Tag Archives: Dust

The Songs from So Deep pantheon

Apologies for my somewhat odd posting schedule of late. I’ve been both pretty sick (chest infection) and hellishly busy (end of quarter), and have defaulted to writing about current preoccupations like British politics. I’m away this weekend, so won’t be back until next week now, but thought I’d leave you with what’s hopefully a fun one.

This blog has been running well over three years and in that time I’ve talked a lot about favourite songs and favourite albums, but without having put down a list in black and white.

So I thought I’d give it a try, and actually, it’s a tough exercise. The hardest thing is deciding how whether to include old favourites that you, if you’re honest, don’t listen to anymore. I’ve mentioned that Nirvana’s Nevermind was the album that inspired me to pick up a guitar and start playing, and in my teens I must have listened to it hundreds of times. But I’ve not sat down and listened to the whole thing as an album in a decade at least. I decided not to include it in favour of things that I still listen to regularly, but if the list were of albums that have meant the most to me, no question it would have to be in there.

Most of the records on my list I bought in my twenties. The one that’s newest, to me, is also the most recent, Hem’s Rabbit Songs, which I love for personal as well as musical reasons. The ones I’ve been listening to longest, Dust and Murmur, I first heard as a teenager in the 1990s, and I still hear new, fresh details in them each time I listen.

Top of the list, my two favourites, are Judee and Joni. I’ve written about both records here before. In fact, I’ve written about songs from most of these albums, if not the full albums themselves. Click on the links below for detailed thoughts.

  1. Judee Sill – Judee Sill
  2. The Hissing of Summer Lawns – Joni Mitchell
  3. Paul Simon – Paul Simon
  4. Good Old Boys – Randy Newman
  5. Murmur – R.E.M.
  6. Dust – Screaming Trees
  7. The Band – The Band
  8. Rabbit Songs – Hem
  9. The Heart of Saturday Night – Tom Waits
  10. Fred Neil – Fred Neil

The songs list is a bit less heavy on singer-songwriters and has more soul, funk and disco. For whatever reason, I’ve never found those musical forms as satisfying at album length, but maybe that’s down the road for me. Unsurprisingly, I’ve written about every single one of these here.

  1. Native New Yorker – Odyssey
  2. Didn’t I Blow Your Mind (This Time) – The Delfonics
  3. She’s Gone – Hall & Oates
  4. Silver Threads & Golden Needles – Fotheringay
  5. Stormy Weather – Nina Nastasia
  6. Tennessee Jed – Grateful Dead
  7. What You Won’t Do For Love – Bobby Caldwell
  8. What’s Going On – Marvin Gaye
  9. Someone to Watch Over Me – Blossom Dearie
  10. Rock With You – Michael Jackson
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Mark Lanegan at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, 28/01/15

Mark Lanegan – his music, his voice, the whole bit – is one of my favourites. Dying Days is my Freebird, only better and shorter. I’ve written about him a couple of times before here, but I saw him live at Shepherd’s Bush last night, so you’re going to hear about him again, I’m afraid.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’ve seen him headlining before (at the Astoria, in maybe 2001) and he was in spectacularly grumpy form that night. His set was barely an hour long, there was no encore. He sang well, but seemed bored. Last night, arriving late with Mel and finding the place rammed, I was worried that maybe the lack of attention being paid to his chosen support act – his friend and collaborator Duke Garwood – would set him off, and it’d be the Astoria show again.

Instead Lanegan played an extensive, expansive, generously proportioned set that ranged widely through his solo career. It leaned heavily on his two most recent albums of original material – 2012’s Blues Funeral and 2014’s Phantom Radio – but contained highlights from as far back as Whiskey for the Holy Ghost (1994) and three killer tracks from his 2001 mid-career highpoint Field Songs.

I’ve said before that Lanegan’s acoustic records are my favourites, as they are the ones that give his voice most space to shine, showing off the rough grain of his knotted baritone and the ease with which he can still move up into his tenor range. So Dead on You, Low, One Way Street and Resurrection Song were probably my favourites from last night (Mel liked One Way Street the most). But there were other highlights: a clattering Gravedigger’s Song, startling in its volume and punch after an opening run where Lanegan sang with just one clean electric guitar for accompaniment; Hit the City, which I never liked much in its recorded form, but which Lanegan tore to shreds last night; Harvest Home and Torn Red Heart from the new album. His band acquitted themselves well on every song, the drummer especially across a set that require everything from jazzy brushed snare to sample-augmented disco, and the sound was adequate, with the vocal plainly audible throughout.

