Tag Archives: Henry Diltz

Holiday harmonies, part 1: Silent Night – Modern Folk Quartet

Hi there. Merry Christmas. I hope you’re having a great festive period. I’m going to look at some harmony groups over the next week or so, starting today with something appopriate to the season.

Buffalo Springfield. The Byrds. New Edition. Modern Folk Quartet. Bands that are just perhaps more famous for giving a start to the people that passed through them on their way to bigger things than they are for their own accomplishments.

The first three you probably know about, as those groups were all successful in their own right.* Neil Young, Stephen Stills, Richie Furay (later of Poco) and Jim Messina were all members of the Buffalo Springfield. David Crosby, Gene Clark, Gram Parsons were Byrds veterans. Bobby Brown, Johnny Gill, Bell Biv Devoe and Ralph Tresvant between them comprise around 50% of the noteworthy new jack swing artists.

The Modern Folk Quartet, though, were not hugely successful in the US or Britain, though they retained a big following in Japan. Its members, though, are all noteworthy for their accomplishments away from the band. Cyrus Faryar went on to make solo records and played on Fred Neil’s magisterial Fred Neil and Sessions albums. Jerry Yester worked as a producer with the Association, the Turtles, Tim Buckley and Tom Waits, also moonlighting as a member of the Lovin’ Spoonful after Zal Yanovsky left. Chip Douglas joined the Turtles on bass, and produced hits for the Monkees, including Pleasant Valley Sunday and Daydream Believer. Henry Diltz became one of the finest photographers in all of rock ‘n’ roll.

The members’ individual achievements, then, are hugely impressive, so much so that they overshadow those of their band. But the Modern Folk Quartet (who became the Modern Folk Quintet when drummer Ediie Hoh joined) deserve to be remembered as one of the great harmony groups.

They sung complex, jazzy four-part, and they have what so few harmony groups can honestly claim: a really excellent voice on the bottom. Cyrus Faryar, whom I’ve written about on this blog before (at a time when I wasn’t familiar with the MFQ), had a gorgeous baritone, deep, rich and agile. He was a lead singer in his own right. They all were.

Singing together, they blended the earnest folk harmonising of the Brothers Four (same instrumental line-up of acoustic guitars, double bass and 5-string banjo, too) with a jazzy sensibility seemingly learned from the Four Freshman, the same vocal group that had a profound influence on the young Brian Wilson.

The Modern Folk Quartet made two albums in its initial early-1960s run, the first slightly heavier on trad. arr., the second leaning more towards contemporary writers including John Stewart, Phil Ochs and Bob Dylan. They remained very popular in Japan, though, and reformed several times to tour and release records over there. In 1990 they cut an album of Christmas carols, MFQ Christmas. Their vocal arrangements are imaginative and beautifully performed. My favourite is the brief reading of Silent Night that closes the record. The magic happens at the bottom (unmistakably Faryar)  and on the top (Diltz, I think). It’s just gorgeous.

MFQThe Modern Folk Quartet: l-r Jerry Yester, Henry Diltz, Cyrus Faryar, Chip Douglas

*Very successful really, but when was the last time you heard anyone talking about “Neil Young from Buffalo Springfield”?

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Time – Alice Peacock

One of the issues that was in the background of the piece I wrote the other day is, how original can you be as a singer-songwriter who plays piano or acoustic guitar and works with verse/chorus song structures in 2015, with hundreds of years of folk songs, over a hundred years of recorded music and 60 years of rock ‘n’ roll behind us? And if you feel the answer is, not original at all, does that matter? Should an artist strive for more than just going over the same old ground that our illustrious forebears have already covered?

It’s a question I’ve never been able to satisfactorily answer. There have been times when I’ve felt that singer-songwriters were becoming an unnecessary species, that almost everything that needed to be said had been said already, and that we may as well all pack it in and go home. That I didn’t need new records when I had all of those albums on my shelf already.

Then I hear songs that render all this debate irrelevant, songs so strong and self-contained that I stop worrying about all this.

I heard one last night. Time, by Alice Peacock.

I can tell you very little about Alice Peacock. She works broadly in the pop-rock sphere, but with elements of folk and country and jazz in there. She’s put out four records and seems to have done fairly well, as even a self-released album (on Peacock Records) like What I Am features orchestral arrangements and the services of a big-name session drummer (Jay Bellerose) and photography by the wonderful Henry Diltz. In her early going as an artist, she recorded a duet with John Mayer, which no doubt helped her profile.

Hearing a great song from an artist who’s entirely new to you is one of the finest pleasures of being a music fan. And Time is a wonderful song, possessed of grace and wisdom, a gorgeous, pensive tune, thoughtful chord changes and lyrics that achieve a sort of conversational profundity. In an interview with her that I saw on youtube, Peacock says she wrote the song very quickly after reading an article in National Geographic about time, relativity and how the light that reaches earth from stars allows us to look into the past while we experience it as the present. She talks about her she merely channelled the song, how writing it was scarcely a conscious act of creation at all. Time has that happy knack of sounding as if these thoughts are occurring to the singer just as she is giving voice to them.

When I heard it, it stopped me in my tracks. I downed tools to listen, then listened again.

The version I heard first was not the record (from the the 2006 release Who I Am), but a live recording. The arrangement on the album version – in both Peacock’s vocal and the strings – seems to emphasise the supper-club vibe inherent in the song’s chord structure, not that there’s anything wrong with that (I could easily imagine how the great Blossom Dearie might have this song). On the live recordings I’ve heard (mainly on youtube, though there is a live album), though, Peacock’s delivery is slightly different, perhaps more relaxed, knowing that she’s not in search of a definitive vocal performance. I’d still highly recommend seeking out the album cut, but perhaps the version below is the best one:

Alice peacock
Alice Peacock