Tag Archives: The Eagles

I’ve never heard… Hotel California by the Eagles

Here’s a new regular feature. I was a little surprised to look down a list of the biggest-selling albums ever and realise that there was a good number I’d never really heard. Most of these records are such a pervasive part of our culture, and their songs are on the radio so often, I’ve never felt the need to sit down and listen to the albums those songs originally came from.

I decided I’d listen to some of these records, to hear those songs in their original context, and see what I made of them. I’ll be doing one of these posts every couple of weeks or so. They take a bit of putting together.

Let’s start with one of the big daddies of classic rock. Hotel California.

*

I’m British, so while I feel like I’ve got a pretty good idea what place the Eagles hold in American music culture, it’s not my culture. I didn’t grow up hearing them on the radio every single day, so I don’t share the revulsion born of over-familiarity that a lot of US music fans have for the band. The Eagles were a familiar presence on my radio, but not an inescapable one.

Nevertheless, I’ve schooled myself in the history of LA rock ‘n’ roll as best I can from books, documentaries and hundreds (or probably thousands) of hours of listening, so I know what these guys are, who they were before they became the Eagles, what dues they paid and a fair bit about how they behaved once they attained success. I get why so many are so strongly anti-Eagles — and sure, they’re the perfect symbol of the gradual reduction in intensity of meaning and feeling in LA music in the second half of the 1970s — but I can’t share the hatred.

That’s because I remember hearing Hotel California, the song, on the radio for the first time in the car with my parents and my dad telling me there was a good guitar solo coming up, and bam! There it was: possibly the most exciting minute or so of music I’d ever heard, aged seven or eight. I still remember that feeling and I’ve never totally lost it, so you can, I hope, trust me to be even-handed here.

Let’s dive right in. By the time of 1976’s Hotel California, the Eagles had become genuine superstars off the back of their last studio album, One of these Nights, and, especially, their world-dominating best-of, Their Greatest Hits 1971-1975. The band must have known that everyone was watching, and so they began their new album with the strongest one-two punch they had: Hotel California and New Kid in Town.

I’ve already mentioned the title track’s famous guitar solo, but it deserves a bit more comment. Don Felder and Joe Walsh are both excellent technicians, but technique is not really what makes their playing on Hotel California so great. Many guitarists could play what they played, with a bit of practice. But before something is played, it has to be conceived, and that’s the hard part. What I find most impressive about the solo is the way the duo really listen to each other and answer each other’s phrases. They’re not having a contest to outdo each other; it’s a tag-team effort. They complement each other, pick up each other’s cues and ratchet up the tension until, of course, they hit that famous harmonised triplet melody. But note that bassist Randy Meisner chooses that moment to switch from his reggae-ish pattern to straight eights, boosting the tension still further. These guys had ears, all of them.

Their producer, Bill Szymczyk, had ears too. The album sounds glorious. There’s so much space around the wide-panned instruments. Lightly strummed acoustic guitars create a lush but not suffocating pad, the bass is thick without being overhyped and the drum sound is marvellous in its depth and woodiness. It’s not that the band’s pre-Szymczyk work sounds wimpy (for all Glenn Frey’s issues with Glyn Johns’s minimal miking technique for drums, the drum sound on, say, Take it Easy is still great), but Hotel California does perhaps have that extra bit of low end while retaining the crispness in the midrange.

The song? Oh, yeah. Well, it’s a classic, of course – I’m not going to be contrarian about it. An intriguing opening verse, an instantly memorable chorus, those vocal harmonies, that endlessly compelling cyclical chord sequence… Hotel California has endured for a reason. Its creators were smart and put the thing together with expert, practiced craft.

As to its meaning, here I may be a little bit dismissive. This is a case where we need to trust the tale, not the teller. “Hotel California” is not merely a symbol of the place the band found themselves by 1976, even if that’s what Frey and Henley thought it was. As author Barney Hoskyns put it, “they thought that maybe the one way we can be at peace with ourselves is to make clear we realise how obscene this [drug-fuelled music-biz hedonism] is, even while we are revelling in it. We’ll sing about Hotel California and then you won’t think we are living in Hotel California. But unfortunately they missed the whole point. They simply are Hotel California.”

