Here’s a freedom song that’s rarely played for Independence Day. The Clash’s Joe Strummer once dubbed Lee Dorsey the “hidden jewel” of soul, and the title fits in both respects. The goofy simplicity and eccentric New Orleans rhythms of his hits make it easy to write the man off as a novelty singer, and innumerable covers of Dorsey discs by artists like Devo and The Pointer Sisters (not to mention personal faves The Artwoods) further obscure the originals. But overlooked as they may be, the original versions are indeed gems, thanks largely to the man behind the music, Allen Toussaint. Most of Dorsey’s best sides were written and produced by the Crescent City genius, and “Freedom For The Stallion” is no exception. Opening with a martial drum beat, stately piano and some wonderful female backing vocals, Lee pleads for freedom for the stallion, the mare, the colt, and the baby child who has not grown old enough to vote. There may be better-known civil rights anthems but none more inspiring — this record is so dripping with soul you could put a pan underneath it and make gravy!
I first discovered Oh No Oh My a couple of years ago while editing a commercial reel that included some of their music. A quartet from Austin, TX, Oh No Oh My plays indie rock that stays on the right side of the line between quirky and precious. The band had previously been known as The Jolly Rogers, so it makes perfect sense that the final song on their 2007 Dim Mak E.P. Between The Devil And The Sea is “A Pirate’s Anthem.” I just love its chorus; the high harmonies and airy piano riff give the song a wide-open feel as though you were hundreds of miles from dry land. Beyond that, it’s pretty un-pirate-like (until the end, when a sort of sea shanty starts up in the background).’ But that’s fine by me; I’d much rather sail with these mates than your usual Caribbean brigands.
Electronic music didn’t always mean The Chemical Brothers or Massive Attack. In the late ’60s/early ’70s, pioneers like Robert Moog applied their technical wizardry to keyboards, and pop has never been the same. A decade later, the synthesizer’s omnipresence on New Wave novelties and MOR ballads had given it a bad name, but when the original Moog and ARP units weren’t being forced to ape organs or string sections, they had their own distinctive and appealing sound. The gleefully bizarre “E.V.A.” offers a glimpse at what an imaginative composer could wring from these instruments. From early adopter Jean Jacques Perrey’s 1970 album Moog Indigo, the song mixes spacey blips, bleeps and swoops with echoing chimes and chants for a funky good time. It’s no wonder DJs still love it 40 years later.
Is saloon piano playing the first thing that jumps to mind when you hear the name Husker Du? Not if you’re at all familiar with the alternative rock scene of the 1980s, of which this Minnesota trio was a leading light. Walls of guitar buzz and frenetic rhythms were more the stock-in-trade for axeman Bob Mould, bassist Greg Norton, and drummer Grant Hart, which is why “Books About UFOs” stands out so memorably on their 1985 SST classic New Day Rising. Here tinkling keyboards balance the Huskers’ trademark fuzzy fretwork, as the charming tale of a girl’s fascination with extraterrestrial visitors unfolds at a loping pace. Though I’m not privy to Hart’s writing process here, the song’s keen eye for lyrical detail suggests it could be based on a real person. And am I just hearing things or is the melody reminiscent of The Beach Boys’ “Help Me, Rhonda” in places?
Has it really been 30 years since the iconic punk band X unleashed its vision of Los Angeles on the listening public? The quartet’s sketches of Southern California’s desperate undercurrents remain fresh; tracks like “Nausea” could’ve been cut last week. Part of the credit for that recording’s impact goes to producer/keyboardist Ray Manzarek, who had plenty of practice providing a charismatic lead singer with a musical launching pad while in The Doors. In the persons of Exene Cervenka and John Doe, X had two star vocalists, and it’s their intertwined wail – like an on-the-skids Sonny And Cher — that caught my attention when I first heard the chorus to this song in my dorm cafeteria. And because I went to college before there was an Internet to look up lyrics, I always wondered what a “bloody red oscar” was…
Emo? Power-pop? Indie rock? Any one of those labels would’ve fit Nada Surf circa 2005’s The Weight Is A Gift. Confessional introspection? Check. Buzzing guitars? They’re here too, along with strong melodies and alternative cred in the person of Death Cab For Cutie’s Chris Walla, who coproduced the album. The weight of tracks like “Always Love” rests heavily on singer Matthew Caws’ sweet, clear voice, which negotiates shifts in tempo and tone effortlessly. That song’s titular message may seem simple, but the performances and arrangement are anything but, and will embed the tune firmly in your brain’s pleasure center. Favorite hook: “I’ve been held back by something – yeah!”
