelerated by Eddie Vedder playing a couple of songs on a radio show he hosted). Grohl was effectively able to name his own price (his own price being that he be allowed to start out small), with the labels confident that any release by a former member of Nirvana would pay for itself many times over. Grohl conceded to having the album remixed by Rob Schnapf and Tom Rothrock (who would later work on another old favourite of mine, Elliott Smith’s XO)

Somewhere over the next 10 years, the group slowly became one of the biggest in the world, and even now Grohl can turn out a strong single or two on each record, but I checked out a long time back.I find the sound of his albums, with the exceptions of the debut and 1999’s vintagey There is Nothing Left to Lose, extremely sonically fatiguing. The worst offenders, The Colour & the Shape and One by One, are essentially unlistenable, with the massed overdubs of guitars forcing the drums to occupy ever smaller real estate, until they no longer retain any of the shape of a real-life drum performance. This is crucial to a good-sounding, good-feeling, rock record (the Butch Vig-produced Wasting Light is a partial exception to this trend; it sounds, well, OK). And Grohl’s grandiosity and general unwillingness to challenge his audience has resulted in a lot of play-it-safe soundalike songs.

But I remain hugely fond of his debut, so distinct from the rest of the group’s music that it’s really the work of a different artist. The medium-fi recording, noticeably lacking in low end and bass guitar, is hugely charming, Grohl’s drum performances have room to breathe, and the material whether goofy (Weenie Beenie, Wattershed, This is a Call) or otherwise (Exhausted, I’ll Stick Around) is strong, and benefits from the low-key vibe. Each song sounds better in the context of all the others. It’s a great collection of songs; later Grohl records have striven to be a collection of great songs. Much harder to do the latter well. You couldn’t make this record better by adding or subtracting anything.

I should admit, too, that at 13 I found the idea that one man did all this by himself (playing the drums! and the bass! and the guitars! and singing it! and writing all the songs!) to be hugely inspiring.

Foo Fighters 02/50. Phoenix, Arizona, 1995 by Steve Double (UK)
Foo Fighters, 1995

My own one-man-band stuff (not recorded in a 24-track studio):

Give some to the bass player, part 2 – In Bloom by Nirvana

When discussing Krist Novoselic’s role in Nirvana, it’s tempting to fall back on the bass-player cliches: he was the steady one, he was the logistics guy, he kept the band grounded, and so on. All of which is true up to a point. He was a steadying influence, and his playing is probably the least crucial element of the band’s sound, by virtue of the fact that Cobain’s guitar took up a lot of sonic real estate and that the band had a virtuouso drummer. Yet Novoselic was a huge personality – a loudmouth who would say and do outrageous things behind a bottle of hard liquor or a case of beer – and it was Cobain who wrote all the band’s bios and cover letters and sent endless tapes off to radio and record labels.

But ultimately almost any musician’s main contribution to their band is musical, and Novoselic is by no means the one-dimensional player he’s sometimes perceived as. Sure within Nirvana, he mainly played root notes in eights, a technique we discussed in the previous post, or he doubled the guitar riff, but when he did he ever do so inappropriately? And when he took a different approach, he did so with a good ear and a sure touch. His lines on Love Buzz are the key to the song. He’s at the heart of Been a Son. His part in the verses of Lithium is a classic.

But he’s at his best on In Bloom, a song I’ve looked at before for its drum track. Now, I’m not going to condone piracy, but the multitracks for this song were leaked some years ago and are online if you’re interested in hearing just the rhythm section. Grohl and Novoselic cook up quite a groove in the choruses, and it’s a huge part of the song’s success (along with the instantly memorable chorus and the all-time-great drum arrangement created by Chad Channing and played by his replacement, Grohl).

