Tag Archives: Lucky

OK Computer is 20, part 5 – Bass

As we noted recently, Colin Greenwood’s imaginative bass playing has always been crucial to Radiohead’s sound, but on OK Computer, his contributions were foregrounded as never before. His is often the dominant instrument in the mix, and if you were to call him the album’s MVP, I’d not argue.

From the start of the record, on Airbag, Colin is controlling the way the music feels – controlling it by not playing for large sections of the song. He doesn’t play his first lick until the intro is over and the first verse has already started. What’s really cool is that he simply plays variations on this little pentatonic lick (it’s just E, G and A) all the way through the song, varying the phrasing and rhythmic emphasis. He plays it in the verses, when the chords are all variations and augmentations of Aadd9. He plays it in the chorus, when the song’s harmonic centre shifts from A to E major. He plays it under B7 and F# minor. F# minor, for heaven’s sake! It should sound godawful. It sounds brilliant.

(On a side note, Airbag’s riff-led bass and stop-start drums point the way forward also to Kid A‘s magnificent The National Anthem. Almost all the ideas that are present on Kid A are there somewhere on OK Computer and the B-sides and EP tracks from the same era. With the benefit of hindsight, it’s easy – and fun – to look for them.)

If Airbag is Colin Greenwood at his most minimal, Paranoid Android’s four contrasting parts give him an opportunity to throw all kinds of stuff into the fray – a different style for each section, almost. Most notably, his busy, emphatic bass is a driving force when Thom Yorke sings “What’s that?”, and during the 7/8 section in C minor Greenwood’s high-register melodic line sounds like something Yes’s Chris Squire might have cooked up – certainly you didn’t hear anything else in mainstream rock music at the time that sounded like that.

On Exit Music, Greenwood is silent until 2.50. Up to that point, the song crackles with tension, from a combination of Yorke’s obsessive chord changes and the use of harsh and inhuman-sounding Mellotron choir (as creepy as it is at the end of Marvin Gaye’s Mercy Mercy Me). After a drum fill from Phil Selway, Greenwood’s bass enters, its brutally distorted tone an unforgettable shock the first time you hear it. Distorting an electric bass increases its already long sustain still further, and compresses the signal to the point of almost steady-state persistency. On Exit Music, this allows Greenwood to increase the claustrophobia to a near-unbearable limit, and it turns the song from lament to curse.

On Climbing up the Walls, Greenwood repeats the trick from the beginning of the song, though this time he’s abetted by Phil Selway’s doom-laden snare drum – with the snare wires off, that slack-tuned drum tolls like a bell every time it’s hit, and Selway hits it hard, and often. Meanwhile, Jonny Greenwood creates all manner of creepy noises and effects to create the sound of someone going mad. Yorke’s desperate, feral screams in the final few bars of the song are the only way such a piece of music could feasibly end.

But while the lo-fi fuzz of Climbing Up the Walls and Exit Music is certainly ear-grabbing, Greenwood is just as effective during the album’s softest moments. His work on Lucky and in particular No Surprises once again demonstrating his soul and Motown influences (his fat, warm Fender Precision sound is as classic as it gets), put to work in a very different context. He gets huge mileage from simple idea employed at the perfect moment. That climb back up to F for the final half-verse that he does in tandem with Ed O’Brien’s guitar is a beautiful moment, so simple and oddly sincere in an album that’s often about alienation and can be musically cold and cerebral. It’s a big warm hug of a bassline.

I’ve said before, recently, how much I love Colin Greenwood’s playing – how much the band relies on his range of techniques and approaches to allow them to go to all the places they go. OK Computer isn’t a standout effort from Colin – it’s just par for the course with him. Every record they make, he delivers the goods. But with so few distorted-guitar rock songs on OK Computer, it is perhaps a little easier to hear how much he contributes.

OK Computer is 20, part 3 – Guest post #1

Actually, let’s do something different. I’m going to hand this one over to Sara Kriegel:

This album. I don’t remember when I bought it. I’m not really that kind of music geek. I remember thinking Creep was stupid and ignoring Radiohead for a while. Then I saw the video for High & Dry. I have no idea even if I owned The Bends before OK Computer. Possibly not. It certainly hardly matters.

What does matter is the utter devotion/partial (total) obsession that came at some point. I watched, full of admiration and a bit of envy, as one of my friends at school learned the guitar parts and played along with the whole album. I listened to it hundreds of times. I hit repeat on track 5 thousands of times. I know exactly how the record starts, and what happens after that. When I hear any song on the radio, I hear the next one begin when it ends. I could listen to it in my head right now. but I won’t. I will keep writing this (soz).

