Tag Archives: Jefferson Airplane

Remain Silent – Keb’ Mo’

John Henry Creach was born in 1917 and enjoyed a journeyman’s career as a jazz violinist, occasionally scoring a big gig with Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole or Fats Waller, but more often scratching around, taking work where he could get it, including a five-year stint on an ocean liner. One night in 1967, already 50 years old but looking younger, Creach met future Jefferson Airplane drummer Joey Covington at Union Hall in San Francisco. When Covington joined the Airplane, he brought the newly rechristened Papa John Creach with him. Playing with Jefferson Airplane and Hot Tuna brought Creach a new hippie audience, and opened him (and them) up to an even wider range of music than he’d played before. Creach got his own record deal, and when he came to record his second album in 1974, Filthy Funky, his back-up band included a young guitarist called Kevin Moore.

In the 44 years since Moore and Creach first played together (a span of time that included stints as a writer-for-hire, an arranger, a stage and screen actor and a brief interlude as a recording artist under his given name), Keb’ Mo’ has released 12 studio albums, several more live albums and a collaborative record with Taj Mahal (called, perhaps inevitably, TajMo).

He began releasing records as Keb’ Mo’ in 1994, with a self-titled set based mainly on his impressive Robert Johnson-derived slide technique on National steel, with only the distinctly 1990s production (big fat snare drum, low-octave bass guitar of the sort we discussed in relation to Joni Mitchell’s cover of How Do You Stop) giving away the fact that these songs weren’t actually recorded in the 1920s. If Moore’s adoption of Johnson-esque suit and hat was a little gimmicky, his guitar playing and writing were the real deal.

From as early as his debut’s funk-informed take on Johnson’s Come On in My Kitchen, though, his music has explored territory outside country blues, and over the years he’s shown himself to be a very accomplished pop singer-songwriter. Remain Silent, from his 2006 album, Suitcase, is the sort of song Elvis Costello, Nick Lowe or even Paul Simon could have written, its extended Miranda-rights metaphor explored from all angles and delivered with just the right amount of knowingness in the vocal. Witness Mo’s little chuckle before declaring that “The punishment will fit the crime” and following that with the promise “One thing’s for sure: we’re gonna do some time”. His slide guitar is a welcome element in the mix, but it is only an element, less important than his mixed-forward vocal and no more important than the horns of Joe Sublett and Darrell Leonard or Jon Cleary’s B3 organ.

All of which is to say that if you’ve never explored Keb’ Mo’s music because you’re not a blues fan, you’re missing out on a lot of fine songs. And once you’re in his world, the true blues material might grow on you too.

Starless – King Crimson

It’s not a controversial opinion to suggest that the greatest betrayal of artistic first principles in the popular music canon is that of Jefferson Airplane/Starship in its 20-year journey from White Rabbit to Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now. But when considering the risk to musical credibility of chasing a fast buck, there seems to me to be an even more salutary tale: the fact that John Wetton, who co-wrote and sang Asia’s Heat of the Moment, earlier in his career also co-wrote and sang Starless, the final track on King Crimson’s 1974 album Red.

Red was the last album that King Crimson made during its first run (band leader Robert Fripp would call time on the group just before the record came out; he’d spend the next few years as a guitarist and producer for hire, doing fascinating things with David Bowie, Blondie, Peter Gabriel, Talking Heads and Daryl Hall). Red was made by a core 3-piece of Fripp, Wetton (bass and vocals) and Bill Bruford (drums). The record’s instrumental palette is widened in places by Ian McDonald’s alto and Mel Collins’s soprano saxophones on Starless, and by cello, violin and oboe elsewhere, but primarily Red is a guitar album. And if you’re a fan of Robert Fripp’s playing, that’s a very good thing indeed.

The album’s twin pillars are its first and last tracks: the title track and the aforementioned Starless. Red (the song, not the album) I won’t dwell on long except to recommend it thoroughly. Built on an angular, grinding guitar riff of Fripp’s, it’s the sound of a band transforming itself into some kind of infernal tank, heavy enough to roll over any obstruction, each semitonal shift like the changing of gears of a monstrous war machine.

Starless is a formally more complex piece, in three sections. The first is essentially a ballad, written and sung by Wetton. It’s carried by Fripp’s meditative minor-key Mellotron chords and lyrical guitar melody, originally played by violinist David Cross. After Cross left the group at the beginning of the sessions, Fripp inherited and adapted it. The song had been tried out for the previous year’s album (eventually called Starless and Bible Black, despite the absence of the song that had inspired the title), but hadn’t really caught on with Fripp and Bruford at first.

The revived Wetton composition was paired with an evil-sounding bass riff by Bruford in – what else? – 13/8 time. Never let a prog drummer write your tunes unless you enjoy counting. This riff underpins a long improv section that forms the second third of the song, with the last section comprising a double-time freakout for soprano sax and guitar, which finally resolves into a reprise of Fripp’s opening theme (also now in double time).

But to describe it in terms of its structure doesn’t really get at what makes Starless so affecting. Let’s come at it another way and discuss it in terms of mood, emotion, text and subtext.

Starless’s text seems straightforward enough: it’s a song about being so mired in sadness that nothing can penetrate it:

Sundown dazzling day
Gold through my eyes
But my eyes turned within
Only see
Starless and bible black

This is not uncharted territory for pop music. It’s where Paint it Black lives, of course, and on a deeper level much of the later work of Nick Drake, too. But Starless seems to be working on a bigger canvas than either of those precedents. The song’s musical subtext constantly obtrudes and eventually takes over. Starless presents an apocalyptic, blasted-heath landscape, where something unimaginably terrible, possibly something world-ending, is about to happen.Such a vast song has to be about more than one man’s personal pain

How else to interpret that long middle section?

It begins with Wetton’s bass and Fripp’s guitar, while Bruford plays assorted percussion. Wetton plays that threatening-sounding 13/8 bass riff in C minor while Fripp plays a G note across two strings (he’s fretting the G string at the 12th fret and the B at the 8th, producing two Gs with slightly different tones and picking them alternately). Then as the riff switches to F, Fripp plays a discordant Gb, then back to G when the riff returns to C. This sequence repeats, and the tension starts to build via a long held G (major or minor? Neither Wetton nor Fripp is spelling that out yet).

How long can anyone play just two notes? If you’re Robert Fripp, quite a long time. Eventually he begins to climb upwards in pitch and intensity, and soon Fripp is playing oblique bends with a thicker, more distorted tone. Wetton’s bass is, likewise, now truly distorted. Once Bruford joins in on full kit, and particularly once he switches to the ride at about 8.30 and begins playing less abstractly, the cumulative effect goes a long way beyond tense into hysterical, with Fripp’s guitar positively shrieking.

It’s impossible to overstate the evocative power of this 5-minute middle section. It sounds like the war machine evoked in the album’s opening track has returned with evil in its heart. The final freakout is, if one wants to follow this interpretation through, the apocalypse itself, and while any musical evocation of the eschaton is bound to come up short, Starless (even in its title) gets closer than just about anything else.

Few rock bands were going to places like this in 1974, certainly not King Crimson’s English progressive contemporaries. Red, and Starless in particular, is timeless. It still sounds like tomorrow. The tomorrow after which there will be no tomorrow.

King+Crimson+Red
Red-era King Crimson: Bruford, Fripp and Wetton