The key to it is a change in feel, which occurs in both the bass and the drums. In the verses, the hats are played in 16th notes, the kick mirrors it with its stuttering 2-beat pattern at the start of each bar of the verse, and the snare is in quarters. In effect, the right hand and right foot are continually pushing the song forward, while the left hand pulls it back. Novoselic also plays in 16ths, tight little groups of them that follow the guitar part played by Cobain. In the choruses, though, the band loosens its grip. Grohl plays a really cool syncopated kick drum pattern but, cannily, Novoselic doesn’t lock in with it; he swings off it instead.That little jump up the octave when Grohl plays his triplet fills are another lovely touch – very playful.

It’s little details like this that turn a good track into a great one. I’d not call In Bloom my favourite track off Nevermind or anything like that, but when I listen to it, I do think it brought out the best in all of its creators.

Krist
In the 1990s, we wore our basses down by our ankles.

Underrated Drum Tracks I have Loved 2014, Part 8 – All the King’s Friends – Soul Asylum

Sooner or later, every rock band writes a song that one or more of its members doesn’t play well.

In jazz it’s never been a big deal. Players slip in and out of ensembles all the time. If Chick Corea was what Miles Davis felt he needed on a certain tune, Chick was in and Herbie was out. But rock bands, particularly punk rock bands, have always been about the band as an organic, hermetic unit. Everything for the band, nothing outside the band. It’s way more volatile; way more infantile if you want to be harsh.

When a band’s in the studio, the spotlight usually shines most unforgivingly on the drummer. This is because producers know one thing to be true: music is first and foremost about rhythm, and there has been little truly great music made by ensembles with a lousy drummer. The Byrds and early Oasis are the only exceptions that spring to mind (and Tony McCarroll wasn’t that bad – his oafishness suited an oafish band’s oafish material). In recent years, the DAW has made these kinds of problems rarer. You can, almost always, get a drum track up to a point where it is at least steady. You can fix problems in timing with editing and problems with dynamics with sample replacement/augmentation. In the analogue era, before digital editing, if the drummer wasn’t up to snuff, you’d have to cut the tapes up to physically edit an acceptable take together or have a different drummer play the part. Most would opt for the former, as the latter is politically very hard to handle. When Dave Grohl pulled that one on original Foo Fighters drummer William Goldsmith, recutting songs himself behind his back, Goldsmith was understandably hurt and left the band.

But Goldsmith’s wasn’t the most high-profile drummer departure in the 1990s. That would be Grant Young from Soul Asylum, whose sacking halfway through the sessions for Grave Dancers Union dogged the band ever after, severely hurting their cred. That he was fired for not being able to provide the drum track to Runaway Train – a truly ubiquitous hit single – and was replaced by Sterling Campbell (who by his own admission knew nothing about underground rock music and whose credits included Duran Duran and David Bowie, in his least vital era) only added to the problem. Soul Asylum wanted a hit so badly that they wrote an acoustic-guitar sellout ballad like Runaway Train and fired their founding drummer for not playing it right? Fuck those guys.

Ah, the thorny issues of authenticity and credibility in indie rock. I think Runaway Train’s a very good song, for what it’s worth. But it’s hard to deny the band made a bad choice in pursuit of good records. And while they did make a good record (and their good record certainly made them), the cost was probably too high to the band, who never really seemed to have much fire left in them after Young departed. Sure, they had a level of fame for a couple of years that seems incredible now when you look back on it (the band playing on the White House lawn, Dave Pirner dating Wynona Ryder), but when it came time to follow GDU up, the band had lost something vital. Perhaps handled differently, Young could have stayed on board. Perhaps with a different set of personalities involved, Young may have been coached to get the performance Pirner and producer Michael Bienhorn wanted. Because Young was a fine drummer. There’s ample evidence of that on previous Soul Asylum records, from their punkier, goofier, scrappier Twin/Tone and A&M eras.