Probably every paper I wrote at uni was written to this album (or The Bends). I had more than one copy so I could leave one in my car. We blasted it out the window while playing Frisbee. We smoked a fair amount of weed and talked endlessly about it. Listen to it again – I guarantee you will hear something you didn’t before. Every fucking time, it gets me all over again.

What the hell do you really say about this record? Guitars, drums, vocals. Goddammit, every angle – nailed. Just Airbag – the first five seconds are a revelation. Who opens a rock album with sleighbells?

People like to accuse Radiohead of being depressing. Those people are depressing. OK, the lyrics lean towards the dystopian, but how can you listen to this and not feel amazing? LISTEN TO WHAT THESE GUYS MADE, DUDE!!! It’s awesome! COME ON!

I even love what I hate. The line in SHA, “making home movies for the folks back home”. I am a big enough nerd to know that was not the original version of this line, and I’ll admit the song on the album is better than previous attempts, but I still believed then that Thom could have sorted that out if he wanted to. But, as with a person, faults become an integral part of what you adore about them. Plus, by the time shit starts swirling around and Thom Yorke is yelling “uptight” over and over, you hardly care anymore.

We don’t need a breakdown of every song here, but I’d be remiss, and Ross would faint of shock, if I didn’t mention Let Down. I don’t know how this song isn’t in the canon of whatever best things are that ever happened to humanity. Phil Selway was hosting a 6 Music show not that long ago, and lamented that they never played it live initially (to which I can attest: five states’ and three countries’ worth of Radiohead gigs in the 2000s always left me – yes, I’m going to do it – let down). but they play it now, now that I’ve given up on seeing them live again because it’s expensive and what really is going to top the first time i saw them in Newport, Wales, in their own acoustically perfect tent in 2000? Baked out of my mind, lying on the ground watching the sunset-pink clouds go by during No Surprises, being SO excited (youth) when they played Lucky because it has my name in it… Yeah, nothing.

Hmm, digress. First Exit Music ends. You’ve been without gravity in the darkness for just over four minutes. Very bad things are going on. But then, suddenly there is a difference between the sky and the horizon… what the FUCK is that guitar doing? I dunno, and before you have a chance to figure it out, here come the drums, doing something equally perfect. Just when you get used to that, enter Thom with lyrics that I’m convinced are just not depressing; they just sounded right along with the music. As a matter of fact, I have no interest in what this song is really about. And crashing cymbals. And all these bouncing dinging twanging noises that take up space in your brain. Then… ‘a chemical reaction, hysterical and useless’… ‘floor collapsing, falling’. Maybe I’m the only one who thinks this, but basically that is love in a nutshell. It’s a love song.

Best if I stop here, and with this: I’m not sure there will ever be speakers big enough or knobs that go to 11 enough for me when it comes to listening to OK Computer. It is possibly why I have tinnitus (which, incidentally, Brits pronounce oddly*).

*This intrigued me, so I asked Sara what she meant and the following conversation was the result. Two useful things to know: Sara is my boss. She’s American.

Ross Palmer [12:19]:

how do brits pronounce tinnitus? how do you pronounce it?

Sara Kriegel [12:20]:

i say tin eye tus

you say tin it tus

Ross Palmer [12:20]:

but that’s correct!

Sara Kriegel [12:20]:

no it’s not

it’s stupid

how do you pronounce

bronchitis?

SUCK IT

Ross Palmer [12:20]:

but the word is related to tintinnabulation – a faint ringing sound

the suffix -itis means inflamtion

tinnitus is not inflamation of the tin

you suck it!

Sara Kriegel [12:30]:

it’s itus

Ross Palmer [12:32]:

you’re wrong

Sara Kriegel [12:33]:

you’re fired

OK Computer is 20, part 2 – Guitars

At bottom, the approach to arrangement that Radiohead’s three guitarists developed during the making of The Bends and perfected while recording OK Computer was simply a matter of listening to what each player was doing and then taking a contrasting approach. Jonny’s playing a distorted riff on the low E string? Then Ed plays a high-pitched melody with a clean tone. Neither Ed nor Jonny are strumming chords? Thom can do that, then.

It sure sounds simple, but rock music has seldom been all that big on this method of arrangement, as it requires the restraint to sometimes play nothing, or very little, if one of your colleagues has already filled all the space with a part that works. Far more tempting to join in, to try to create a bigger sound – and in the 1990s, that was the done thing. The era of Nevermind, Dirt, Copper Blue, Loveless and Siamese Dream was the era of the big guitar sound. On Pablo Honey, Radiohead tried to do this too, but as always happens when it’s not done well, the failed attempt to create a big sound resulted in a small sound.

Far better, if you have three good players and the ambition to try to use them, is to abandon that idea of multi-tracking lots of versions of the same thing, and instead craft guitar parts that complement and contrast. Hence Airbag, Paranoid Android and the beautiful overlapping, cascading guitars on Let Down, one of the best recordings that Radiohead have made, on which the combination of melodies and textures was astonishingly rich.