I’d love to see him play with an acoustic band at a small sit-down gig (the gothic-revival Union Chapel would seem an appropriate venue), and if he could find it within himself to do something from The Winding Sheet (Mockingbirds, please!), that would probably be my ideal Lanegan gig at this point. But in terms of playing a career-spanning set with an electric band in a biggish theatre show, with all the possible acoustical gremlins that entails, last night’s show was just about perfect.

MarkLaneganBandSiamak_Amini
Photo by Siamik Amini

New recording alert!

 

Dust – Fleetwood Mac

When the white flame in us is gone,
And we that lost the world’s delight
Stiffen in darkness, left alone
To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death,
And through the lips corruption thrust
Has stilled the labour of my breath–
When we are dust, when we are dust!

Dust, Rupert Brooke

I’ve recently had a mind to investigate the Fleetwood Mac interregnum of 1970-1974, the period between Peter Green’s departure and the arrival of Buckingham and Nicks. I picked up Bare Trees (1972), largely because I recognised a couple of song titles and because of John McVie’s beautiful cover image. I was intrigued to find out what the group were doing in this period: continuing the Green-era’s soulful white blues? Trying to find their way to the foursquare California pop that would become their trademark? Or desperately groping around for a direction, under the leadership of several different guitarist/writers?

Something of all three.

The pleasure of investigating these lesser known Fleetwood Mac albums is not to listen for how different they’ve been down the years. Green, Jeremy Spencer, Danny Kirwan, Christine McVie, Bob Welch, Bob Weston, Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks – any band that has been a vehicle for songs by as many writers as this should sound different over time. The eye-opener is how often they sound like, well, Fleetwood Mac.

There’s a Fleetwood Mac groove, for one thing, established in the early seventies, several years before Dreams made it the rhythm section’s calling card – mid-tempo, 4/4, strong backbeat, 8th notes on the hats, ‘heartbeat’ kick drum. But there’s also a mood, a feel, that is present throughout their career, an introspective mood of dusk and twilight that borders on the mystical. It’s there in Green’s Man of the World, in Kirwan’s Dragonfly, in Welch’s Hypnotized, in Buckingham’s I’m So Afraid, and in countless Nicks songs (Rhiannon, Gold Dust Woman, Sisters of the Moon, Storms). Perhaps they have got extraordinarily lucky that new singer-songwriters came and went whose styles overlapped and created a thematic through line. Maybe the mood is something that the group creates and that their songwriters are able to tap into. But it’s there, and it’s kept the group recognisable and intact in spirit through all of their line-up changes (except the post-Buckingham and Nicks line-up that cut Time in 1995, but we won’t count that out of respect for their legacy).

Danny Kirwan, as mentioned above, has one well-known entry into this canon of Fleetwood Mac über-songs, but it’s not his only, or even his best, song in that vein. That distinction belongs to Dust, from Bare Trees. A startling death meditation with lyrics taken from a Rupert Brooke poem (Dragonfly’s lyrics are also adapted from a poem – Kirwan was not a confident lyricist and this method helped him to finish his songs), Dust is a delight for chord-change connoisseurs. My favourite is the drop to an unexpected F#m halfway through the refrain. Kirwan deserves to be remembered for his songs as much as for his guitar playing in tandem with Peter Green – while he was a vital part of Fleetwood Mac’s blues-band days, his talent for writing melody and creating mood through chord changes came alive when he moved away from blues harmony into dreamier, more (dare I say) British, places.

Like much of Bare Trees, Dust is a treat.

Kirwan

Halo of Ashes – Screaming Trees

‘What did you think?’

‘They were screaming!’

‘Yeah. They were great!’

‘They were screaming!’

‘They’re from Seattle—’

‘Yeah! [Feigns deafness] What?’

‘But I’ll be honest with you – I was kinda scared.’

So ran the conversation between David Letterman and his bandleader Paul Shaffer in 1992 after the Screaming Trees performed an intense, and apparently rather loud, version of Nearly Lost You, live on late-night network television.

Even in 1992, when some pretty uncommercial prospects had major-label record deals and all the TV appearances they could hope for, Screaming Trees were an odd fit for the world of talk shows and smart-alec comedians with house bands. It’s worth remembering that by and large the frontmen of the really big bands from that era, Eddie Vedder, Chris Cornell and Kurt Cobain and so on, were photogenic dudes, and that Vedder and Cornell were never above taking to the stage shirtless. Even Layne Staley was OK-looking before he got too cadaverous. Mark Lanegan, on the other hand, just looked permanently angry, and as for the rest of the Trees, well, as Van Connor so memorably put it in Hype!, there may have been tons of bands in Seattle, but the Screaming Trees were a ton of band. The Connor brothers were two enormous guys, so big they made their guitars look like toys, windmilling, thrashing around, rolling on the floor and beating each other up.