Sung by Glenn Frey, in what’s surely his best recorded vocal, over a precision-tooled but pillow-soft backing of electric piano, acoustic guitar and unobtrusive drums, second track New Kid in Town is another allegory song. This time, as the song’s co-writer JD Souther said, they were singing about their own replacements: the younger, hipper bands on the Sunset Strip that may not have had the Eagles’ sales or money, but had the critical adoration that they could never attain, and appeared to be having more fun than them, too.

The song’s triumph is to sound like it has less to do with their it’s-tough-at-the-top insecurities and more to do with life as lived by the bulk of the band’s audience: the former athletes, star students and big men on campus who turned around one day to find some new boy in the year below had taken centre stage away from them, whose self-images never quite recovered and whose lives never quite measured up to the promise they showed in their late teens, before they’d had a chance to make any real mistakes. Frey does more than than simply acknowledge those lives, he sounds genuinely like he cares.

He could almost have had us fooled. Unfortunately, Life in the Fast Lane shows us the other side, possibly the true face, of the Eagles: the band that flew their groupies in by Lear jet and had even Black Sabbath’s Geezer Butler amazed at the amount of coke they got through during a mix session at Criteria in Miami. Their arrogance* and self-satisfaction permeates every last bar of Life in the Fast Lane, and it’s pretty disgusting.** For all the use of the distancing pronoun “he”, it sure sounds like they’re singing about themselves.

The song also shows us the band’s big musical weakness. As much as they wanted to be taken seriously as a hard-rock act (and they did: they hired first guitarist Don Felder, then Bill Szymczyk and then Joe Walsh specifically for that reason) this band did not, could not, rock. It wasn’t in them. Don Henley was a pretty good drummer, but he wasn’t a rock drummer, and the song lacks propulsion and energy. It’s called Life in the Fast Lane but it drags. Walsh does his best, but it feels like he’s got to pull the whole band along with him. If it’s not their worst song, I can’t imagine what is.

Wasted Time, which ends side one, is a Henley-sung piano ballad, and a welcome change in tone and atmosphere after Life in the Fast Lane. It’s more proof of the Eagles’ adaptability as writers and performers that they could move into more overtly soul-influenced territory and make it work, and as ever it’s astutely arranged and well sung. The problem for me, and I appreciate this is a personal response, is it rings a bit hollow after Life in the Fast Lane.

Things get worse at the start of side two. The symphonic reprise of Wasted Time retains nothing of what worked about the vocal version, and replaces it with the bombast of Jim Ed Norman’s ghastly orchestral arrangement, misconceived in every imaginable way. The album then bottoms out with Victim of Love, credited to Frey, Henley, Felder and JD Souther, though initiated by Felder. The guitarist had expected to be singing the lead vocal, but, impatient at his inability to come up with a satisfactory take, Henley cut the vocal himself while manager Irving Azoff took Felder out to dinner. Relations between Felder and the rest of the band never recovered. The odd thing is, since the song’s in James Gang territory anyway, it would have been a better fit for Joe Walsh’s yowling style. The problem, once again, is the lack of authority from the rhythm section. What should be a brutal brontosaurus stomp is more a sort of petulant plod.

Speaking of Walsh, he pops up with Pretty Maids All in a Row, a slightly unexpected, Neil Young-ish piano ballad, though Walsh’s voice is more similar to Crazy Horse singer-guitarist Danny Whitten’s. It’s really nice, and for me it’s probably the best song on the album that’s not the title track or New Kid in Town.

Try and Love Again is the album’s showcase for Randy Meisner, the band’s bassist and the singer of stratospherically high harmonies. Meisner’s vocal on Take it to the Limit was a live crowd pleaser, and had taken the song to number one when it was released as a single, so it’s slightly surprising that his song appears so late in the album’s running order – especially since it’s a breezy slight return to the band’s early sound, with its chiming Take It Easy-like guitars. Perhaps, to be cynical, the difference is that Frey and Henley don’t have a cowriting credit on Try and Love Again, while they did on Take it to the Limit.