One of the leading lights of the British reggae scene that blossomed in the wake of Bob Marley’s international success, Steel Pulse hailed from the hardscrabble streets of Handsworth, in Birmingham. The band’s defiant Rastafarian outlook meshed well with England’s growing punk movement, and Steel Pulse’s reputation climbed on the strength of a strong live show and their first albums for Island Records. They switched labels to Elektra for 1982’s True Democracy, which became their first release to chart in America. Tracks such as “A Who Responsible?” showed that Steel Pulse could embrace accessible production (by reggae vet Karl Pitterson) without conceding any lyrical ground. With its Santana-esque guitar opening, lilting rhythm and catchy “They don’t give a damn, no” chorus, the litany of social ills rattled off by singer David Hinds could easily fly under a listener’s radar.
A music business executive who knew the latter better than the former once asked me “what is power pop?” Two words are sufficient to answer that question: Big Star. The Memphis band was largely overlooked during its original run in the early 1970s, a time when melodic songs that also kicked ass had largely fallen out of favor. But the decades since have been kind, with legions of musicians now championing Big Star’s blend of harmony, power chords, and driving rhythms. “When My Baby’s Beside Me,” the lead 45 from the group’s debut #1 Record, is a fine example of their craft. A heart-on-the-sleeve love song propelled by chiming guitars and handclaps, it was reportedly a favorite of the band’s Alex Chilton, who passed away this week.
I’m old enough to (vaguely) remember the TV commercial of the early 1970s wherein the hit “I’d Like To Teach The World To Sing” morphs into a Coca-Cola pitch. For some reason that’s all I can think of when I hear Liam Gallagher sing the opening line in “Shakermaker” from Oasis’ first — and still best — album, Definitely Maybe. Beyond the melody, though, there’s not a lot of common ground between the feel-good sounds of The New Seekers and Brit-Pop’s biggest stars. The lyrics feature a touch of surrealism a la late-’60s John Lennon (one of songwriter Noel Gallagher’s favorites), while the ominous arrangement has a slow motion feel to it enhanced by a bit of slide guitar as it builds in intensity. Sunshine pop it ain’t.
With two-thirds of their lineup consisting of Brill Building vets Jeff Barry and Ellie Greenwich, The Raindrops had access to plenty of good material, and their eponymous 1963 debut brims with wonderful songs. And while it wasn’t one of their hits, the album’s “That Boy’s Messin’ Up My Mind” just might be The Raindrops’ best. As would be expected from such talented songsmiths, the lyrics are a notch above the usual love song fodder. Many girl groups sang of boyfriends who were “rebels,” but this is the only ode I know to an ordinary schlub — it’s less about this great guy than about how the singer has learned to appreciate the little things about him. Structurally, it’s even more sophisticated, shifting from a loud and brassy “kiss, like his kiss” to the more subdued realization of the title without missing a beat.
To cartoon fans, Baby Huey may be a plus-size duck in a diaper, but to music fans, he’s one of the great unsung heroes of R&B. Born James Ramey, Baby Huey shared his namesake’s girth, but was nowhere near as naïve. Years before hip-hop arrived, he specialized in sketches of good times and hard life on the street – not unlike Curtis Mayfield, on whose Curtom label Baby Huey & The Babysitters’ sole LP appeared (posthumously; the weight and drugs took Ramey at age 26). The trippy wah-wah licks that open and close “Running” are years-old remnants of psychedelia, but the tale of a fruitless chase for love sandwiched in between is timeless. For three and a half minutes, the woman of his dreams is always a few steps ahead of Huey, while a fat guitar line and funky horn section are only one step behind.
Nowadays Mr. Wilson is a virtual cottage industry, but back in 1987, with Andy Paley nearly alone in Brian’s musical corner (the less said about Dr. Eugene Landy, the better…), it was easy to think that The Beach Boys’ troubled genius was down for the count. So hearing “Baby Let Your Hair Grow Long” on Rodney Bingenheimer’s radio program really took me by surprise. The deliberately stilted rhythm that opens the song was weird—but compelling—and that little keyboard hook that introduced the title phrase was weird—but compelling. Solid vocal work, and the kind of intricate arrangements producers had been trying to duplicate ever since Pet Sounds. I was sold. With tracks like this (and the brilliant “Love And Mercy”), Brian really had made it back.
