Tag Archives: Music

New website up; EP to follow

Hi everyone. Just a quick one to let you know, if you’re interested, that I’ve got a new website up for my musical doings. You can find it at https://www.rosspalmermusic.co.uk/

I’ve also finalised the mixes for an EP that I’m going to actually release on physical media, which is the first time I’ve done this. Over the last year or so, I’ve frequently found that I’m the only guy at every show I play who doesn’t have any CDs for sale, and I figured it’s time I remedied that, so I’ve brought together a couple of songs I had up on Bandcamp as standalone tracks with two other songs never previously released in any format, one old and one new. The EP will be available on Bandcamp, Spotify and iTunes (if iTunes is still a thing – word is it may not be soon) as well as on CD. I imagine that most of the CDs I sell will be at gigs, but it’ll be available to order as a CD from Bandcamp too, just in case.

I asked an old friend of mind to do the cover art for me (the brief was for something autumnal and rural), and he obliged with this beautiful drawing of Belfairs Woods, near where we both grew up:

Last swallow mock-up

Exciting times! An album will follow later in the year – this EP is the first CD I’ve released, so as well as it being a good thing to have something I can sell at gigs, it’s also great to learn how to do all this stuff.

Back soon with a real post. Take care.

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Emotion – Samantha Sang

Saturday Night Fever was a 1977 film, but it was released to theatres in December, so its true impact wasn’t felt until 1978.

When it was – kaboom.

The Bee Gees owned 1978. It was obscene. The Billboard year-end Hot 100 singles? By my count, the Bee Gees wrote, performed and/or produced nine of them. Nine! Their three Saturday Night Fever songs (Night Fever, Stayin’ Alive and How Deep is Your Love), plus Yvonne Elliman’s If I Can’t Have You, Samantha Sang’s reading of Emotion, Frankie Valli’s Gibb-penned title track from Grease and no fewer than three songs by Andy Gibb, all written for him by Barry. I would imagine that More than a Woman, Jive Talkin’, You Should Be Dancing and If I Can’t Have You were still picking up heavy airplay, too. Oh yeah, and the Bee Gees’ new single, Too Much Heaven, was a number one in November, only missing out on the year-end chart as it was released at the end of the year. When you consider that level of pop domination, it almost makes the Disco Sucks riot at Comisky Park understandable.

Barry Gibb had been helping out Samantha Sang since the late 1960s, when an 18-year-old Sang travelled to the UK to pursue a pop career. Gibb heard her and urged his manager, Robert Stigwood, to sign her. He did, and she released a single (Love of a Woman) that Barry had written for her, but it was only a minor hit in a couple of countries, and not a hit at all in the UK. Sang eventually returned to Australia after her visa expired.

She continued her career down under for a few years until Gibb invited her to Miami, where the Bee Gees were based. He had a song he thought she should cut, but Barry being Barry, by the time she got there, he’d written a better one. So Sang ended up cutting Emotion, and (Our Love) Don’t Throw it All Away went to Andy Gibb (who took it into the Top 10 – this was truly a year in which everything Barry touched turned to gold).

Now, I do think Samantha Sang did a very good job with Emotion, and her decision to sing it in a breathy head voice (very like Barry’s own voice) suited the material, but at this point the world was clamouring for more Bee Gees, and no one in the US knew who Sang was. So Emotion is mixed in such a way that she is virtually a guest on her own record. The bridges and chorus feature Barry’s backing vocals so strongly that Sang is nearly drowned out. That being said, her version is better than any Bee Gees-only version I’ve heard, but it’s a measure of how besotted the world was with the Bee Gees in 1978 that after this great song dropped out of the charts, its singer was all but forgotten immediately.

Underrated Drum Tracks I Have Loved 2017, Part Three: Love My Way – Psychedelic Furs

Or “Lahve moi wye”, as singer Richard Butler would have it.