The album wraps up with The Last Resort, a divisive song in the band’s canon. Some find it preachy, mean spirited and hypocritical, while for others it’s profound and moving, the first flowering of the environmental concern and social conscience tbat Don Henley, if not Frey, would trade on during his successful 1980s solo records. I’m somewhere in the middle on The Last Resort. It’s not a total loss musically, though it could have done with a proper B section to break up the verse-after-verse song structure.

The problem is the lyric. As a critic of the material social history of California, Henley ain’t Mike Davis. Some of his punches land a little, but I do wonder whether Henley realised he wasn’t the first person ever to have doubts about the westward expansion of white America, or environmental damage, or organised religion, or even the efficacy of capitalism itself – he sure sang it like he’d come to some profound truths revealed to him alone. The less said about the strings and the key change, meanwhile, the better.

So we reach the end of Hotel California. Listening to it and thinking about it at length over three or four days hasn’t led me to change my opinion about the Eagles at all really, which surprises me a little. Their craft and skill as arrangers and vocal performers is unarguable. At their best, they wrote songs that stand up alongside anything else pop music has thrown up. The album probably deserved to sell in the numbers it did, just for its first two songs. This, though, is all stuff I already knew.

Yet, as an album (and remembering this is from the same milieu and era that gave us Younger than Yesterday, Tapestry, Forever Changes, Judee Sill, After the Goldrush, On the Beach, Blue, The Gilded Palace of Sin, Happy Sad and Small Change to name just the first 10 that come to mind), Hotel California is pretty spotty. The first two songs tower over everything else, and the only other songs that provided me any listening pleasure were Wasting Time and the songs by Walsh and Meisner. The inescapable conclusion for me is that they’re a band best experienced through a compilation or playlist, and that Hotel California sold on the strength of its first two singles rather than the quality of the album as a whole.

eagles HC

*Even the band’s friend Ned Doheny said, “The whole scene just got a lot more desperate. You can hear a lot of it on those Eagles records. There’s a lot of bile in those records, a lot of arrogance.”

**Lest you think I’m being unfair to Henley, in November 1980, paramedics treated a naked 16-year-old girl for drug intoxication at his house. Henley was arrested and charged with possession of cocaine, quaaludes and marijuana, and for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Other than that, he’s a great guy.

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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.

 

 

 

Still No Clapton, Part 3 – Harder Now that it’s Over by Ryan Adams

Nearly fifteen years after its release, Ryan Adams’s Gold stands as a salutary reminder to rock journalists that they should take a breath before they reach for their superlatives. I’ve dug this quote out before but I will once again, just because of how much it amuses me: “Not since Husker Du opened for Black Flag in the mid-’80s has London witnessed such a stupendous double bill,” said Uncut when Jesse Malin supported Ryan Adams in 2002.

It’s also a reminder to me – not to trust anyone else’s opinion of art other than my own. Gold seemed to 19-year-old me slightly flat, slightly antisepetic, after Heartbreaker, which I really did love, but I swallowed my doubts and persisted. It had to be a great record, right? After all, a significant corner of the British rock press had dedicated itself to documenting Adams’s every pronouncement after it dropped, trumpeting him as Dylan’s heir, Springsteen’s, Neil Young’s even, all at once.

All very silly.

But while Gold might cause me a momentary pang of nostalgia-tinged embarrassment, it still has its charms, and Harder Now that it’s Over is among them. Documenting an apparently real episode where an ex-girlfriend of Adams’s was arrested over a fracas in a bar, Harder Now that it’s Over is a fairly straightforward Neil Young homage, with a killer solo by producer Ethan Johns.

Johns, son of the even more famous producer Glyn (Stones, Who, Zep, Beatles, Band, Eagles), is a talented guy. As well as production, and presumably at least some of the engineering, he’s credited on Gold with (deep breath): drums, electric guitar, chamberlain strings, lead guitar, Hammond B-3, background vocals, acoustic guitar, 12-string guitar, mandocello, vibes, string arrangement, guitar, slide guitar, mandolin, bass, electric piano, celeste, harmonium and congas. In fact, he started his career in music as a studio drummer with Crosby, Stills & Nash, John Hiatt and Fish from Marillion, and his drumming is certainly fine on Harder Now that it’s Over: nicely loose (Ringo loose, not Billy Talbot loose, though he cribs Talbot’s Don’t Let it Bring You Down kick pattern), with plentiful use of ghost strokes, and a soulful feel.