One of the best and most durable bluegrass outfits, The Dillards first tasted national fame in the early 1960s as guest stars on The Andy Griffith Show. And while their roles as Mayberry’s local yokels may have been played for laughs, The Dillards’ singing and picking were no joke. “Hey Boys” shows both sides of this band to fine effect: a down-home, folksy persona paired with instrumental work and multipart harmonizing that would’ve done The Louvin Brothers proud (or perhaps The Beach Boys circa Smile). This track hails from 1968’s Wheatstraw Suite, a record whose place in the pantheon of country rock ought to be as exalted as that of Sweetheart Of The Rodeo.
I’ve never been a big fan of retro ska, which may be why Special Beat Service was for years the only album I’d owned by The English Beat. With videos in rotation on MTV, it was the record that put the band on the brink of crossover success – from my college apartment just off frat row, I could often hear this disc blasting away at nearby parties. Not this song in particular, of course; the Greeks generally favor more raucous material than the mannered, mid-tempo “She’s Going.” As you’d expect of a band also favored by Mods, there’s not a hair out of place in this performance — sharp vocal and instrumental lines weave in and out of the sonic traffic like a fleet of Vespas. Unfortunately the band splintered shortly after Special Beat Service, and while Dave Wakeling might have gone on to bigger successes, I’d trade a thousand General Public records for a fourth English Beat album…
Indie rock fans with long memories (a small group, I know) will recall the Kiwi pop explosion of the 1980s. O.K., so maybe “hiccup” is a better word for the arrival on the music scene of The Bats, The Verlaines, and New Zealand’s Flying Nun stable. For my money, Martin Phillipps’ band The Chills was the class of the field. As befits the group’s name, many of their heavenly pop hits have a vaguely unsettling undertone to their pleasantly jangling melodies. On The Chills’ 1990 U.S. debut Submarine Bells, for instance, “Singing In My Sleep” rolls along to an unwavering tremolo guitar pulse while colorful keyboard lines bubble up and Phillipps’ gentle voice sings of “dangerous rages and amplified airings of anger.”
Among the most distinctive groups to emerge from the disco era, Chic made music that was as sophisticated as it was danceable. Risqué, released 30 years ago today, is arguably Chic’s peak; its massive hit, “Good Times,” made Bernard Edwards and Nile Rodgers (the band’s bassist and guitarist, respectively) the hottest producers in pop. The third single from that album, “My Feet Keep Dancing,” is a textbook example of their craft. It’s got the steady rhythm and exuberant chorus needed to keep clubgoers gyrating for six minutes, but there are also weirder elements mixed in that reward a closer listen. The staccato strings that keep the beat add a tension that’s manifest in the verse—these aren’t exactly “happy feet”; the singer sounds like she had a tough time growing up. And this has got to be the only record to make the Billboard chart with a tap dance solo in it (by Fayard Nicholas of the renown Nicholas Brothers).
Like his musical hero Buddy Holly, Bobby Fuller hailed from Texas, and there’s a little Lone Star rockabilly in many of his best songs. But even if Fuller is better remembered for raucous rave-ups than for ballads, he could croon a love song convincingly when called upon. “Don’t Ever Let Me Know” was the flipside of Bobby’s follow-up to the classic “I Fought The Law,” and it works much better than it ought to, as pensive piano work frames Bobby’s echoing vocals while handclaps keep the time. Sadly, Fuller only managed to release two more singles before his mysterious death in 1966—cut down in his twenties just like Buddy Holly.
As were many of the groups that populated the storied Factory Records imprint, The Distractions hailed from Manchester, England, an outpost of urban blight that stood, in the late 1970s, at the edge of a cultural revolution. “Time Goes By So Slow,” one of the first Factory singles, hints at what was to come: the spiky guitars and hollow synth tones presage hundreds of U.K. indie bands to follow, though the earnest vocal work as singer Mike Finney pines over a lost love remains closer to traditional ’70s rock than the art school anomie with which the label would soon become associated. But like all the best Factory sides, it’s the tension between such strange musical bedfellows that makes the record work so well.