One of the results of this new approach was a greater visibility for Ed O’Brien (his work on, for example, No Surprises – the high-register arpeggio riff that plays throughout, and contrasting stuff in the middle-8 instrumental section – is absolutely gorgeous) but it takes nothing away from him to say that Radiohead’s strongest weapon remained Jonny Greenwood’s trademark squonky lead guitar – the stuff that made so many guitarists of my generation into lifelong worshippers at the church of Jonny. The Bends is probably still the go-to album if your interest in Radiohead derives mainly from a love of Greenwood’s guitar mangling, but there’s lots to get stuck into on OK Computer, too.

I’ve written before about The Tourist, the closing track. I still absolutely love it. When Greenwood’s raging guitar solo shatters the uneasy calm of the song’s previous three and a half minutes, it’s a moment as raw and exciting as his infamous muted grunts just before the chorus of Creep. It’s often said by folks who dislike fast guitar playing that if you can’t sing along to it, then it’s not a good solo. They’re definitely on to something, but how to account for a solo that’s primarily about texture? You couldn’t sing along to Greenwood’s playing on The Tourist, yet it’s a great solo. It’s not that it’s devoid of melody; it’s that the importance it places on being singable is way below that which it places on noise, on jaggedness and on impurity of form as sonic metaphor for emotion (remember that The Tourist mixes up bars of 12/8 and 9/8, so the song’s very metre resists the deployment of easy riffs and phrases). It’s like some sort of unstoppable eruption.

As are the two solos on Paranoid Android. The first deploys rapid tremolo picking and that old faithful lead technique, the oblique bend, to ear-grabbing effect, while the latter sounds like Greenwood’s envelope filter pedal has grabbed the guitar off him and started playing itself.

To pick just one more example of cool Jonny stuff, the chorus of Lucky sees Greenwood playing a soaring, swooping melody underneath Yorke’s vocal. The similarities between his approach to lead guitar and that of violin player have been pointed out often enough, but this is another one of those songs that reminds us that Greenwood’s training came from playing viola in school orchestras, and that, coupled with his lack of interest in traditional blues-derived lead guitar, does much to explain his singular style. Full marks, too, for Ed O’Brien’s super creative work on the song, which sees him strumming the strings behind the nut while using delay and modulation to create that pulsing/wooshing noise that runs underneath the intro and verses.

Next time, we look at Colin, again, and Thom Yorke’s bits and bobs.

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Got enough pedals, Ed?

Nada Surf live @ the Electric Ballroom, 11/04/16

Let’s start with the stop-press. I went to a gig last night and thought the sound was good.

Yes, that’s right. I have no complaints about the sound whatsoever. It was loud and full and rich and present, but controlled and not at all harsh, despite the volume. My ears were ringing only slightly immediately after the show last night, and not at all by this morning.

(Contrast that with the 48-hour tinnitus symphony I suffered through after last week’s Posies show at the 100 Club.)

Happily the show was every bit as good as the sound mix. Nada Surf’s thing – tightly written songs, vocal harmonies, guitars at that sweet spot halfway between jangly and crunchy – is not the most complicated thing in the world, but nonetheless they make it look so incredibly easy. All four members are very capable musicians. All of them pitch in with harmonies. Whatever tempo they’re played at, songs are dispatched without fuss, one after the other: bang, bang, bang. 18 songs in the set, four more in the encore, and a couple of acoustic singalongs by the merch table afterwards. Not much more than 90 minutes from first note to last. Guitarist Doug Gillard, formerly of Guided By Voices, added unshowy lead guitar and when he and Matthew Caws struck up the chiming harmonised intro of Jules & Jim, it was total Big Star-in-1972 jangle-pop heaven.

The set contained a good mix of material. New album You Know Who You Are is a bit of a grower, and a more than decent addition to their canon, but they didn’t go too hard after the new material, instead blending it in with established favourites. They opened with Cold to See Clear, but otherwise limited the new songs to the lovely Believe You’re Mine, Friend Hospital (repository of a couple of Caws’s dafter lyrics), Animal and Out of the Dark. Those aside, the songs were drawn more or less equally from Lucky, Let Go and The Weight is a Gift.

Personal highlights for me were Weightless (also a favourite of Mel’s), which saw the band switching impressively between its 12/8 main section and slow 4/4 passages, the aforementioned Believe You’re Mine and Jules & Jim, See These Bones (also a highlight of the Islington show – as Sara remarked to me, though, Caws is now telling the story of his visit to the Capucin monks’ ossuary in Rome as if he’s getting a bit tired of it), What Is Your Secret, Do It Again (cool bass riff, and massive cymbal-smashing awesomeness in the choruses) and Concrete Bed, essayed in the band’s trademark no-fuss style.