But it’s the solo that stands out. Johns’ break on Harder Now that it’s Over is at the end of the song*, so it has to do a lot of the track’s emotional heavy lifting; it’s the climax, it has to round things off, and in a way comment upon what’s gone before it. On such an occasion, a guitarist can’t merely go through his or her favourite licks. Beginning with a succession of simple 2- and 3-note phrases, Johns then throws in a little double-stop phrase before a beautiful, bluesy phrase, demonstrating enviable string-bending and vibrato techniques, as well as a gift for phrasing. His playing reminds me of David Lindley’s work with Jackson Browne, and praise comes no higher. But we’ll get to Lindley, in a few days.

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Ethan Johns

*It’s more or less at the end of the song. Adams comes back in to sing the words “I’m sorry” three times, but essentially the song’s done once Johns finishes playing

On Saturday Afternoons in 1963 – Rickie Lee Jones

It’s obvious why a young Tom Waits fan would have picked Rickie Lee Jones out of the four-for-£20 rack in Leigh-on-Sea’s Fives record shop 10 or so years ago. Jones, I knew, had been in a relationship with Waits at the start of her career, and I’d heard that her music mined similar territory to Waits’s, with storytelling lyrics drawing on a life spent within a Los Angeles beatnik demi-monde that had somehow still magically existed in the era of The Long Run and the Nervous Breakdown EP.

I was disappointed. While it contains some great songs, Rickie Lee Jones’s debut is a bit of a mess. The heavy-hitting Warner Brothers production team, Lenny Waronker and Russ Titelman, had assembled an awesome array of instrumental talent* to play on her album, the same session kings that also featured on mid- to late-seventies records by LA titans like Joni Mitchell, Steely Dan and Randy Newman (including Newman himself). But as with Joni’s Wild Things Run Fast, the result – heavy on tinkly electric piano and, gasp, slap bass – was polite and bland. On low points like Young Blood, musicians run through their licks but seem to exist in a different world to Jones’s vocal. I can’t imagine the demo to that one wasn’t hugely superior.

(In full disclosure, the Waits records of this era that use electric band arrangements, such as Blue Valentine, are a similar turn-off to me; if Waits is in jazzbo mode, I want double bass and acoustic piano and nothing else will do. I love those sounds in the context of Steely Dan and Newman’s Trouble in Paradise, though, so make of this what you will.)

That wasn’t the only problem, though. Jones wasn’t writing uniformly strong melodies (her songs have never really found favour with other performers, especially compared to those of a certain other songwriter I should probably stop mentioning at this point) and her drawled vocals sometimes sounded less like jazz and more like pastiche or like an idea of jazz. In fairness, this was her debut and she hadn’t had time to grow into herself or her persona yet; even with as sympathetic producer as Waronker at the helm, she couldn’t help but come off as callow.

On Saturday Afternoons in 1963 is, then, the standout moment on the album, Chuck E’s in Love aside. Certainly it’s the song that has the biggest emotional wallop. Recorded live at TBS a month after the main tracking sessions for the record, and like After Hours (the other song recorded this supplementary session) featuring only piano, vocal and strings, it benefits hugely from its sparse arrangement and straightforward vocal performance. Jones sounds, appropriately given the song’s themes, more at home here. I don’t know that I can make much literal sense of the lyric, but that’s relatively unimportant. The song’s power comes from the repetition of “years may go by” – the sort of micro-phrase that invites the listener to attach their own associations, positive or negative, wistful, nostalgic, regretful, joyful, whatever – over that piano riff and the supporting orchestration. Meaning is suggested simply by the way Jones hangs on to the word “years”. What may have happened in the time since the childhood being invoked here? A novel’s worth of possibilities is contained within that one word.