One of the few true U.K. indie supergroups, Electronic was formed in 1989 by New Order’s Bernard Sumner and The Smiths’ Johnny Marr. Given the busy bandmates’ other commitments, Electronic recorded rather sporadically, releasing three albums during the next decade. By the time of 1996’s Raise The Pressure, the duo had found the perfect balance between the dance-friendly electropop and guitar-oriented rock for which Sumner and Marr’s more famous bands were known. Cowritten by fellow musical luminary Karl Bartos of Kraftwerk, “For You” bounces along on an upbeat guitar riff as Bernard’s winsome vocals offer a lover the chance to “see the world at our feet, naked and hollow.”
“Women in rock” were still a big enough novelty in 1980 that much of the Pretenders’ self-titled debut from that year was devoted to establishing Chrissie Hynde’s credentials as a “tough chick.” And while no-nonsense rockers like “Precious” remain exhilarating, it was the band’s ability to balance tough and tender that really made it special, so special. The first track on Pretenders to show this skill to full effect is “Up The Neck.” Guitarist James Honeyman-Scott barks out a riff that would’ve made The Buzzcocks proud before switching to a more lyrical mode to highlight Chrissie’s commanding vocal work, which shifts from sultry to salty without missing a beat.
Vocalist Rachel Foster and Groove Armada wunderkind Andy Cato came together as Weekend Players shortly into the new millennium. Though their take on electronica is informed by Foster’s love of classic soul and disco and Cato’s background with DJ and hip-hop beats, the Players go downtempo for “Best Days Of Our Lives,” from their 2003 debut Pursuit Of Happiness. Written in tribute to the singer’s older sister, the song espouses the virtues of taking one’s time; and from Foster’s siren-like background vocals to the slowly percolating bassline, the track is filled with production touches that will reward patient listeners.
Andrew McMahon, the man behind the Mannequin, first came to listeners’ attention as the leader of alt-rock faves Something Corporate. For his first venture outside that Orange County quintet, McMahon leaned even more heavily on the hook-ridden songcraft that had distinguished his earlier band from its pop-punk peers. 2005’s Everything In Transit is filled with memorable bursts of melody and interesting arrangements; unfortunately a bout with leukemia (now in remission) sidelined McMahon in the midst of promotional work for the album—which still reached the Billboard Top 40. “Miss Delaney” perfectly encapsulates this disc’s appeal, with a steady piano grounding the track as keyboards and guitars swirl around and McMahon’s voice (which emo-haters might call whiny, but is perfectly pitched to hit this song’s many high notes) soars over it all.
The four Oxford lads who made up Ride were barely out of their teens when they were declared saviors of British rock in 1990. With their first couple of releases for Creation Records, Ride jumped to the forefront of the “shoegazer” movement of maximum guitar sounds and minimal showmanship. Those initial EPs were collected in America as Smile, and though Ride would go on to make more polished recordings, these early sides still show best why so many jaws dropped when their records reached alternative radio. “Furthest Sense” throws listeners off balance with an atonal guitar riff before pummeling them with the rhythm section and luring them back with some strange but compelling vocal harmonies.
Named after a lawn fixtures store in New Jersey, Fountains Of Wayne had been serving up catchy tunes with snarky lyrics for years before anyone had ever been introduced to “Stacy’s Mom.” Beginning with the group’s 1996 eponymous debut, songwriters Chris Collingwood and Adam Schlesinger have displayed a remarkable ability to mine power-pop gold from the most mundane matters of modern life. “Sick Day,” for instance, turns a surprisingly unjaundiced eye on a young woman heading in for another dull day at work while she dreams of enjoying a little time off. Consider it the national anthem of office cubicles . . .
With releases by bands like X and The Blasters, Slash Records earned a reputation for finding the “next big thing” in the Los Angeles music scene of the early 1980s. When it was announced that Los Lobos, then just another band from East L.A., had signed to the imprint, expectations for the quintet skyrocketed, and when How Will The Wolf Survive? arrived, it did not disappoint. A kind of folk-rock of the 1980s—or perhaps folklorico-rock, refracting Mexican musical traditions through a contemporary sonic prism—courses through the album, which is as wildly eclectic as it is masterfully performed. The slice of barrio blues that opens the disc, “Don’t Worry Baby,” brims with self-assurance, from the little stutter in the guitar riff to Cesar Rosas’ cool-as-a-cucumber vocals.