Yes, Love My Way is about the marimba part played by Todd Rundgren. Yes, it’s about Richard Butler’s croaky sneer. Yes, it’s about Flo and Eddie’s harmonies. Yes, it’s about Tim Butler’s rumbling bass. But it’s also very much about Vince Ely’s drums.*

I’ve said this over and over in these drum posts, but as I get older, I respond most favourably to players who do what’s needed and nothing more, and don’t let their ego influence what they play. The thinking behind everything that Vince Ely does during Love My Way is immediately clear when you listen to the song. As much as Richard Butler, Ely narrates the song. There’s nothing in his performance that feels like it’s just a lick, like it’s just there for Ely to show off to Modern Drummer readers.

Let’s take the drum track apart and see what he’s doing.

Two and four on the snare. Eights on the hi-hat, with a “psst” every two bars. That’s all obvious enough.

On the kick, he plays a two-bar pattern: single strokes on beats one and three in bar one; then a bar with extra strokes on the “and”, so all together the pattern is kick, snare, kick snare; kick-kick snare, kick-kick snare. This variation gives the song extra drive and momentum, and stops it from feeling too rigid and repetitive.

In the choruses, he switches to keeping time on the floor tom. This is a pretty rare move in rock. Most of the time, drummers move to a cymbal of some kind for choruses – usually a ride, but also sometimes a crash or china. Drummers are more likely to use floor toms to keep time during intros, verses or breakdowns. To me, the effect of going to the floor tom for the chorus is an increase in tension. You think you know what the drummer’s going to play, then he plays something else. You get an unexpected increase in energy in the low end of the frequency spectrum (the floor tom is the biggest tom, and usually has the lowest fundamental note of any drum in the kit except the bass drum) when you’re expecting the opposite, and the whole thing sounds like it has to be about to resolve somewhere else, an effect that’s enhanced by the bass drum following along with the floor tom and also playing eights. But, first time round, it doesn’t go somewhere else; it simply repeats the verse again.

A cool detail: coming out of the chorus, Ely doesn’t hit his crash cymbal on the first “one” of the new section – something drummers do 99.9% of the time. Ah, you think, he’s not going to play cymbal crashes in this song. Nice. That’s different. Then he hits it on the “three” of that first bar. Woah, you think, that’s really different. I don’t know whether that was his idea or producer Todd Rundgren, but it’s great.

So we go round again, but next time we have a double chorus. Halfway through, Ely switches out of his floor-tom beat and plays his verse pattern (again, with that displaced crash cymbal and the original kick-drum pattern). By doing so, he releases all that pent-up tension, making the chorus more celebratory.

The song’s final minute sees Flo & Eddie (Howard Kaylan and Mark Volman, formerly of the Turtles and Zappa’s Mothers of Invention**) come to the party to add their falsetto harmonies, a section introduced by Ely with the simplest of drum fills: seven eighth-note strokes on the snare. For the last forty seconds of the song, he lays off the hat, again preferring the floor tom, but gradually complicating his pattern so it becomes increasingly syncopated and, for lack of a better term, tribal.

Drum performances that heighten, reinforce and indeed comment upon the emotional journey of a song are actually pretty rare in pop and rock music, which is why Love My Way is a bit special. It’s hard to know whether the ideas came from Rundgren or Ely but  they’re certainly executed well, whoever was responsible.

https://i2.wp.com/images.genius.com/dcc63fe5e6ac6200369699f9c1446b04.900x920x1.jpg
1982 parent album, Forever Now

*I’m not 100% certain it’s a live drum track. I think it is, but the drum sound is very weird and doesn’t sound much like an acoustic drum kit. But that’s often the case with records engineered by Todd Rundgren. Also the tempo is very solid. It’s the section at the end where Ely starts playing the tribal-style tom pattern that makes me reasonably sure it’s not programmed.

**If you’ve heard Flo & Eddie’s super-high harmonies anywhere, it’ll be on T.Rex records, most notably Get It On.

I Wish that I Knew What I Know Now When I Was Younger

I hate that Faces song, by the way. The tense of the lyric in the chorus should be conditional.