So many successful songs work this way, because the writer paired the right phrase with the right snippet of melody. Maybe some tunes are so charged with inherent meaning that they lead the writer to pick the correct lyric to pair them with. Fortunately for Jones and for her listeners, when this tune spoke to her, she listened.

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RLJ, Best New Artist Grammy in hand, doesn’t need to care what I think of her debut record

*Let me run through some of the credits for you: Dr John, Michael McDonald, Randy Newman, Victor Feldman, Tom Scott, Steve Gadd, Buzz Feiten, Andy Newmark, Jeff Porcaro, Willie Weeks and, inevitably, Michael Boddicker. Some of these guys are among my favourite players ever. I’ve written about almost all of them in glowing terms elsewhere on this blog.

I’ll Miss You till I Meet You – Dar Williams

Dar Williams came out of the intersection of several particular geographical (New England coffeehouse), political (feminist, LGBT-friendly) and academic (liberal arts – her website includes a page on “Lectures & Workshops”) spaces in the early-mid-1990s, a time that happened to be  receptive to musicians who played acoustic guitar, made low-budget albums and wrote songs that explored gender and relationship politics.

This Northeast folksinger/coffeehouse circuit existed – thrived, even – as a separate ecosystem to the wider music industry. Occasionally artists crossed over from this folk circuit to the mainstream (Lisa Loeb, for example. But then, she had the good fortune to live in the apartment opposite Ethan Hawke’s), but someone like John Gorka, meanwhile, has spent 25 years as one of the biggest stars within his scene, but remain virtually unknown to a rock and pop audience.

I’d heard Dar Williams’s name long before I heard any of her music, not because I’d made a conscious effort to avoid it, but more because no radio station I ever heard played her stuff, and I wasn’t in a financial position then to lay down money for a record unless I was damn sure I was going to like it. (Now I think of it, that’s a key reason why for several years I went deep into the catalogues of artists I knew I liked rather than letting those be and checking out something else instead.) The song that did get me interested was atypical of her work, and from a recent album. I’ll Miss You till I Meet You, a yearning love song to the idea of someone rather than a specific parter, musically owed more to Aimee Mann than Joan Baez, or even Suzanne Vega (who often seems like New England coffeehouse singer who by some lucky fluke got famous). I think, actually, it was a specific comparison of this song to Mann’s work in a review I read that prompted me to check it out.

I’ll Miss You till I Meet You is built on similar changes and an identical drum pattern to Roxette’s It Must Have Been Love, which is probably a better song, and certainly has a more memorable chorus, but is a regrettable record – the humanity of Marie Fredrikson’s vocal trampled to death under a herd of stampeding elephants banging snare drums. Such was the fate of many a good ballad from about 1984 to 1994. Williams, though, wisely kept her recording intimate, with the sleeve art even suggesting the album was recorded in a cosy living room. In fact, this is a smart piece of misdirection; the record was actually made in Allaire Studios in the Catskills, which is an upscale facility with a client list to match. Nevertheless, Williams still sings like she’s in a small coffeehouse, playing unamplified to 15 people, and she avoids self-consciously stadium-sized moves. Guitars chime and sigh, but they don’t thunder. If you’re going to do a song that has a more than touch of the power ballad about it, it’s a wise idea to underplay it.

Like anyone who manages to make a middle-class career out of music for 20 years while never becoming close to a mainstream figure, Williams is a canny operator, and she surrounded herself with good people on this record: Eric Bazillian and Rob Hyman from the Hooters (the kind of constantly employed industry vets that I have a lot of time for), Steuart Smith who is a member of the Eagles’ touring band and even Marshall Crenshaw, once and future power-pop boy wonder.

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Belly – King/Sparklehorse – Good Morning Spider; or less hi, more fi, part 3

Talking about her career in music and her final Swan Song EPs in a recent interview with Mouth magazine, former Throwing Muses and Breeders guitarist/Belly frontwoman Tanya Donelly described Belly’s second album King as a more ‘lo-fi’ record than their debut, Star.

