Tag Archives: soft soul

Underrated Drum Tracks I have Loved 2014, Part 6 – Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind this Time) – The Delfonics

There’s nothing I don’t like about the Delfonics’ Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind this Time). Thom Bell’s luxurious sting arrangement, William Hart’s soaring falsetto, the electric sitar (Bobby Eli, I think, rather than Norman Harris), Bobby Martin’s French horn call that begins the song, the key change to A going in to the first verse from the intro, that rhythmically displaced chord change in the chorus – it’s all wonderful, and you can’t give enough credit to Thom Bell for his creativity. But even so, when I put the song on, it’s usually because I want to hear that drum track. And for that, we have MFSB drummer Earl Young and engineer Joe Tarsia to thank.

Earl Young is an unquestionable great of popular music, the supplier of countless great drum performances from the late 1960s and all through the ’70s. But he shines brightest on Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind this Time). Joe Tarsia, engineer and studio owner, and presumably Thom Bell (since, as producer, the decision was ultimately his) were convinced of the need for the drums on their records to be uncompressed, loud and proud. As a consequence, no matter how sophisticated, ornate and opulent the arrangement, the drum tracks on songs coming off the Philly conveyor belt meant business. Young’s studio kit had a 26-inch bass drum. On Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind this Time), Young plays meaty, powerful rimshots all the way through (which, along with his intricate hi-hat work, is a Young trademark), his tom-and-snare build-ups in the choruses have an aggressive physicality to them and his work on the brass is decisive and authoritative. Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind this Time) is a complex, conflicted song, and, to wax psychological for a moment, if the orchestra reinforces and amplifies the tenderness that the singer still feels for his love, Earl Young’s drums stand for the part of him that is delighted to be standing up for himself and finally be proving her wrong.

Young’s magnificent performance is given the sound it deserves by Joe Tarsia, recording engineer and owner of Sigma Sound studio. His philosophy was to attempt to record the session as accurately as possible and save the clever stuff for the mix, but he was not afraid of capturing real room sounds as part of that process. The drum sound on Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind this Time) is noticeably reverberant and big, and it’s not something that was added in mix. Indeed, Greg Milner quotes Tarsia as describing the contemporaneous West Coast quest for total separation and dryness as “ridiculous… it was the producer not willing to commit. He wanted to be able to take the guitar out later, which you can’t do if it’s bleeding into five other microphones.” Leakage was Tarsia’s friend, not something of which he lived in mortal fear, and he sculpted that live sound – and, according to Milner, the session that produced the backing track for Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind this Time) was completely live, orchestra and all – into one of the most incredible-sounding recordings ever made.

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Earl Young (photo © Andrew Small)

 

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The Persistence of Sentiment by Mitchell Morris

I picked up Mitchell Morris’s The Persistence of Sentiment from the new Foyles the other day. Subtitled Display and Feeling in Popular Music of the 1970s, it’s a book about some of those artists and genres of 1970s pop that have devoted followings but not critical respect; that are guilty pleasures, so to speak, even for many who do like them.

This kind of discussion is right up my street. Soft soul and disco are both discussed in the context of Barry White (and to a lesser extent Barry Manilow), as is the music of the Carpenters. Soft soul and disco are long-standing favourites of mine, and Karen Carpenter is, I think, one of the greatest singers we’ve had in the recorded-music era. The best feature of modern critical discourse around music is that having had the chance easily to get hold of any music they want – by means legal and illegal – modern rock critics are very catholic in their listening, open to anything. As a young lad, I welcomed a gatekeeper telling me that, say, Steely Dan were awful. It meant that I didn’t need to spend my own money to find that out (only later did I find out how 180-degrees wrong that assessment was and that having gatekeepers dictate what art you should or shouldn’t consume is fundamentally problematic). So while I might argue the extent to which, say, the Carpenters are still seen as kitsch or as a guilty pleasure by anybody, there was no way I wasn’t going to buy this book once I picked it up off the shelf.

Morris is an associate professor of musicology at the University of California, so his book is understandably strong on the formal analysis of his subjects’ work (you don’t get notation transcriptions of the music being discussed in much mainstream pop criticism), but what’s most impressive is the multi-disciplinary nature of Morris’s approach. He’s alive to the intersection of music and history, and how it was lived by different segments of the record-buying audience (his analysis of the social and political contexts of this music in the introductory chapter is wide-ranging and very astute), and he’s at home deploying the terminology of literary as well as musical analysis. Letting my biases out into the open for a second, this is the kind of music criticism we need. It’s a shame that this is being marketed expressly as an academic work and isn’t going to make it into the average high-street Waterstones.

I’m particularly grateful to Morris for giving us a useful term to deploy in my own work. Discussing the differences between symphonic music, opera, art song and the other kinds of ‘high’ music of the European classical tradition on the one hand and pop song on the other, he uses the term ‘modest songs’ as a blanket term for the pop songs of the recorded-music era and the folk and parlour songs of the 19th century and earlier. It’s a term he uses in a purely descriptive way, not as a value judgement.

We have rarely known how to account for music that loves the quotidian because our methods have been based on aesthetic and moral preferences for the extraordinary, the original and the convention-breaking inspiration. Our commitment as music scholars have been the strongest, historically, to music that was never meant to be heard every day… The heroic gestures that fill out most of the “great works” in virtually any kind of canon are the ones that modest songs usually refuse – they must forgo too much “greatness” if they are to accomplish their principal goal of living with us instead of living against us in moral-aesthetic agon.

Morris articulates this more clearly than anyone I’ve ever read, and my sympathies tend always to lie with critics who treat all kinds of art just the same, who recognise no artificial “high” or “low” distinctions between works. I haven’t finished The Persistence of Sentiment yet, but what I’ve read so far is pretty extraordinary.

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