That sense of barely restrained chaos still animated their live shows – with Lanegan the calm, motionless eye of the storm – but by the time that Nearly Lost You hit, the band’s recorded output was getting more controlled and focused, and was all the better for it. Screaming Trees are that rare band whose work got consistently stronger as they went along, and their last album Dust, from 1996, is their finest. (With some folk preferring their early SST records there’s inevitably some debate about this, but not in my house.)

Of all the records I listened to in my teens, Dust (along with Murmur) is the one where my relationship with it has most slowly evolved. With other records, I’d leave such long gaps between listens that from one listen to the next the record would seem completely different. WIth Dust, though, I’ve never stopped listening to it, even as I put heavy rock aside for a few years while I took the time to get educated in the canon*, so as I changed and developed, so did Dust seem to. I heard the reflections of so much music from the 1960s and 1970s in it, I came to understand more about the musical traditions the Screaming Trees worked in and rather than making the record seem shallower or retrograde, it brought it even more to life.

But it’s the energy of it, the renewed vigour, that gets me most now. Four years had passed since their last album by the time the Trees released Dust in 1996, and much had happened in that time, little of it beneficial. The group, originally intending to follow up Sweet Oblivion quickly, had recorded an album’s worth of material, but their hearts weren’t in it and the music wasn’t strong enough, so they junked the lot. They were sick of each other (a perennial Screaming Trees problem – they’d been going since 1985, so they’d put in some years already) and needed time apart. Lanegan had seen several close friends die, including Cobain, and come close to dying himself. Crack, heroin and alcohol were just the symptoms of an illness that had dogged him long before Dust and would continue to long after it.

But the album was written and recorded in the middle of a sober period (he would relapse hard in 1997) and it shows. The energy level is higher on Dust than on any other Screaming Trees album. On record, energy is a most intangible, evanescent thing, not at all related to how loud or fast the band’s playing (similar to how ‘heaviness’ has nothing to do with volume or amount of guitar distortion). It’s more the case that on some records the songs seem somehow animated from within. From the intro of Halo of Ashes all the way through to Gospel Plow, Dust just barrels out of the speakers. To my ears this energy comes partly from the physicality of drummer Barrett Martin, an upbeat, music-for-music’s-sake, jam-till-the-early-hours kind of guy, much needed in a band whose other members tended towards the depressive and argumentative, but mainly from Lanegan, who sounds uncharacteristically thrilled to be alive: ‘I’ve been a long, long time away, one foot in the grave,’ he sings, and his performance carries the fervour of someone who knows how damn lucky he is to still be here.

The second half of the nineties was short on records as life-affirming as this, and in retrospect much of that period’s pre-millennial tension, so hip in 1997 and 1998, looks a little ridiculous, mere juvenile posturing. Dust, on the other hand, looks bigger and grander every year, a little-anticipated album by a band of perennial also-rans that has ended up outlasting the work most of their contemporaries and leaving it in the, well, dust.

Oh, and it should go without saying that electric sitars are cool. Tablas, too.

Image

Screaming Trees in 1993, l-r Gary Lee Connor, Barrett Martin, Mark Lanegan, Van Connor

*Just a side note on ‘the canon’. By this term I mean all those ‘classic albums’ made by ‘classic artists’, the sort of music lionised and covered in depth by BBC Four and Mojo. For a guide to who’s considered canonical, just look at the cover stars of Mojo over the last few months (Dylan, Pink Floyd, Johnny Marr, Fleetwood Mac, Led Zeppelin, the Jam, the Smiths – from which we conclude that someone at Mojo really likes Johnny Marr). The worth of the idea of a ‘canon’ in pop music has long been a contentious issue. For me, it’s an inevitability. It’s simply there. There’s a canon, more or less, in every art form. Of course one would emerge from popular music.

However, that’s not to say we shouldn’t interrogate it, or that we shouldn’t be aware of the processes by which a record/artist becomes canonical, the distortions created by this process, and the nature of the gatekeepers to ‘canonicity’, from the print press to the record companies that reissue some records and not others – after all, if no one can hear a record, it;s rather less likely to become part of the canon (it does happen though: witness Tim Buckley’s Starsailor, its reputed ‘difficultly’ and unavailability on CD becoming a bigger claim to fame than the music it contains).

It’s interesting to note how artists rise and fall in esteem over time, how opinions are transmitted and received from one generation to the next. I wait to see, for example, if the death of Ray Manzarek prompts a revival of interest in the Doors, whose stock seemed to me to drop in the nineties and noughties. And will the new film about Ginger Baker, accompanied by a feature in Uncut last month (‘probably the best musical group ever to come out of Europe,’ says Baker; I’ll refrain from comment in line with my declaration of positivity the other day), rehabilitate a band whose critical standing has been in the toilet for a couple of decades.