This last week, an old high school friend of mine posted some photos and even a video clip of some of our teenage musical endeavours. The earliest of these photos is 20 years old. A sobering thought, indeed.

I’ve been doing what I do a long old time now; long enough that, of the guys I was in that high-school band with, I’m the only one still playing music seriously – writing, recording and gigging – and that’s been true for a decade now. It’s still a huge part of my life and I don’t imagine I’ll ever stop.

Which means, I guess, I see something different to what the other guys see when they look at these old photos. They see something they used to be; I see a younger version of the thing I am now. And blimey, there are some things I could tell younger me that might have helped him (other than just, “For god’s sake, sort your hair out”).

I probably couldn’t persuade younger me to ditch his ambitions to be a multi-instrumentalist singer-songwriter producer and recording engineer in order to just focus on doing one thing and doing it as well as possible. Trying to bite off more than can be chewed is too big a part of who I am. And besides, playing drums is fun. Recording is fun. Mixing is fun.  I wouldn’t want to give any of it up.

The one thing I’d tell him, I think, that he might actually listen to is play less, play it clean, play it in time. When I listen back to recordings I made before around 2007 or 2008, what bugs me about them is the lack of attention I paid to tempo. My voice-and-guitar recordings from back then can fluctuate pretty wildly in tempo, and are generally speaking too fast, with subsequent guitar flubs I’d never live with today. I could have benefitted hugely from taking the time to experiment with tempo before trying to record the song – working out what was best by playing it at different speeds, then practising at the tempo that felt best and committing to it.

Similarly, my rhythm guitar playing and bass playing often sounded rushed and ahead of the drummer. It took seeing my tracks on screen (something that comes from recording digitally and is not always a great idea to focus on, though in this case it was) for me to realise that I had a pattern of being ahead of the beat, especially when playing bass with fingers – it took several years to correct that to the point where a bass track I put down might be listened to soloed against the drums without causing me acute embarrassment.

Of course, when you’re playing in a kid band, it’s unlikely the drummer is putting the one in the same spot every time anyway, but I wasn’t even aware that it was an issue and wouldn’t have been able to tell you who the guilty party was.

The older I get, the more I’m impressed by players who play what’s required with a good feel and nothing more. Maybe one day I’ll be one of them. If I’d have learned the lesson in my teens rather than my mid-twenties, I might have been already. But it’s a journey, and getting to the destination is all that matters.

Mesh

1997 (on bass, to the right)

CFF live

2017 (on guitar, to the left)

OK Computer is 20, part 4 – Guest post #2

And now, stepping up to the plate, Melanie Crew.

Écoutez-vous la musique pop?

That was the important question posed to us one day, in our secondary school French class. My answer was simple. “Je n’aime pas la musique pop.” I don’t like pop music. Aware that my answer was controversial, at a time when all kids liked pop music, I was willing to subject myself to potential ridicule in what was, quite possibly, my first act of rebellion.

My abstension from pop music didn’t last all that long. Within a few years I was glued to Radio One’s chart show like everyone else, engrossed in All Saints videos and dreaming of becoming the fifth member of a girl band called N-Tyce who my family and I had, by chance, seen perform in Capital FM’s cafe in Leicester Square. I mention this gig as the year was significant. 1997 – the year Paranoid Android was released.

I probably wasn’t even aware of Radiohead in 1997. I remember complaining about Oasis every time their songs were played on the radio, but indie and rock music was largely unknown to me: my attention was focused elsewhere. A few years later, when I left London to go to university in Kent, I took with me a few of my favourite CDs: Illumina by Alisha’s Attic, and Mariah Carey’s Greatest Hits.

In the year 2000, I wasn’t listening to Pulp or Blur or any other band with guitars. Not at first anyway. Not until I heard a very strange song night after night, which someone – I always assumed it was just one person – kept putting on the jukebox in Rutherford Hall’s dingy little bar, not far from my room. If I had to name one song that shaped my musical tastes, it was Paranoid Android. Not long after that I started going along to the campus rock club and enjoying songs like Rage Against the Machine’s Killing in the Name. My initiation into rock music had begun. I’d discovered something wonderful: the guitar.

