Tag Archives: Southern Nights

Glen Campbell RIP

Your childhood favourites never leave you, and thanks to albums like this, Glen Campbell was one of mine:

Country Scene cover

This cheapo Music for Pleasure compilation from the early eighties began with Galveston and ended with Rhinestone Cowboy*. Thirty years later, both songs, and especially the former, remain incredibly important and precious to me, and I genuinely can’t hear Galveston without tearing up. Next time I listen to it, it’ll have to be in private.

Glen Campbell was not a young man, and he had been unwell for some years, so we shouldn’t get maudlin here. But we should take a moment to remember the absolutely towering contribution he made to popular music.

I’m sure I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know about Glen Campbell. After years of playing guitar on sessions and cutting singles trying to get a break, Gentle on My Mind made his name in 1967. His interpretations of Jimmy Webb’s songs (Wichita Lineman, By the Time I Get to Phoenix, Galveston – Campbell had an instinct for choosing the best songs) in the years that followed cemented his reputation as one of the foremost interpretative singers not just in country, but in any kind of music. No one who took on Wichita Lineman or By the Time I Get to Phoenix improved them (not even Isaac Hayes – sorry, James, if you’re reading this). You can’t improve perfection.

He had a TV show and tried his hand at acting with some success. He cut gorgeous duets with Bobbie Gentry and Anne Murray. In his session days, he played guitar and bass on Beach Boys and Frank Sinatra records as part of the Wrecking Crew – and toured with the Beach Boys, too. Even now he’s still underappreciated as a guitarist.

If there was one positive to come out of his Alzheimer’s-stricken final years, it was the sight of Campbell performing in front of adoring audiences, old and young, some of whom had only heard of him through his 2008 covers album, Meet Glen Campbell, on which he covered the likes of the Foo Fighters, Green Day and Paul Westerberg. Their appreciation of him was sharpened by the knowledge that he was slipping away. No artist deserved a victory lap more.

Glen-Campbell-Capitol-Archives

*It also took in Anne Murrary’s Snowbird, Crystal Gayle’s Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue and Talking in Your Sleep, Don Schlitz’s own recording of The Gambler, Billie Jo Spears’ Blanket on the Ground and Bobbie Gentry’s Ode to Billie Joe. It’s amazing how much lasting happiness can be derived from something that only existed because someone at MfP saw a quick, cheap way to make an easy profit.

 

 

Southern nights – Glen Campbell

I have appreciated so many genres of music coming up, so I’m not too far away from what comes at me later on

Allen Toussaint

One of those genres apparently was the smashed and blissful psychedelia of records by the Beach Boys and the Beatles, to judge from Toussaint’s own recording of Southern Nights from 1975.

Allen Toussaint is a towering figure in popular music. Working in a Coal Mine, Mother-in-Law, Lady Marmalade and Southern Nights are all his. He produced Ernie K-Doe, Lee Dorsey, the Nevilles and Irma Thomas. He arranged horns for the Band. His songs have been covered or sampled by scores of artists.

Given that it became a signature song of sorts and given that Toussaint will forever be associated with the second-line sound of New Orleans R&B, Southern Nights was a very strange record indeed, and not one you’d necessarily think would catch on. Its beat is kept only by a hi-hat. Toussaint’s voice is sent through a Leslie cabinet. The arrangement is dominated by an overlapping tapestry of pianos: an untuned upright, a couple of electrics and a big old grand. The familiar riff that would power the Glen Campbell version is underplayed to the point where you could miss it entirely. This was a very personal dreamlike sound, not a production looking to be a hit record.

Glen Campbell had felt those Southern Nights, too, and Toussaint’s idiosyncratic and personal record touched him. His own recording of the song, though, went a very different way. 1976, when Campbell began work on what would become the album Southern Nights, was just about the peak of the disco era and the records being made in New York, with their huge low end and hissing hi-hats, were making country music sound very white, very small and not very swinging. Campbell’s Southern Nights, then, was one of those country records that attempted to come to a sort of rhythmic accommodation with disco. While some attempts to do this (Dr Hook’s When You’re in Love with a Beautiful Woman, say) came off cynical, or even desperate, the success of Southern Nights is that it sounds genuinely overjoyed, while retaining just a little of the wistfulness of Toussaint’s original. In fact, with its horns, soulful backing vocals, offbeat guitar and playful swing, it sounds much more like a Toussaint record than Toussaint’s own recording did. It’s a fitting tribute from one master to another.

