Tag Archives: Sara

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.

 

 

 

NYCNY – Daryl Hall

We’ve talked about Daryl Hall before, and even relatively recently. But there was only room in February’s entry on She’s Gone, which you’ll remember I put forward as one of my absolute favourite records, to touch in the briefest possible fashion on Sacred Songs, Hall’s first solo album, recorded in 1977 and eventually released by RCA in 1980.

Hall was not the only prescient musician who appears to have felt the tides turning against them around 1976 and 1977 and responded by reinventing themselves (Peter Gabriel, Neil Young and to some extent David Bowie did likewise), but when listening to Sacred Songs, Lindsey Buckingham always comes to mind.

But Sacred Songs is stranger even than Fleetwood Mac’s endlessly rewarding Tusk. Despite the note on the sleeve that said “Special thanks from the band to Lindsey Buckingham”, Tusk is not an auteur work. Buckingham may have wanted Fleetwood Mac to become the Clash, but that was never even close to possible. The band contained two other singer-songwriters, neither of whom had any real wish to follow him down that road. And so when producing Stevie Nicks’s and Christine McVie’s songs, Buckingham dutifully gave them relatively straightforward treatments, only occasionally lacing them with the off-kilter touches that characterised his own material on Tusk. So Buckingham pulls in one direction with his songs, Nicks and McVie pull in another with theirs, but the mediator between the two factions is, strangely, Buckingham himself. One moment he was cackling his way maniacally through the bizarre What Makes You Thing You’re the One, the next he was empathetically layering endless delicate guitar and vocal overdubs on to Nicks’s oceanic Sara, possibly her masterpiece.

Sacred Songs covers similarly broad territory. Hall allows himself to be everything he can be on the record. A ballad like Why Was it So Easy could have fit happily on any Hall & Oates album, but NYCNY is genuinely startling in its aggression. This song would certainly not have fit on Abandoned Luncheonette.

The standard critical line on Sacred Songs is that it’s the result of exposure to art rock, punk and new wave while living in New York and hanging out with Robert Fripp. And that seems almost certainly true. But, as with Buckingham’s Tusk-era material, NYCNY is fascinating in the ways it fails to be punk rock; after all, an imperfect copy of an original idea tells us as much, maybe more, about the copier than the copied. NYCNY is mixed dry and close, the musicians’ playing is clipped and precise, Hall hits too many notes over too many octaves to ever be confused with Johnny Rotten, and he can’t sneer like Tom Verlaine. Above all, he’s exuberant in a way that few punk rockers would have allowed themselves to be.

Sacred Songs isn’t a classic. Ultimately Daryl Hall was a soul man, and anyone with working ears would rather hear him sing She’s Gone than holler and squeal his way through NYCNY, however much fun it is. But Sacred Songs is an noble attempt by a substantial artist to push themselves beyond anything they’d done before, and it remains completely fascinating.

hall

Underrated Drum Tracks I have Loved 2014, Part 5 – Lime Tree Arbour – Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

Sorry for the radio silence. You catch me in the middle of a rather busy 10-day period.

Nick Cave is still doing what he does. That is admirable. But really, I checked out a while ago. After a series of what sounded to me like overpraised Bad Seeds records, Grinderman was the last straw: the sound of, what? Self-parody? A formerly vital artist unable to summon up by force of will what used to be second nature? I listened forlornly. Cave doing sleazy, bluesy and (yes) grindy rock would once have been a sure thing, a slam dunk. Yet the distance between No Pussy Blues and, say, Junkyard just made me sad.

So We No Who U R, terrible title aside, was a relief. At this point in his life and career, Cave needs to stick to ballads; he doesn’t have the voice or sensibility any longer to play the terrifying demon he did so convincingly in the early 1980s.

Yet, the rhythmic backbone of We No Who U R – the first track off the most recent Bad Seeds record, Push the Sky Away – is synthetic, so it lacks one of the key elements that appealed to me as a Cave neophyte when I first heard The Boatman’s Call (which was a couple of years old by then). Before that, I’d only heard Where the Wild Roses Grow, which I remembered primarily for how stiff and uncomfortable he had appeared when performing the song with Kylie and the Bad Seeds on Top of the Pops, and some Birthday Party stuff: Big Jesus Trash Can, which had blown my teenage mind a couple of years later when I heard it on a 4AD retrospective, and a live album I’d picked up from a record fair. I didn’t recall Where the Wild Roses Grow well enough to remember the key role played in creating atmosphere by Thomas Wydler’s brushed drums.

I love brushed drums. They’re harder to play than non-drummers might suppose. For me, anyway. I find it harder to maintain a consistent tone and dynamic on the snare with them than with sticks. If you listen to the Fleetwood Mac song Sara, from Tusk, you’ll hear even a great drummer like Mick Fleetwood struggle a little to keep his backbeat even. Played well and recorded well, though, they sound amazing, and many of my favourite drum sounds are brush sounds. Charlie Watts’s magnificent snare drum on Love in Vain might be my favourite drum sound ever.

The Boatmans’s Call is high up on the list of albums that made me fall in love with that sound. It’s probably Flood’s most organic-sounding production, lush and deep and spacious, without being distant or unfocused. Into My Arms is a stand-out song, of course, and it starts the album strongly, but the second track, Lime Tree Arbour, is the first to feature Thomas Wydler’s drums in tandem with Martyn P. Casey’s deep, warm bass guitar, so that’s the one I’m picking. It’s a simple part, but it’s empathetically played, it’s perfect for the song and it sounds wonderful, and sometimes that’s all a drummer needs to do. The key is to realise it.

THOMAS_WYDLER