I don’t know what it was exactly about Paranoid Android that I found so captivating. I remember being in my room and hearing a really mournful voice coming from the jukebox. I’d listen carefully, and wonder who it could be. Back then, of course, there was no Shazam to identify the mystery singer. I didn’t even have a smartphone to Google the lyrics. I don’t know how or when I found out it was Radiohead, but I do know that hearing that song changed my understanding and appreciation of what truly constitutes great music.

It was the tonal quality of Yorke’s vocal, the chord changes, the layers of guitar, the strange spoken words in the background. As an introverted student discovering new ways of thinking, lyrics like “with your opinions that are of no consequence at all” just really appealed to me. And I was left spellbound by the song’s melody: the way that the melody, initially, rises and falls in each line, with a different note for each word: “Please could you stop thar noise I’m trying to get some rest”, before one word is drawn out – “what’s thaaaaaaaaaaaat?” You just didn’t hear that kind of thing on the radio.

Nowadays I always say that there’s no need for a song to be over three minutes long. Paranoid Android is over six minutes, yet it never becomes dull – not even after hearing it many, many times. Probably that’s due to the fact the song encompasses different sections. There’s the section at the start, then – after about two minutes – some noisy, insanely complicated  distorted guitar parts, interspersed with snarling lyrics like “squealing gucci little piggy”, and – when you least expect it – a beautiful, rousing, choral section with layers of harmonies sitting behind the lead vocal. Then more crazy guitar riffs at the end.

Paranoid Android is four different songs in one, but somehow it works. It’s an incredible piece of work. And what I find really surprising, given how uncoventional the song structure is, is that Radio One played it several times a day. If I’d heard it on the radio in 1997, who knows what I would have thought of it. But hearing it a few years later, straining to listen from my room, and feeling so far away from the people talking and laughing in the bar, yet somehow so connected with music, was an experience I won’t forget.

 

Give Some More to the Bass Player, Part 1: Bullet Proof… I Wish I Was by Radiohead

Many neophyte bass players assume that because the primary job of their instrument is to provide low end, they have to play each root note in the lowest possible octave. Depending on the type of music the young bassist plays, it may be years before they begin to realise the musical effects that can be achieved through other approaches.

Familiarity with the work of Colin Greenwood might help to flatten this learning curve. During Radiohead’s glory days of The Bends through to Kid A (OK, not everyone’s going to agree that this was when the band were at their best, but it’s my blog so that’s what we’re going with), Colin was the band’s oft-overlooked secret weapon. Thom Yorke’s voice and Jonny Greenwood’s endlessly inventive lead guitar got most of the critical plaudits, but Colin’s playing on those three albums function as a sustained masterclass in what can be done by the bass player within a, more or less, traditional rock band setting.

He’s so eclectic and adaptable that there doesn’t appear to be any one feel or sound that constitutes the Colin Greenwood style. On Airbag he’s ultra-minimal, not playing a note until 30 seconds in, long after Phil Selway has started drumming. On Exit Music, his bass is a brutally distorted noise that pushes its way in unexpectedly and then dominates the song’s final minute and a half. Bones sees him uncharacteristically swaggering, somewhere between Nirvana’s Krist Novoselic and Slade’s Jim Lea. How to Disappear Completely is free-ranging, scalar, essentially a walking line. Colin Greenwood is about being whatever the song needs, and he has the ears, the chops and the imagination to transform himself on almost a song by song basis. The young player can learn half a dozen invaluable new techniques from the songs on any single Radiohead album.

Possibly my favourite Colin Greenwood part is one I’ve mentioned here once before, Bullet Proof… I Wish I Was, from The Bends. Bullet Proof is one of the softest pieces on the album, a narcotised wisp of a song, with ambient noises running all the way through it, apparently improvised by Ed O’Brien and Jonny Greenwood without listening to the backing track on headphones (this may be overstated since a lot of the noises are specifically tonal, unless producer John Leckie got the scissors out).

