Tag Archives: Wayne Shorter

Their Back Pages

So it seems we’ve slid out of talking about harmonies and back to regular programming. Sorry about that, if you were enjoying the series. When doing those 10-part series, I rely a lot on momentum to keep me thinking about music from whatever specific angle it happens to be. It’s been busy enough that I haven’t been able to post that regularly and I’m afraid I couldn’t keep my mind on that one long enough to crank out the usual 10 posts. My apologies.

What I have been thinking about, once again, is David Bowie. And other artists of his stature and with his breadth of work.

In the Times, Caitlin Moran asked readers to imagine Bowie without a past, that Bowie was a Beckenham primary school teacher who’d recorded Earthling in his shed. “Do we really believe that record companies would eagerly sign up a 50-year-old man with no new ideas, wonky eyes, manky hair, LA teeth and a tartan suit, who talks like an animatronic statue in Picadilly’s Rock Circus?

From Chris O’Leary’s piece on Little Wonder at Pushing Ahead of the Dame

I liked Caitlin Moran as a music writer, but I confess to not remembering the piece that Chris O’Leary is quoting from. The answer to Moran’s question is fairly obvious (of course they wouldn’t!) and not hugely interesting unless considered in a larger context. I’m sure Moran was asking the question rhetorically, on the way to telling us why that question wasn’t relevant.

But we’ll return to Mr Bowie in a second. Let’s talk about fans instead.

Let’s assume there’s two extreme versions of the extreme music fan. On the one hand, consider the Deadhead, shelves collapsing under the weight of box sets that document every show on every tour the band ever played, waiting for Deadnet to send out the new 30 Trips Around the Sun 80-disc box set, whose life is dedicated to the elliptical paths taken by Jerry and the guys. On the other, the blogger who keeps abreast of every new development in every micro trend, who considers marginal commercial forces like Grimes lost to the mainstream, who’s always in search of the latest thing, never stopping to look back. Who has a track or two by tens of thousands of artists on a series of groaning hard drives.

These are the extreme figures. Most of us are somewhere along the continuum between the two. At various times I’ve felt a bit like both. Ultimately, though, I have my favourites – those artists I come back to again and again. I wouldn’t call myself a completist fan of anyone, but there are people whose every record I’ve heard, and whose artistic failures are just as fascinating to me as their masterpieces, in terms of what they add to the overall story.

Bowie is the kind of artist who rewards that kind of listening. Much of Earthling was, as O’Leary put it, dated the second it was released – the last time Bowie would try hard to stay abreast of contemporary underground pop music and bend it to his purposes. No one has been talking about what a seminal moment Earthling was in Bowie’s career this last week, but the record remains, for what it says about Bowie-the-songwriter and Bowie-the-pop-star, a fascinating partial failure.

Let’s talk about some other records that would never have got their authors signed by a record company but which are as compelling in their weird and various ways as the ones that did.

Joni Mitchell’s Dog Eat Dog, a record bringing together the diverse and thirterto uncombined talents of Rod Steiger, Thomas Dolby and Wayne Shorter, is similarly compelling, in a slightly more car-crash fashion. What was going on here? Boredom with tried-and-trusted methods of composition? A desperate attempt to stay au courant?*

John Martyn’s Sunday’s Child is 40 very pleasant minutes of Martyn spinning his wheels, unable to push himself anywhere close to the peaks of his classic trilogy (Bless the Weather, Solid Air, Inside Out), and not yet finding his way to the dub- and soul-inflected work of his suit-wearing years. His readings of Spencer the Rover and Satisfied Mind – that is, the songs he didn’t write – are easily the best things on the album. I’d not be without them.

Neil Young’s Hawks & Doves is a “better” album than, say, Old Ways. But there’s nothing on it you’ve not heard him do better on After the Gold Rush or Zuma. Old Ways – a straightforward countrypolitan record – is a headscratcher from first note till last, even more so given it came hard on the heels of rockabilly-reviving Everybody’s Rockin’ and the Tron-isms of Trans. I love Trans. I think it has some of Young’s very best writing on it, but even when the writing isn’t there, it’s a brave record and I hear him pushing himself hard.

In fact, Young’s Geffen period, with each record being such an extreme reaction to the one before it, is kind of an Exhibit A in how rewarding it can be to spend time with the minor records in a major artist’s discography. Not one of those albums is close to being as strong a set of songs as After the Gold Rush, On the Beach or Everybody Knows this is Nowhere (insert your own favourite Neil Young record here). But, to travesty Rudyard Kipling**, what do they know of classic Neil Young who only classic Neil Young know?

trans
This is classic Neil Young. I promise.

*A phenomenon I’ve referred to elsewhere as dropping the pilot and charming that snake. **Who deserves no better.

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Chinese Cafe/Unchained Melody – Joni Mitchell

Hi all. I should be in Barcelona right now, but owing to a rather nasty ear infection that dogged me all last week and hasn’t completely gone away yet, I thought it better not to risk flying; it tends to play havoc with my ears at the best of times. So since I’m here, here’s a little bonus post.

Joni Mitchell is high up on the list of my push-comes-to-shove favourite artists. But my appreciation of her music is based principally on the run of albums starting with Blue and ending with (but including) Mingus. There’s much good work to be found outside this period (the only time I’ve written about her on this blog before, I wrote about a song called Tin Angel from her 1969 album Clouds), but 1971-79 is where the most of the classics reside.

Wild Things Run Fast falls outside her great period. It’s the first studio album she made after Mingus, the first after signing to Geffen. It’s an album of variable quality, almost inconceivably bland at its worst. The mix of legit jazz players (Victor Feldman, Wayne Shorter) and LA session men (Steve Lukather, Michael Landau), intriguing on paper, instead seemed to bring out the most pedestrian aspects of both factions, making the album’s title the more unfortunate.

The record does, however, start with a wonderful song, a bona fide Joni Mitchell classic, and maybe the best thing she wrote in the whole of the 1980s: Chinese Café/Unchained Melody.

Interpolating an old song in a new song is a trick Mitchell had pulled off before, on Harry’s House/Centerpiece, an astonishing track from The Hissing of Summer Lawns. In that instance, the insertion of a romantic swing tune in such an unsparing portrait of a crumbling marriage signified the emotional distance travelled by Harry and his wife from the optimistic (1950s) beginnings of their affair to the (1970s) endgame of a marriage grown empty, in which love and optimism had been replaced by work and the accumulation of things. An irresistible but bitterly ironic musical joke, it’s the greatest coup on an album full of them.

Inserting Unchained Melody into her own Chinese Café, Mitchell repeats the trick to more straightforwardly poignant effect. Initially just quoting the song’s opening line within the chorus (“We’d be playing ‘Oh my love, my darling’ one more time”), she ends the track by singing a whole verse and chorus, with a few canny melody adjustments and reharmonisings. As in Harry’s House/Centerpiece, the older song stands for youth, for optimism, for the “birth of rock’n’roll days” that are referred to in the first stanza, so different from the life the narrator finds herself living now.

In 1982, Mitchell was 39 and given that the song’s narrator refers to bearing a child but not raising her, it’s probably not presumptuous to assume Mitchell was singing about herself. Which makes Chinese Café, like Hearts and Bones by Paul Simon from a year later, one of the great backward-looking, stock-taking songs of middle age, a style of song not too well served by rock music on the whole. Akin to Hejira and Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter musically, but departing from the long-stanza, third-person reportage of her writing on those albums in favour of a simpler, near-the-knuckle style, Chinese Café stands comparison with her very best work.

Joni_Mitchell_2004