And that, finally, is what we’re going to talk about. All the King’s Friends is the twisty, turny final track on …And the Horse they Rode in On, the band’s patchy final album for A&M and the one that immediately precedes Grave Dancers Union. It’s a complex song, with time and feel changes all over the place (so much so that it feels like an early essay in math rock), and Grant Young pretty much nailed it. And interestingly, the producer involved was, for a drummer, probably even more off-putting than the trigger-happy Bienhorn*: Steve Jordan (Patti Austen, Neil Young, Eric Clapton Keith Richards, John Mayer and many more). Jordan is an amazing drummer. Yet rather than trying to intimidate his charges into doing it right, he and Joe Blaney created an environment (on a soundstage with a mobile recording unit) where Young could do his best work, which is what producing’s all about. Probably the finest recorded moment by a drummer who’s had to spend the last 22 years being the guy who couldn’t play Runaway Train and a great performance by a guy and a band who’ve been saddled with a bad rep for a long time.

SAHRC
Soul Asylum with HRC, no big thing (Grant Young left)

*Bienhorn makes fine-sounding records (GDU, Superunknown, Celebrity Skin), but often at the expense of the bands he’s worked with. He had a big hand in firing Young and Hole’s Patty Schemel, he has talked less than flatteringly about every member of Soundgarden who isn’t Chris Cornell, and even temporarily fired Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. The producer has a responsibility to the label to get a product into the marketplace on time and on budget and I can understand being driven crazy by an unreliable junkie, but in a personality-driven band like RHCP, if you have no frontman, you have no band. How much, then, would the CD in the racks really matter?

Chad Channing, honorary Hall of Famer; on Nirvana’s other drummer not being inducted to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

I’ve avoided talking about Nirvana on this blog this week. Every other site on the internet was running deep-and-meaningful Kurt Cobain retrospectives, and I didn’t want to seem like I was doing it just to get clicks. It’s hard for me to write sensibly about Nirvana, anyhow – more than any other band, it was Nirvana that made me pick up the guitar, play music, write songs. It’s because I heard Nirvana when I was, what, 12 or 13 that I’ve spent twenty years playing music, thinking about music and studying music. I can’t condense all of that into 500 or 1000 words. Every time I try it defeats me No, they’re not the best band that’s ever been, but their music was the catalyst for me. I don’t know where I might have channelled my energies if I hadn’t have been blown away by Smells Like Teen Spirit in high school. Possibly I’d be more employable.

The only way I can write about them is to go small, stick to one little issue. So here’s a post on Chad Channing, who wasn’t inducted with Nirvana to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Of course the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is unnecessary. Music fans create their own pantheons, and that’s absolutely as it should be. A surprising (to me) number of my favourite artists are in it, but an important minority are not, never will be. It’s nice when they recognise people I think are really important, and it doesn’t bother me when they don’t. The R&RHoF was founded by Ahmet Ertegun. He may have been a singularly smart businessman, but he also never stopped being a music fan, and so on the whole the HoF does a reasonable job of spotlighting the greats, even the less well-known, less commercially successful ones, and they’re pretty canny about who they pick as representative of ‘Rock and Roll’ (Popular Music Hall of Fame would have been an apter choice of name), revealing Gene Simmons as the unimaginative, dunderheaded bigot he obviously always has been. It’d have been nice to see him and his lame-ass band permanently excluded, just for Simmons’ reaction.

Inductions of band with multiple line-ups, though, is a genuinely tricky issue. Very awkward with Blondie a few years ago. No induction, too, for the Bobs – Welch and Weston – from Fleetwood Mac in 1998 (although gratifyingly the late sixties guitar trio of of Green, Kirwan and Spencer were all inducted). Inductions for vocal groups such as the Drifters, for whom Wikipedia lists 27 past or present members, are even more difficult for the Hall of Fame to cope with. The last few weeks saw a lot of back and forth over whether Chad Channing would be inducted with Nirvana. Channing was, by many counts, Nirvana’s fourth drummer. But let’s keep it simple. Dave Foster and Aaron Burckhard never recorded with the group. They’re out. Dan Peters (on loan from the then-on-hiatus Mudhoney) cut one song with them. The same as Andy White did with the Beatles. Anyone want to see Andy White added to the list of Beatles members? No? OK, Dan Peters is out too, then. Which leaves Dale Crover, Chad Channing and Dave Grohl. Crover toured with Nirvana, recorded with them too, but always on the understanding that it was a side gig; his day job was with the Melvins. Others would make a case for him. Being more hard-headed, I wouldn’t.