Nada Surf are a band I could see play many more times without getting bored. They’re so damn good at what they do, and I like what they do very much.

https://i0.wp.com/theupcoming.flmedialtd.netdna-cdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/Nada-Surf-at-Electric-Ballroom-Filippo-LAstorina-The-Upcoming-4-1024x683.jpgMatthew Caws and Ira Elliot, onstage in London, 11/04/16 (photo: Filippo L’Astorina)

 

Matthew Caws @ The Islington/Randy Newman @ the Royal Festival Hall

Two gigs in 48 hours, in venues as vastly different as is possible.

On Saturday night I went with Mel and Sara to see Matthew Caws from Nada Surf play a free show at the Islington, announced via his Instagram the day before. The Islington is a tiny venue, with a capacity of maybe 100. I’ve played drums there with Sumner, and it was the place I saw Jon Auer play a wonderful set in August 2014.

It was a really great night. I’m not yet that familiar with his work, although I’ve heard most of Nada Surf’s records, and Get There, the record he made with Juliana Hatfield as Minor Alps. It’s a testament to the quality of his writing, then, that I recognised tracks like See These Bones, Maxon, Your Legs Grow, Ice on the Wing and Always Love in a stripped down, voice-and-guitar setting having heard the recorded originals no more than a few times each.

Nada Surf passed me by in their early years – I know they had a big MTV hit with Popular, but I’ve not knowingly heard it; if he had played it on Saturday, I wouldn’t have recognised it. At this stage of his career, Caws is a world away from MTV Beach House, son-of-Weezerisms. Without getting ponderous or self-serious, his songs have become deeper and richer, his voice remains supple and boyish, and his impressive guitar playing (several songs switched between neat fingerpicking and flatpick strumming) is all he really needs to put the songs over; See These Bones, the last song he played on Saturday, was no less impressive than its recorded counterpart, with nothing lost in translation from full band to solo arrangement.

If it wasn’t quite the experience for me that seeing Jon Auer was, that’s only because I don’t have the long relationship with Matthew Caws’s music that I have with Auer’s work with the Posies. Sara, who is a long-time fan, had a similar experience that I had with the Auer gig, I think, and Mel, who wasn’t familiar with him at all, left intrigued and wanting to hear more.

*

On Monday night, I headed to the rather more august Royal Festival Hall with James and Dan McKean to see Randy Newman.

I’ve not seen too many shows by real veterans. The old guys I see tend to be 40- or 50-something, not 70-something like Newman. His voice, never smooth in his youth, is now a somewhat limited instrument. The effect of this was the opposite of what you might expect. It gave his ballads a fragility that was at times heartbreaking – She Chose Me (a song from Steve Bochco’s Cop Rock, of all things) was a genuine goosebump moment – but hampered the delivery of the ragtimey, satirical songs, which were more declaimed than sung, with the phrasing lacking just a little of the subtlety of the originals.

However, this was a set lasting over two hours (with a 20-minute interval), with time for Newman to play some 30-odd songs (and give us a lot of, uniformly hilarious, anecdotes), and the duds were few and far between. There weren’t many top-tier Newman songs that didn’t get an airing: I Miss You, God’s Song, I Think It’s Going to Rain Today, I Love LA, Birmingham, Marie, Short People, You’ve Got a Friend in Me, Political Science, You Can Leave Your Hat On, Losing You, the stupendous Louisiana 1927, Sail Away, and even the seldom-performed Rednecks (because of its use of the N-word; Newman took pains to explain the character and perspective he adopts within the song, which is something he doesn’t otherwise do).

Shorn of their band arrangements, some of the songs did fall a little flat. I adore I Love LA and have defended its parent album here, but without that triumphant synth riff and triumphalist backing vocals, the song is not what it could otherwise be. Similarly, My Life is Good without the blowhard’s increasingly agitated protests at the end (“My life is good, you old bag!”) as the music gets subtly more dissonant is only half the song. Why not forgo it and play something more suited to a voice-and-piano presentation, like Dayton, Ohio-1903 or He Gives Us All His Love?

Minor quibbles, really.

James once said to me, about the experience of watching Paul McCartney, that after a while, you just stand there in amazement that one man wrote all these songs, and that one man is standing up there singing them. That’s how Monday was for me. I’d give pretty much anything to write a song as good as Louisiana 1927. Hell, to write Short People, even. Newman is one of the greatest, a guy that pretty much every songwriter looks up to in the knowledge that they can’t play on the turf he’s playing on. I got to see him, playing all those songs. It was quite something.

randy_newman_web
This guy