Glen Campbell
Glen Campbell

Allen_Toussaint
Allen Toussaint

Amarillo Highway – Terry Allen

Terry Allen is a conceptual artist and country singer. This isn’t an unheard-of combination of pursuits. One thinks of Dolly Parton.
Allen has flown under the mainstream radar for pretty much all his musical career and remains little known to this day, but he is beloved of many rock critics and Lubbock (On Everything) is frequently cited by those few who have heard it as one of the finest country albums ever made, and a forerunner of the last two decades’ alt.country. He is patently not a tough guy, like Waylon Jennings. He’s no mystic hippie like Willie Nelson. There is a kinship with Jimmie Dale Gilmore and Joe Ely (who played harmonica on Lubbock) – they all come from Lubbock and have all tapped into the strange vibes of a seemingly singular place. But still, Allen’s hard to pin down.
If Glen Campbell’s reading of Allen Toussaint’s Southern Nights found country music coming to a kind of rhythmic accommodation with disco, Amarillo Highway’s ramshackle swagger puts a hi-hat figure straight out of New York, played with a woozy looseness you would never get in Lower Manhattan, to work on a hard-ass down-home road song that skewers the genre of hard-ass down-home road songs. It’s the album’s signature groove, recurring on several songs. It’s topped by the wonderful pedal-steel playing of Lloyd Maines, another local legend (and father of Natalie Maines from the Dixie Chicks) and benefits from the engineering of Don Caldwell, at whose studio Lubbock (On Everything) was recorded. The album’s production is credited to ‘Everyone on this record’, and that’s the way Don Caldwell tells it in Fire in the Water, Earth in the Air (‘everybody on the album put in their two cents, a very co-operative effort), but he’s probably being a little generous: he knew more about making a record than anyone else in the room (Maines was his protégé) and that the sessions held together at all must have been in large part because of his steadying influence.
But the great playing, arrangements and engineering wouldn’t mean much if they weren’t backed up by quality songs from Allen. And yes, the shufflin’ drums and sun-baked pedal steel are just adornments to the lyric and Allen’s canny performance: the singer’s inability to quite hit the low notes at the end of the verses undercuts his protestations of unreconstructed Texan masculinity, which in any case veer between banality and near-nonsensicality. In its affectionate parody of a certain kind of southern manhood, it’s reminiscent of Randy Newman’s Good Old Boys (The Great Joe Bob – fallen high-school football icon – is a character Newman is still probably kicking himself for not coming up with first), and Amarillo Highway, in common with so many of Newman’s songs, contains a lyric and a vocal that only the author could deliver properly.
Yeah, that’s a better comparison than any other country singer: Terry Allen, a Panhandling, manhandling Randy Newman.

Image

Terry Allen (seated right). Jo Harvey Allen (actress and artist) is seated to his left. Al Ruppersberg is standing back row, left.

Break in the Road – Betty Harris

On the whole, I prefer my soul music soft, opulent and orchestrated, a sound that tends to be associated with Chicago in the very late 1960s and with Philadelphia in the early 1970s going into the disco era. Strings, doo-wop-style harmonies, falsetto lead vocals, steady but unflashy drumming, a bass guitar groove that was infectious but happy to play second fiddle to the top line – these things that characterise soft soul are the things that really send me.

But listening to it all the time is like surviving on a diet consisting of nothing but cream cakes. A really great deep soul or southern soul record can make the orchestrated Midwestern/East Coast variety sound effete, decadent even.

Southern soul tended to do without orchestras. Its roots in gospel music and jump blues were more apparent, and while its arrangements may have often been musically sophisticated, they tended to use a small-band sound: drums, bass guitar, electric guitar, piano and organ (especially organ), and a small horn section. It was, yes, gritty- and dirty-sounding, but sanctified – it hadn’t moved that far from the church.

Betty Harris didn’t cut many tracks in her career, but her body of work is revered by connoisseurs of this kind of raw soul music. She had begun her career on Bert Burns’ Jubilee label, and in 1963 released a hit version of Solomon Burke’s Cry to Me with a gorgeous vocal, alternating between a smoky whisper and a passionate roar. Harris’s record slowed the tempo down to a crawl, but it was irresistible and was a pop hit. Despite this early success, Burns’s attention was occupied by his bigger artists and his own private life, and soon Harris was without a producer, and to make matters worse, a manager (‘Babe’ Chivian) in legal trouble.

The appearance in her life of the great New Orleans producer and songwriter Allen Toussaint must have seemed propitious. There is some debate whether a deal with Toussaint was brokered by her manager (still Chivian? A subsequent manager?), or whether Toussaint approached her and her representative after seeing her sing live at the Apollo. However it happened, Toussaint had set up a venture called Sansu with Marshall Sehorn, and soon Harris was recording for the fledgling label, usually flying in to cut a vocal on a track written and arranged for her by Toussaint, leaving before the song was mixed.

Toussaint is a towering figure in New Orleans music, a writer of numerous classics (Working in a Coalmine, Ride Your Pony, Southern Nights), a great arranger and pianist, and a likeable singer in his own right, but his magic failed to work on Betty Harris’s career. She cut a lot of fine records for Sansu, but none of them were hits, and eventually – dispirited by the lack of success and her lack of involvement in making her own records – she quit singing in the early 1970s.

Before she did, she made one last great track in 1969, (There’s a) Break in the Road, a fire-breathing monster powered along by the Meters (more about this later). It’s about as raw a soul record as has ever been made, the guitar feeding back throughout, the snare drum and horns audibly distorting. It sounds like band in a room, loud as hell. No other record I know of sounds as present, as ‘there’, as Break in the Road. It verges on psych territory, with post-Hendrix trills on the guitar and drumming that savagely pushes and pulls at the groove, with syncopations so complex that they nearly go out of control. The song spends most of its 2.45 running time on the very edge of falling apart, and it sometimes seems as if Harris and her backing singers are holding the whole thing together only by force of will.

So who is the drummer on Break in the Road? Most of the sources I could find seem agreed that the guitarist and bassist are the Meters’ Leo Nocentelli and George Porter Jr, but opinion seems split on whether the drummer is the Meters’ own Ziggy Modeliste or James Black, a fellow New Orleans funk drummer known for his work with Eddie Bo. If you listen to Hook and Sling, Black’s best-known work, there are moments in the breakdowns every bit as far out and gonzo as those on Break in the Road, so it could easily be him, however much it sounds like Ziggy on first listen (and a lot of that may be be down to the engineering and production choices – perhaps a larger part of the Ziggy Modeliste drum sound comes from the recording techniques than has often been assumed).

I wish I knew for sure who it was. What is beyond contention is that this is Harris’s finest achievement, better even than Cry to Me. And that’s saying something.

Image