Colin plays up in the bass guitar’s second octave, using the A string at the 12th fret to play the root of the A minor chord and going up from there to play C, B and D notes at the 10th, 9th and 12th frets of the D string. The notes are mainly held and allowed to ring. The combination of a high register and thick tone (contributed to by playing the notes on a lower, fatter string at a higher fret) gives the song a feeling of weightlessness yet allows Greenwood to carry the verses almost single-handedly. His restraint is admirable, and lasts until the final chorus, when he allows himself a few more expansive melodic ornamentations. Even so, Bullet Proof is an object lesson in how the position in which you decide to play a note and the tone you use are just as important as the choice of note itself, and shows just how valuable Colin’s contributions are, even on songs when the bass guitar plays a low-key supporting role.

Fade Out

No, this isn’t a cryptic way of announcing that the blog is going to end. I’m not stopping. Ever. In fact, things are about to get exciting round here. I want to talk about actual fade outs.

I miss the fade out. Last night I was walking home listening to Jon Auer’s quite wonderful You Used to Drive Me Around, enjoying the long, slow fade, and thinking about how little of the newer music I listen to actually makes use of the technique. Then I started wondering if anyone else had noticed.

Turns out I’m not imagining this, and I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Actually, people who pay more regular attention to proper pop music than I do noticed years ago:

The fade-out—the technique of ending a song with a slow decrease in volume over its last few seconds—became common in the 1950s and ruled for three decades. Among the year-end top 10 songs for 1985, there’s not one cold ending. But it’s been on the downturn since the ’90s, and the past few years have been particularly unkind. The year-end top 10 lists for 2011, 2012, and 2013 yield a total of one fade-out, Robin Thicke’s purposely retro Blurred Lines. Not since the ’50s have we had such a paucity of fade-out songs.

William Weir, A Little Bit Softer Now, a Little Bit Softer Now…, Slate (2014)

The reasons for the decline of the fade out are fairly obvious and don’t take a lot of unpacking. Artists are terrified of fans skipping their song and moving on to the next, so they need to stuff them full of anticipation or incident until the moment they stop, so no one reaches for the skip button. A trend towards songs that build continually until they stop is the inevitable result.

For years, I thought fade outs were a “pop” technique, a cheap trick that my lo-fi, alt. and indie-rocking heroes were better than. If you can’t work out a way to bring your arrangement to a proper close that’s reproducable in real time on stage, then what kind of musician are you? And for sure, anyone who’s seen that famous live clip of the Eagles doing Hotel California at the Capital Center that ends with them just suddenly all hitting one chord four times and stopping – cha-cha-cha-cha – will attest to the difficulty of coming up with a “live” ending to a song that faded out in its studio recording. Whether you like the song or not, you’d have to admit that the way the Eagles closed out Hotel California live was lame as hell and undercut the whole thing.

But of course, there are no hard and fasts here. The fade out on Hotel California is effective, and on the whole it was worth ending the studio recording that way, even with the knowledge that they’d not be able to do it the same way live, rather than compromising the recording by ending it in a way that they could be replicated. And when you start thinking about some of the truly great fade outs – Sara by Fleetwood Mac, for example, which ends with Stevie Nicks calling out into infinity about a “heartbeat that never really died” while an ocean of Lindsey Buckingham’s multitracked vocals and guitars swirl around her – it becomes clear how effective an emotional tool the fade out can be.

You Used to Drive Me Around works the same way. The sort of situation that Jon Auer is singing about is not an easily resolvable one, so the long fade out isn’t just an excuse for Mike Musburger to play some more expansive drum fills; it’s actually wholly appropriate to the subject and the mood of the song itself.

I hope that some enterprising artist or other starts championing the fade out and it catches on again with this generation of musicians. They’re missing out on a potentially really powerful technique through letting it fall into disuse.