Channing, though, he should have gone in. It was very tough on him not to include him. He played on the majority of Bleach and a bunch of non-album tracks that ended up on Incesticide and on the With the Lights Out box set, 21 in total by my count (although I’m no completist and there may well be a bunch more I don’t know of). That’s a greater number than any drummer barring Dave Grohl. So in the absence of a proper induction for Channing, it was cool of Grohl to spend a minute of his speech talking about Chad, drawing people’s attention to the fact that a lot of the drum parts he gets most credit for are actually performances of parts that Channing devised. He handled a difficult situation gracefully, and I find it kind of hard to believe that he or Novoselic had a hand in Channing’s exclusion.

So, Chad Channing, honorary Hall of Famer, then. Let’s get a handle on him by taking a look at some of his parts.

In Bloom
I’ve been telling people for years that In Bloom was a Chad Channing drum part played by Dave Grohl. OK, Grohl might have played it tighter and more powerfully, but credit where it’s due. Bootlegged versions of the Smart session (also known as the Sheep session, recorded in Madison, Wisconsin, with Butch Vig, before Grohl joined the band) are out there if you want to hear them. Channing plays very well.

It’s an intriguing part. The hats are played in 16th notes, the kick mirrors it with its stuttering two-beat pattern at the start of each bar of the verse, while the snare is in quarters. In effect, the right hand and right foot are continually pushing the song forward, while the left hand pulls it back. Channing’s also responsible for the mighty tom fills in the intro (16th notes again) and for the inspired 8th-note triplet snare rolls in the choruses. Grohl brought the mighty snare roll (a full bar of 16th-notes) that takes the song into the chorus to the party – in Channing’s version, it’s only half the length, so the part is somewhat collaborative, but basically it’s Chad’s.

It’s a truly iconic part among drummers. The song would be immediately identifiable to most listeners from the drums alone. That’s a really hard trick to pull off while also playing for the song and refraining from showboating. But everything about the drums on this track is integral to the overall effect. For this alone, I’d have seen Channing inducted with the rest of the band.

School
There’s already bootleg footage of J Mascis sitting in with the surviving members of the band on this one the other night. It’s great.

School is typical of Channing’s playing on Bleach: loose, swinging and full of little details. He had a behind-the-beat style, sometimes at odds with the playing of Krist Novoselic, who’s more likely to ahead of the beat than behind it, but it’s all part of the signature feel of the album, which is claustrophobic and heavy in an oddly precarious way, like it might come apart at any moment.

School is not a simple part. After a 16th-note verse, with two kick patterns that alternate, bar by bar (and which Channing played with a double pedal, I think, although Grohl used to play it with a single pedal), the savage switch to a half-time feel would defeat many drummers. Channing switches to it via a triplet snare roll – a good choice for such a big change. His Bonham-esque whole-kit roll halfway through each chorus is a highlight, as is his increasingly frantic playing in the song’s middle section, before and during Cobain’s guitar solo. Not coincidentally, the tempo begins to speed up wildly here. It’s not particularly controlled, but it’s hugely exciting.

Negative Creep
More double-kick fun in this one. In truth, I’m not a big fan of double kick playing generally. Too often it tends to lead a sort of martial stiffness, leaving the music very straight and rigid. Negative Creep is not rigid. Channing didn’t base his whole style on double kick. He used it for little touches in grooves that otherwise could have been played with a single pedal (Grohl adapted the part, missing out the mini rolls on the kick). It’s cool and quietly inventive.

Between Channing’s galloping kick drum, and Cobain’s increasingly hysterical vocal, it once again sounds like it’s about to fly off your turntable at any moment. But that’s part of its charm. The abandon was a key part of what attracted a lot of people to this band.

 

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Nirvana, 1989, l-r Kurt Cobain, Jason Everman, Chad Channing, Krist Novoselic