Strange description, I thought. King‘s not a slick record, but it’s one that sounds like a band in a room playing its songs. It was produced and mixed by Glyn Johns (Beatles, Stones, the Who, Zeppelin, the Eagles – enough of a track record for ya?) and engineered by Jack Joseph Puig, at the very high-spec Compass Point studio in Nassau: a minimum of overdubs, live vocals, hard-panned guitars, natural-sounding ambiances. Donelly’s voice sometimes cracks. Gail Greenwood’s bass does not always hit the one with Chris Gorman’s kick. You can hear real-time fader and pan-pot moves. It sounds great. I wouldn’t want to hear it any other way.

Star sounds good, too. But it doesn’t sound like a band playing songs together in a room. It sounds like something bad going down in Toytown. It’s a very carefully constructed sound world, one which had little to do with the material reality of Belly-the-band playing instruments in a room. Which brings us back to the discussion of terminology from a couple of months back. If a ‘low fidelity’ record is simply one that isn’t slick, then, sure, maybe King is lo-fi. If a lo-fi record is simply one that doesn’t sound ‘good’, then King ain’t one in my book. If a lo-fi record is one that doesn’t sound like the music sounded before it hit tape, then King is the very opposite. It’s a hi-fi record. One of the hi-est.

And, from King, back to Good Morning Spider by Sparklehorse. GMS‘s centrepiece is a song called Chaos of the Galaxy/Happy Man. Happy Man is probably the best song Mark Linkous ever wrote. It’s propulsive, urgent, utterly surreal and yet somehow anthemic and universal. Linkous, something of a contrarian, decided to bury the first verse and the chorus under AM radio static and bleepy noise. The song then almost fades all the way in for the second verse, before going the other way, becoming temporarily submerged entirely under white noise and a reprise of the organ chords of Chaos of the Galaxy, the short instrumental piece that begins the track. Finally the song fades in properly in time for the second chorus.

Linkous later admitted in interviews that this was a deliberate attempt to sabotage a song he recognised as having commercial potential; he didn’t want it to be extracted and released as a single the way Someday I Will Treat You Good from Vivadixiesubmarine plot had been. I’m sure Capitol were delighted. Still, when you don’t have a producer, you might be able to pull off this kind of thing once or twice before you get a stern talking to from your label.

I wasn’t aware until recently that Linkous re-recorded the song without the radio static and Chaos of the Galaxy sections, releasing it on an EP called Distorted Ghost. The version I knew and treasured was a live version that segued into Pig (called, imaginatively, Happy Pig), which was also released on Distorted Ghost. I’d burned it off a free CD from Uncut before promptly losing the CD and forgetting where the track came from (a BBC session, I think). I loved the rawness of it, and the furious tempo at which the song was played. At that speed, Linkous’ plea (that he only wants to be happy) sounded more real than ever. In 2010, he showed us how real.

But let’s not get caught up in that now. What matters for this discussion is that, for all that Chaos of the Galaxy/Happy Man is raw and messy, it’s not a faithful document of a real-time musical event. It’s an elaborate construction, an aural sleight of hand. Under a sensible definition of the term, we couldn’t call this track lo-fi. The term simply wouldn’t be applicable. Which only goes to show the difficulty of talking about music. You constantly have to define your terms, almost song by song. When two music fans talk about lo-fi, they may very well not mean the same thing by it. Sometimes this talking at cross-purposes is fun and thought-provoking. Sometimes it makes you want to bang your head against the wall.

If I have a conclusion – after a couple of months of kicking around these ideas occasionally – it’s that I have a personal definition of lo-fi that probably isn’t shared by music fans generally, so I have to acknowledge the more general definition too. And regarding Sparklehorse, Good Morning Spider is a difficult album to pin down. Superficially it sounds more like a lo-fi album ‘should’ sound, but it achieved that sound in a variety of ways, which didn’t always have to do with just banging out songs in an honest and authentic way, which often seem to be the unspoken connotations of the term ‘lo-fi’. More than simply a rough, raw, ragged album, GMS is an artful album, even if, when exposed to the opening bars of Pig, my brother once proclaimed, ‘But this doesn’t even sound good!’

BellyHorse
Left: Mark Linkous and his brothers in weird, Danger Mouse and David Lynch. Right: Belly on the beach, Nassau, 1995

A cover I’ve recorded of Happy Man, based on the version I refer to above: