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January 2007

David Martin

David Martin Something in Your Eyes 0.5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

Listening to David Martin conjures up the scene in “Animal House” when John Belushi’s character listens intently to the wimpy musings of a folk singer. Belushi gently lifts the guitar from the singer’s hands and bashes it to smithereens. You’ll want to do the same to David Martin’s guitar after listening to “Something In Your Eyes,” his spineless, meaningless debut. He’s an unabashed romantic -- make that an unrelenting romantic-- who loves girlfriend enough to declare his love for her on the CD cover. But most of all he loves God/the Great Spirit in the Sky (insert your religion here). He also seems to love composing boring, middle-of-the road, formula pop songs that are as deep and meaningful as a pet rock. Teens will thrive on Martin’s Teutonic beauty (he’d look great on the cover of Tiger Beat Magazine), and his imitation angst ridden vocals. Parents won’t have to police the CD player because his lyrics say absolutely nothing. If Martin can be consistently bland for ten tedious tunes then maybe he does have talent – as a politician perhaps, but as songwriter – ZZZZZZZ.

“Something in Your Eyes,” the first single and opener, is American Idol audition material. Martin sings like a thousand other faceless boy toy singers, Coldplay, John Mayer, Iron and Wine (whine). He starts off sounding asthmatic, convinced his breathy, detached delivery is meaningful, and then dramatically boosts his pipes to show off his range. The “something” in your eyes will be the tears you’ll be shedding from this torturous, preening performance. It’s feckless, but also faceless and forgettable, a future theme song for a coming of age teen drama on CW television.

From a musical standpoint, the uptempo “Our Love” is a slight improvement. You might need a decoder ring to figure out the lyrics, however: “Our love is our love, and girl I love our love.” You’re kidding with that line, right, Dave? It’s a waste of credible guitar playing and orchestral piano by Jaime Kenny. Drummer Manu Katche is as much to blame for “Our Love”’s failure as Martin’s sophomoric lyrics. Katche needs a course in rhythm, as well as a new drum set. His kit sounds muffled and flat. This can’t be the same Manu Katche who was so effective on Peter Gabriel’s “So” album. Alas, it is. Sometimes you play up – or in this case, down – to the level of the folks you hang with.

“I Can’t Imagine” is yet another droning dedication to Martin’s faith and his belief in the healing power of love. “When the stars are all that we can share, when we’re forced to breathe in different air, I can’t imagine my life without you.” I can’t imagine listening to this lame twaddle again, and if I were his unnamed girlfriend, I’d sue for defecation of character.

“I Will Love You” begins with a Peter Gabriel, third world sound effects, edgy guitars, and whispered vocals, undoubtedly suggested Kitache, who must’ve said, “Hey, it worked for Peter.” Unfortunately, after a promising start, Martin returns to the safety of his flavorless pseudo-spiritual delivery. Hold on -- is that a credible guitar solo? Too bad it’s cut off by David proclaiming his love – yet again. At least you can get through “I Will Love You” without it inspiring the dry-heaves, despite Martin’s over the top delivery.

“Connected” drops our hackneyed hero back into the company of where he’s most comfortable -- being a Coldplay, Josh Rouse clone. The pace-setting acoustic strumming is pleasant enough, but Martin needs to stop with the vocal gymnastics. He’s stuck in too predictable a pattern – its whisper, high note, yodel, whisper in almost ever song. And lyrically, he’s still at the creative writing 101 stage: “Just let your hair down and close that door, let’s decorate the floor, and get connected again.” Let’s decorate the floor? Just don’t eat before getting “Connected,” or you might indeed be decorating the floor as clueless Dave suggests.

“Sing Your Song” takes its intro from the cacophony of sound effects and mashed together piano and guitars that commenced “I Will Love You.” Katche seems to have rediscovered his talents as a percussionist, but the keyboards and guitars keep running wild in the arrangement like stampeding cows. Oh yes – Martin puts his youthful lungs to the test, holding the chorus until his voice threatens to shatter the cathedral windows at Billy Graham’s pad. “Your song goes on and on and on! Your song goes on and on and on!” Martin sings in a fugue, and truer words were never yelped.

“It Must Be” has a piano lick lifted from a soap opera (and while he was at it Martin lifted the shivering strings as well). The string arrangement is actually the best part of the song, adding minimal depth to Martin’s anonymous vocal, and they’ll divert you from being assaulted by Martin’s continued stab at Shakespeare: “You know I don’t deserve it. This must be grace, it must be.” No you don’t deserve it David. What you deserve is to live in a state that still practices capital punishment. Then they’ll make you listen to your own music.

“Stand” has nothing to do with the Sly Stone classic. Surprise! It’s another unexceptional, uptempo song about love and devotion. And now Martin is stuck on making “grace” the country’s latest buzz word. “By grace we will make it. You were meant to be my wife. These waves we are facing, they’re just part of life. No matter what happens, you can take my hand. Until life has ended, we will stand.” At least he’s momentarily stopped speaking in parables.

“Strong Enough” puts the word grace in a third straight song. C’mon Dave, just put on the white collar, pass a plate and ask for a donation. “Strong Enough” sounds like Kenny Loggins at his 80s worst plucking the feathers (and melody) out of Paul McCartney’s “Blackbird.” And Katche has discovered his crash cymbal, which he hits more times than Moe ever hit any of the other Stooges.

“To You” drags out the sound effects again, last only long enough to make the song sound semi-cool. It then dips back into Martin’s sure-fire feel good Christian approach.

“Something In Your Eyes” gets a half star for the strings in “It Must Be” and Manu Katche’s laughable inability to locate a beat. Pick a song, any song and you’ll quickly discover they’re all virtually the same. Same topic, same rush of guitars, same serene “insight.” This man is a televangelist and he’s in reruns.

I have nothing against inspirational music. After all, hell hath no fury like John Tesh scorned. Heathens like me have never heard of such artists as Michael W. Smith, Smokie Norful and the Casting Crowes (if you’re going to borrow a name make sure it’s a good one). These cats sell more CDs than Reverend Ike had Cadillacs. Everybody needs to get in touch with their spiritual side now and again. One listen to David Martin however will leave you speaking in tongues (Redrum! Redrum!) and sacrificing farm animals under the full moon. Rebuke this fowl beast.

Posted January 24, 2007 Permalink

I Love You

Diana Ross I Love You 2.5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

“I Love You” is Diana Ross’s attempt to age gracefully in the manner of Rod Stewart, who’s remade his career pilfering American standards. With the release of the movie “Dreamgirls,” and forty years down the road from the Supremes, the original Beyonce has picked a good time to remind consumers there’s still a little sparkle left in her sequins. It helps that Ross chose legendary producer Peter Asher (who guided James Taylor early career and was part of the hit-making duet of Peter & Gordon) to help produce her first CD in 10 years.

“I Love You” stumbles out of the gate with Harry Nilsson’s “Remember,” which comes off as a bad Broadway ballad and paints Ross as a wobbly voiced Norma Desmond refusing to acknowledge that she’s gotten old. Ross still has the chops, but undercuts herself by acting her way through the song instead of just singing it.

Ross recovers with “More Today Than Yesterday,” originally recorded in the bubble-gum era by one-hit wonders The Spiral Staircase. Ross’ take is faithful to the bouncy, peppy feel of the original. Drummer Keith Carlock is way too enamored of the pounding home the beat to the point of irritability, and the tired “Tonight Slow” orchestra horn charts threaten to sink the energetic arrangement, but Ross makes it all work through sheer will. It’s the type of harmless pop that Ross can handle in her sleep.

“I Want You” is one of the songs on the CD that really challenges Ross’ dinner club delivery. Ironically, Ross has chosen to make a statement by tapping into Marvin Gaye’s catalogue. Gaye was one of the first people to hang the tag of “diva” on Ross and felt that Motown boss Berry Gordy favored her over more deserving artists. Turns out he was right – Ross and her boss were having an affair, hence his favoritism. When Gaye and Ross were about to record “My Mistake” in 1973, Gaye purposely lit up a non-regulation cigarette, knowing its pungent aroma and mind-altering effect would keep Ross out of the studio. He was right again – they ended up recording their parts separately. Ross’ version won’t knock Gaye’s off the playlists, but it does have a sultry appeal, and it’s less of an embarrassment in practice than in theory. There are some well-placed slick guitar parts reminiscent of John Tropea that give the song its swagger, as well as liberal doses of oohs and aahs from the back up singers and dollops of sultry percussion. “I Want You” is a surprising, well executed success.

“I Love You (That’s all That Matters)” gets the full Lionel Ritchie romance treatment with gliding synthesizers and weepy strings. Ross sounds like she’s in an echo chamber, which actually steadies the aging timbre of her voice. The song says nothing, but does so with competent, muzak ease.

“What About Love” (no, not the version by ‘Til Tuesday) makes it two ballads in a row. This one rings completely false and is hopelessly clichéd with lyrics about “lights in the storm” and “new worlds when I look in your eyes.” It’s slow, laborious and will only please the most dedicated Ms. Ross fan.

Burt Bacharach’s “The Look of Love” will be very familiar to listeners, having been recorded by Dusty Springfield, Tony Joe White and even the black widow of pro skiers, Claudine Longet. Ross is smart enough not to drift too far from the definitive version recorded by Brazil ’66; her phrasing is much like Lani Hall’s, including, at times, a hint of a Portuguese accent. (Time out for trivia: Windy city native Hall sang many of Brazil ‘66’s hits phonetically.) The most notable updates to Ross’ version are two serviceable Spanish guitar solos and the warm production. Ross is noticeably comfortable performing the song, even if she’s only imitating Hall.

“Take My Breath Away” suffocates in the overbearing grasp of its theatrical arrangement. The original version by Berlin should have been tried and convicted at the Nuremburg. Doesn’t matter who sings this ode to air pollution, or how dramatically the horns and strings rise and fall, you’ll need to stand well downwind of this one – It’ll take your breath away because it stinks.

“Lovely Day” is the exact opposite of “Take My Breath Away” – light, carefree and fun. Originally written and performed by Bill Withers, it’s so uplifting, even its saccharine arrangement can’t derail it. Ross’ version is done jazz-lite style and could probably do without the strings – the finger popping beat alone could carry it. Withers’ version was three and a half minutes of escapism for lovers stuck in the ghetto. Ross’ version scrubs the city’s grit clean and is more like a stroll through a country meadow. Both have their merits, and Ross deserves some credit for picking a song that’s been off the radio radar for a while.

If frog-voiced drummer Ringo Starr could croon a terrific version of “Only You,” then maybe Diana Ross, a “natural” singer, could create a classic. But the ex-Beatle had John Lennon and Harry Nilsson singing in the background. Ross has a humming chorus of Luther Vandross/Patti LaBelle wanna be’s and tackles “Only You” in a perplexingly slow crawl that makes The Platters Medicare-paced original seem like a Carl Lewis track meet. On top of its sluggish pace, when Ross does the brief recitation in the middle, it’s breathy, creepy and very-unsexy like finding out your pretty girlfriend is really Alexis Arquette.

It’s a smart move to put the two nostalgic 50s numbers together to set a mood; what’s not smart is to do them in the first place. “Too Be Loved” isn’t pure doo wop and it’s not exactly ballroom music either, but some kind of bad hybrid wedding muzak. Was Ross a member of the Supremes or The Platters? Ross sound hyped, but this smarmy goop should be retired to the Smithsonian alongside Fonzie’s motorcycle jacket.

I approached “I Will” after several doses of opinion-numbing Xanax and with much trepidation. I know where Diana Ross lives and I was prepared to egg her house if desecrated this Beatles classic. Turns out “I Will” is another song that’s simply too good to screw up, and Ross sings it sweetly. The orchestration pulls with her, not against her, and her aw-shucks phrasing is effective. She should have stayed away from that last high note though.

Then there’s the eight zillionth version of “This Magic Moment.” It’s innocent and poppy, like her child-like version of “Why Do Fools Fall in Love.” The strings are straight out of a Walt Disney movie, sweeping and enchanting. Ross fans will anoint it a classic, but it’s simply one of the many painless songs you’ll forget about seconds after the not-so-magic moment is over.

I felt bad for Joe Cocker when he chocked back the tears on “You Are So Beautiful,” but Joe needed a hit and he knew what emotional buttons he needed to push in order to bring home the bacon. Still, there isn’t a Cocker aficionado out there who wouldn’t prefer Feelin’Alright” or “Delta Lady” over “You Are So Beautiful.” Billy Preston wrote it with Bruce Fisher (and according to Beach Boy Dennis Wilson, he helped) and I don’t recall him ever singing it, so Preston may not have liked the song either. Ross’ version lacks emotion, as if Ross was singing to a corpse. The strings and grand piano cover her lethargy, but this version lacks personality, and the cookie cutter sax solo doesn’t help.

The original version of “Always and Forever” by Heatwave was one of those passionate songs where you and your date could grind against each other on the dance floor like happy cement mixers. Ross’ easy listening version drains the lyrics of innuendo and won’t make you nostalgic for your high school girlfriend or boyfriend, but it allows her to reach for – and hit—some high notes that a voice with as much mileage as hers shouldn’t be able to reach.

If you weren’t offended by it enough the first time, Ross reprises “Remember.” The arrangement is still dreamy, still very Broadway, and sounds as if Ms. Ross’ voice has been injected with helium.

“I Love You” is uneven, and Ross undermines its complete success by picking way too many shopworn tunes. It won’t make her many fans under the age of 40, but that’s probably fine with her. It’s a credible comeback that will ensure she gets booked in Vegas well into her golden years.

Posted January 24, 2007 Permalink

Crosby, Stills and Nash

Crosby, Stills and Nash The Original, Remastered 5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

If you have room for only one Crosby, Stills, Nash (and occasionally Young) album in your collection, this is it. If you already own it, the four bonus cuts and the refurbished clarity of the vocals make it worth purchasing again.

Debut albums often find artists at the top of their game. They’ve been on the road for years, honing the songs that will appear on the album. That’s not the case with Crosby, Stills and Nash, who’d been together only a scant few months before their first release. Ex-Buffalo Springfield hot shot guitarist Stephen Stills and renegade Ex-Byrd David Crosby had been jamming together for a short time and were at Mama Cass’ house (or Joni Mitchell’s according to Stills, who admits he’s not sure) when Graham Nash strolled in. Nash, who’d grown increasing dissatisfied with the Hollies Top 40 musical direction, sat and listened as the duo rehearsed Stills’ “You Don’t Have To Cry.” When the duo sang it again, Nash joined in. Soon after his first meeting with Stills and Crosby, Nash was an ex-Hollie. The trio knew magic when they heard it and made sure the tracks they picked for their first release capitalized on their pristine three-part harmonies. They also played to their own strengths: Stills’ progressive blend of folk, country and rock, Nash’s tight pop sensibilities, and Crosby’s free-form jazzy folk.

Stills played virtually all the instruments on the album; acoustic and electric guitar, organ, and bass, which earned him the title of “Captain Many Hands.” He also drove the production crew insane, playing and editing the record from dusk till dawn in his pursuit of perfection -- which he achieved in a manner that other groups have tried and failed to imitate ever since.

In the remastered version, Dallas Taylor, CSN’s original drummer, benefits most from the make over. The remix shows him to be a capable and understated timekeeper in the tradition of Ringo Starr – he’s there when you need him, unobtrusive when you don’t. Stills funky bottom bass playing is now much more distinctive. Above all, you’re front and center when three of the most distinct voices in music join together in your speakers as one.

Stills may have sung “Suite Judy Blues” with more conviction and picked his guitar like a mad Maharishi playing a sitar on the Woodstock album, but the studio version is sheer perfection. The three voices blend together like chocolate syrup in milk – it’s simply meant to be. Somewhere Judy Collins (Stills’ muse for this particular classic) is indeed still smiling sweetly.

Stills’ buttery organ playing and harmonic guitar highlight Nash’s Middle Eastern travelogue, “Marrakesh Express.” When Nash sings “All on board the train-“ the trio’s voices rise and sustain until they sound like the primed engine of a gleaming passenger train bound for paradise. “Guinnevere,” Crosby’s sparse romantic ballad, is one of his more conventionally constructed songs. As a result, it is also one of his most memorable. Crosby’s stream-of-consciousness brand of songwriting often produced dense navel-gazing folk and incomprehensible “power to the people” jams. But for five plus minutes, Crosby drops his hedonistic, hip veneer allowing us to see that he has a tender side and can deliver a moving piece, particularly when his smoky voice bobs and weaves with Nash’s bell-like harmonies.

As I said before, few guitarists have Stephen Stills’ skill set on acoustic guitar. On “You Don’t Have to Cry,” he draws upon his Southern roots, blending a bluesy delta influence with California folk. With just Stills’ guitar and a tambourine as accompaniment, it’s up to the voices to carry the day, and CSN give a virtual vocal clinic on how to harmonize. (Time out for trivia: When the Grateful Dead began recording their best selling “American Beauty” album, they actually came to CSN to learn how to sing as an ensemble.)

Nash’s playfully light rocker “Pre-Road Downs” may contain the very un- P.C warning to “hide the roaches,” but it’s also another showcase for Stills, who amazes with his sweeping psychedelic embellishments, and Taylor, who eschews the opportunity to show off and keeps the beat moving at a moderate pace.

The writing credit for “Wooden Ships” has been corrected to include Jefferson Airplane’s Paul Kantner alongside that of Stills and Crosby, and it bears the Airplane’s spacey touch, with lines like “Silver people on the shoreline let us be,” but it’s a rare opportunity to hear what three of the 60s most compassionate songwriters could create. In this not-so veiled allegory of the Vietnam War, Stills and Crosby play two war weary soldiers, unsure of who won the war or why they were even fighting in the first place. Stills’ solos are as sharp and powerful as a broadside from a battleship, and the boys sing with a desperate sense of purpose. They want the war over and they want to go home and live in peace, but they’re not sure they’re going to make it. (Listen closely and you can hear Stills play out an S-O-S on the organ.)

“Lady of the Island” remains one of Nash’s most romantic and touching ballads. It’s also the song that prompted his exit from the Hollies, who thought it was too risqué. Lines like “The brownness of your body in the fire-glow, except the places where the sung refused to go,” did indeed push the envelope way back in 1969, adding another then cutting-edge notch to the group’s already heady reputation musical trend setters. Sung to a quietly strummed guitar, Nash and Crosby trade harmonies with a sixth sense that makes them sound like they’ve been singing together for years instead of months. The separation of the three part harmony in “Helplessly Hoping” is the perfect example of why people were so floored when they first heard CSN, with Stills lyrics reflecting the inner workings of their partnership. Stills occupies the mid-range (“They are one person”), Nash takes the high parts (“They are two alone”), and Crosby solidifies the bottom part (“They are three together”), then their voices coalesce with precision and ease (“They are for each other”).

“Long Time Coming” focuses on Crosby’s sometimes controversial and mostly confrontational look at politics and the world. At this point in time (the turbulent late 60s) Crosby was a force to be reckoned with, a rebel with a cause; long before drugs became his cause and he became a farce to be avoided. Here Crosby is in strong “J’accuse” mode, an advocate for change, who’s also smart enough to warn the hippies that if they really want to stand in the forefront they’d better watch their backs as well: “Speak out, you’ve got to speak out against the madness. You’ve got to speak your mind, if you dare. But don’t, no don’t try to get yourself elected. If you do, you had better cut your hair.” Stills guitar is cutting, dirty, and his ominous organ playing swirls in and out of the arrangement like a bad acid trip.

“49 Bye-Byes” revisits the group’s strength – harmony. Stills leads the vocal tidal wave with Nash and Crosby as his harmonic echoes. Stills has been wronged, you can hear the venom and hurt in his delivery. Was it sweet Judy? He doesn’t name the heartbreaker this time, but “49 Bye-Byes” acts as an emotional bookend to “Suite Judy Blue Eyes.” Stills was struggling with his relationship when the album started, and by the time it’s over, he’s lost the girl. When the boys sing “bye, bye baby,” their voices filling virtually every crevice, it’s the perfect send off to a perfect album.

But now there’s more….

Including an introduction by the late Ahmet Ertegun, a record honcho with a real sense of talent who signed and guided the likes of Aretha Franklin, The Rascals and, of course, CSN. The bonus cuts on “Crosby, Stills and Nash” now include a stunning version of “Do It For Others,” a song destined to appear on Stills’ impeccable first solo album. With Crosby and Nash backing this folk-orientated version, one wishes this had made the final cut. “Song With No Words” is just that, Crosby and Nash harmonizing beautifully without a single lyric. This version has a much more vibrant and live feel than the multi-layered, eerie version Crosby would cut for his first solo album, “If I Could Only Remember My Name.” Stills leads a rehearsal of Fred Neil’s “Everybody’s Talkin’,” later made famous by Harry Nilsson. This gets a working CSN treatment – the boys tend to sing more at the same level than in the high-mid-low range that accompanies their best material and Stills sounds tuckered out, but it’s an interesting take on a song they abandoned and you get to hear why. An early demo of Nash’s "Teach Your Children” is slower, more Joni Mitchell than Graham Nash, but shows he was headed in the right direction.

There are two minor complaints, (but I’m a bit of a complainer anyway!). Crosby’s off-the-cuff rendition of “Come Into My Kitchen” between “Long Time Gone” and “49 Bye Byes” has been axed – a sacrilege you may be willing to live with (I’m not). Secondly, drummer Dallas Taylor, the ghostly image standing in the backdoor on the original recording, has been banished from the back cover, the end result of a nasty royalty law suit between him and his former mates. So much for history.

“Crosby, Stills and Nash “set the bar at a doomed-to-fail level for the trio, which quickly became a quartet when Stills’ Buffalo Springfield combatant, the talented, ferret-voiced Neil Young joined for the near perfect “Déjà vu.” (Only Young’s bloated “Country Girl” medley fails to motivate.) Drugs, too much touring, clashing egos and more drugs would send the group into hibernation for years after only two studio albums. The original trio achieved individual greatness -- for Stills’ it was first solo album, his second, “Stephen Stills 2” and “Manassas;” for Nash, “Songs for Beginners,” and his second and third collaborations with Crosby, “Wind on the Water,” and “Whistling Down Wire” – but “Crosby, Stills and Nash” captures CSN when they were young, relatively innocent, and supremely talented. It’s a must for anyone on this, or any planet.

Posted January 17, 2007 Permalink

Crosby, Stills and Nash - Daylight Again

Daylight Again Crosby, Stills and Nash 4 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

This album was originally a Stills-Nash project, a continued return to form following the trio’s successful, self-titled 1976 reunion album. Stills and Nash had long since settled the arguments between them that had torn the group asunder in the early 70s. (Among the offenses Nash had perpetrated was stealing away singer Rita Coolidge from an infatuated and infuriated Stills. Stills, in cahoots with Neil Young, had wiped Nash and Crosby’s background vocals off of “Long May You Run” – and that was one of his less vengeful acts.) The group’s popularity as a touring act could still fill arenas, but as they began to work on “Daylight Again,” another problem – David Crosby’s all consuming cocaine addiction – was threatening to derail the group yet again. So while David puffed and snorted, Stills and Nash decided to forge ahead as a duo. Stills and Nash made little effort to hide that they’d replaced Crosby with ex-Eagle bassist Timothy B. Schmidt and Stills’ keyboard player Mike Finnegan, judiciously listing them in the credits. Atlantic Records insisted the project be re-recorded and released as a CSN album. Crosby managed to break free from his recreational interests long enough to record two songs and top off the already completed background vocals. Two years in the making, the album finally saw daylight in 1982.

“Daylight Again” begins with “Turn You Back on Love,” a funky, hook-laden look at self-abuse penned by Stills, Nash and Michael Sturgis, with Stills voice sounding husky and hearty. Once again the group found radio gold with a song penned by Nash, the sentimental “Wasted on the Way,” a commentary on the group’s ongoing bickering: “I am older now, I have more than what I wanted. But I wish that I has started long before I did.” Nash had previously scored hits with “Just a Song Before You Go,” a song he’d dashed off in ten minutes at the airport, “Our House,” a twee, swaying ballad written when he was keeping house with Joni Mitchell, and “Teach Your Children,” a sing-a-long that audiences are still singing-along to nearly forty years later.

The gem of the album comes not from the prolific Nash, but from the revitalized Stills. “Southern Cross” was originally a song called “Seven League Boots” that had been demoed for Stills by Richard and Michael Curtis in 1974. Stills retained the chorus and melody and wrote new lyrics, telling the story of his painful divorce and how the healing powers of the sea had restored his psyche. (“Southern Cross” is the type of subject matter usually combed by Crosby, who actually lived on a houseboat. At this time, however, it was more of a party boat.) The song’s pace is leisurely, like a calming sea, and the powerful chorus brings Finnegan and Schmidt to the forefront with Nash and Stills.

“Into the Darkness” puts Nash in unfamiliar territory – singing a hard edged rocker. The tune points a finger at Crosby’s drug abuse, which had already landed him in court and in jail, and was threatening his very life: “I see your face, it is ghostly pale. Into the sunset, we are watching you sail”. Stills, the most talented guitarist in the group, sneaks in a melodic, demonic solo. (Sorry folks, Neil Young may be a very talented songwriter, but he’s death on the ears with an electric guitar.)

“Delta” the first of Crosby’s two contributions, is a stiff. Crosby has a tendency to write in a rambling stream of consciousness format that, well, lacks format. Sometimes it can be a major strength (check out “Cowboy Movie” from his first solo album, or “Almost Cut My Hair” and “Déjà Vu” from the album of the same name), but most of the time his songs are tedious wrecks that fall flat, and “Delta” is one of them.

“Since I Met You” combines the Latin influences of Stills’ youth with hints of Calypso and straight forward rock. It’s not Stills’ finest moment, but you won’t reach for the remote to skip it either. “Too Much Love To Hide,” with its infectious refrain of “I believe, I believe enough, don’t I? I believe when I see her eyes, I believe there’s too much love to hide,” is bouncy, positive pop from the usually sour Stills, who romps vigorously on the guitar. Nash’s “Song For Susan” is a smaltzy love song dedicated to his wife. It drowns in its own sentiment, and is one of the few failures on the album.

“You Are Alive” is another strong entry from Stills, who sings the lyrics with uncharacteristic quiet and regret. Stills, Nash, Schmidt, and Finnegan (and occasionally Crosby) fill the speakers with warm back ups. It’s a telling song from a man who realizes he’s screwed up mightily and knows he’s lucky to still find someone who cares for him. Its Stills’ way of apologizing to the people he’s hurt, while taking a deep, reflective breath.

“Might As Well Have A Good Time” is Crosby’s second and best contribution to the album, a biography of his present condition set to music: “I belong on the shore, hustling nickels and dimes. ‘Cause it ain’t long, before too gone... You might as well have a good time.” Accompanied by Crosby & Nash band veteran Craig Doerge on piano, Crosby pokes fun at his own condition, but his future decent into self-abuse hell clearly showed he wasn’t paying attention to the lyrics – no small wonder since he didn’t write them – Doerge wrote the song with wife and fellow musician Judy Henske, and clearly had the man with the walrus moustache in mind.

The original closer, “Daylight Again” is yet another recycled version of “Find the Cost of Freedom,” a potion of which is tacked on near the end. (And “Find the Cost of Freedom” was a take on Stills’ unforgettable “Bluebird,” written when he was battling Neil Young for supremacy of the Buffalo Springfield). It’s okay for an artist to rip himself off, as long he keeps things interesting, and “Daylight Again” certainly is, thanks to Art Garfunkel’s delicate backing vocal – and yes – Crosby managed to get in the studio long enough to make a contribution.

The bonus tracks include “Raise a Voice,” a politically themed manifesto penned by Stills and Nash that wound up on the abysmal “Allies” album. Stills sounds a little disinterested, but Nash blows an effective harp solo. A second Stills/Nash cut, “Feel Your Love,” has a jazz-lite feel, thanks in part to Joe Lala’s sensitive percussion and Craig Doerge’s dream-like piano. Stills’ vocal is languid and relaxed until the middle eight when he starts hurriedly belting out his vocal as if he’s late for a train. Nice George Benson-like solo though, and the line “haven’t we all been professional children for so long nothing is sure” shows that Stills has at least been paying attention to his own mid-seventies boorish behavior. Stills’ “Tomorrow is Another” begins with an angry intro from the guitarist, then three-sixties into polite pop before Stills rips another loud wah-wah inspired solo that’s technically proficient, but just doesn’t fit the mood. The incongruity between the verses and the eye-popping volume on Stills’ guitar indicates there was still some editing to do, but the verses effective mirror the classic CSN sound, even if it really is SNS (Stills, Nash and Schmidt). The original demo version of “Might As Well Have A Good Time” closes the reissue. There’s little difference in Crosby’s vocal. He loses a little steam toward the end, but is otherwise gives a commendable performance, which is surprising given his turbulent state of affairs. Doerge’s piano is more forceful, less flowery, but still affecting. Since it’s so close to the final version, including the original demo is redundant, but politics dictate there had to be a bonus cut featuring Crosby, and there was probably nothing else of his in the vaults.

“Daylight Again” can’t rival the perfection of the first CSN album, but it’s the last compelling recording the trio (or quartet) would make until 1994’s underrated “After the Storm,” and worth owning just for Stills’ shimmering “Southern Cross” and the melancholy “You Are Alive.” The very 80s cover depicting three silver flying saucers passing by Shangri-La will make you laugh, but the music will make you smile.

Editor’s note: The remastered versions of “Crosby, Stills and Nash” and “Daylight Again” were released early last year and are still available through the usual channels, including Amazon and CD Universe.

Posted January 17, 2007 Permalink

Five Leave Left

Five Leave Left Nick Drake 4.5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

For some artists, fame and fortune comes too late. Many of Nick Drake’s fans didn’t know he existed until 25 years after his death, when Volkswagen used “Pink Moon,” the title track from his third and final album, to sell sedans. More people called up the car company asking who the singer was than were interested in the car.

It’s not that Drake was ahead of his time. His dreamy, heartrending compositions conjure up visions of Percy Shelly and fit right in other self-examining storytellers of the 70’s like Gordon Lightfoot and James Taylor, except that Drake was less subtle lyrically, laying his soul bare. Drake’s lack of success during his lifetime can be attributed to his recording for Witchseason Records, a tiny independent label; but Drake’s biggest problem was Drake himself. He was a manic depressive, 6’ 3” and slump shouldered, in the days before being “blue” was fashionable or understood. He played only a handful of gigs before his stagefright permanently took him off the road, and he was repressed and painfully shy, a promoter’s nightmare. Combine all these factors and you begin to understand why Nick Drake’s albums sold in the hundreds – yes, hundreds – while he was alive. He produced a trio of distinguished albums: his masterwork “Five Leaves Left,” 1970s “Bryter Layter” (4 stars) containing the reserved masterpiece, “At the Chime of the City Clock” and iridescent “Northern Sky,” and 1972’s “Pink Moon,” (3 ½ stars), featuring the future VW ad title track, and the whispered English folk of “Which Will.” Credit his producer and friend Joe Boyd, (who insisted Drake’s three albums remain in print) with keeping his music from slipping into obscurity. He had faith in Drake, and once you listen to his superb first album, you’ll understand why.

“Five Leaves Left” take its name from a brand of English cigarettes that had markings on the inside of the pack indicating when only five butts remained. Ironically, Drake’s entire career only spanned five years, from this debut in 1969 to his suicide or accidental death in 1974. “Five Leaves Left” is a benchmark album that continues to influences many artists, including present day singer-songwriters Beth Orton, Alexi Murdoch and Drake’s former sideman, Richard Thompson.

The opening cut, “Time Has Told Me,” is less impressive than what follows, but gives a good indication of Drake’s poetic lyrics, proper English phrasing, and his instantly recognizable complex fingering technique. Session men Thompson (guitar), Paul Harris (piano) and Danny Thompson (upright bass) are an impressive trio with an understanding for Drake’s emotional and romantic compositions.

“River Man,” is a stunning work, with a gorgeous, swirling string arrangement by Harry Robinson, who specialized in mixing classical music with folk. The strings represent the ebb and flow of the river, rising and falling in concert with Drake’s forlorn lyrics: “Going to see the river man, gonna tell him all I can, about the ban on feeling free. If he tells me all he knows, about the way his river flows, I don’t suppose it’s meant for me.” Drake’s voice buzzes and hums, matching the arrangement. Drake was an understated vocalist who never screamed, and never had to. His intuitive ability to convey his despair and the haunting sincerity in his voice recalls his equally tragic and misunderstood American counterpart Tim Buckley (Jeff Buckley’s father). Buckley spent his entire career searching for the proper vehicle for his magnificent voice – all you have to do is listen to this album to know he’d found the right style.

“Three Hours” is another highlight, a striking, Englishman meets Marrakesh arrangement accentuated by Drake plucking away on his guitar like a whirling dervish, Rocki Dzidzornu’s controlled congas and Danny Thompson’s mysterious upright bass. You can almost smell the smoke from the hookah.

With its dramatic strings arranged by Robert Kirby, “Way To Blue,” isn’t in the same lofty class as “River Man” or “Three Hours,” but it isn’t a throwaway either. Drake strongly objected to having his music set against strings – he wanted nothing more than his acoustic guitar and voice. Kirby’s stunning, but overbearing arrangement for “Way to Blue” makes a case for Drake’s argument. Drake’s hushed delivery can’t stack up against the fusillade of strings – at times he seems to disappear altogether. It’s still a dazzling effort though. (Producer Joe Boyd finally relented on “Pink Moon,” which save for a few bits of piano on the title track is all acoustic. It was also Drake’s weakest effort and poorest seller. Be careful what you wish for, Nick.) “Day is Done” has a similar woe begotten tone but is more effective, with Kirby’s strings showing a lot more restraint.

“Cello Song” is another Drake work of art. As the title suggests, it features a humming, mesmerizing cello solo by Clare Lowther, but its Drake’s dynamic acoustic guitar intro that will leave you saying “Whoa! How does he do that?” Drake’s frail, whistful vocal also helps to set the melancholy mood. Lowther’s cello takes flight like Icarus toward the sun when Drake whispers, “So forget this cruel world, where I belong. I’ll just sit and wait, and sing my song. And if one day you see me in the crowd, lend a hand and lift me – to your place in the clouds.” Drake seems to sense that if dares to reach out for happiness or asks for help in coping with his depression he’ll burn like Icarus. Too bad he was right.

Anything that followed “Cello Song” was bound to be a bit of a letdown, but “Thoughts of Mary Jane” succeeds because it follows an adult theme with an almost sunny child-like subject. A cute, flute embellished arrangement and Drake’s blissful soloing show that Nick wasn’t all doom and gloom. “Man in a Shed” also catches Drake in a rare flippant moment. The off-kilter story of the neighborhood weirdo, “Man In A Shed” gives pianist Paul Harris a chance to stretch his digits. The most amusing and ironic aspect of the song is when Drake reveals he’s the man in the shed, who’s “spent most of his days out of his head.”

“Fruit Tree” puts Drake back in the shoes of a forlorn poet. Drake’s voice is more direct, and telling, as are his lyrics: “Forgotten while you’re here, remembered for a while. A much updated ruin, from a much outdated style.” The guy was already feeling the heat.
The final cut, the lazy “Saturday Sun,” is a mixture of hope and sadness, much like its composer. Tristan Fry dances along on the vibes, his final notes fading with the effect of the last sustained note in the Beatles “A Day In A Life.”

Drake never came to grips with his failure to attain stardom. He did a half dozen or so gigs with Fairport Convention and John Martyn in support of “Five Leaves Left,” and never played live again. Settling into isolation, he composed the relatively celebratory (for him) “Bryter Layter,” a magical mix of fairy tale instrumentals and semi-biographical folk and jazz. The public ignored it, crushing Drake’s spirit. To make matters worse, Joe Boyd, his protector, friend, and producer, left the Witchseason label shortly after it was sold to Island Records. Drake began taking anti-depressants in an effort to cope which left him a motionless blank, unable to interact or speak above a mumble. Drake’s fog lifted long enough for him to record the “Pink Moon” album, which he completed in a rare flurry of determination in two nights. Month long stays in psychiatric hospitals, and trips to Paris and Los Angeles only delayed the inevitable. On November 25, 1974, Nick Drake’s mother, Molly, tried to wake him from what she thought was a deep sleep. He’d overdosed either intentionally or accidentally on Tryptizol, unaware that 25 years down the road, thanks to a commercial, he’d sell as many records in a day as he had in his entire lifetime.

Very few tortured artists win the battle for their soul. The Band’s Richard Manual, tired of the road, writer’s block and raging alcoholism hung himself; informed that his next drink could be his last and forbidden to tour, The Grateful Dead’s keyboardist, Ron “Pigpen” McKernan packed his booze and played Europe; convinced he was the target of devil worshippers, Brit Blues founder Graham Bond stepped in front of a train, and heroin embalmed Free guitarist Paul Kossoff was so sure he wanted to die he had a heart attack at age 25, died for 45 minutes, and lived for another year before his heart burst. Fleetwood Mac founder Peter Green left HUGE clues he was going off the deep end in virtually every song on his superb swansong with the group, “Then Play On,” then proved his instability by donning a kaftan, growing a Rasputin-like beard and tossing vats of cash into the concert crowds. He survived. Sadly, by the time Drake recorded “Pink Moon” he may have well known he’d already lost the battle for his sanity, or he didn’t care. Nick Drake didn’t make it, but “Five Leaves Left” has survived him – and that’s really all he ever wanted in the first place. A superb legacy.

Posted January 17, 2007 Permalink

Time Without Consequence

Time Without Consequence Alexi Murdoch 3.5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

In response to the inevitable question: “Doesn’t that tree-hugging hippy listen to anything new?” I give you Alexi Murdock, a current artist – well sorta. One listen to the Scottish singer/songwriter’s 2006 debut “Time Without Consequence” will affirm that Murdoch’s sound owes a major debt to 70s folk immortal Nick Drake, and that’s not such a bad thing. Better Nick Drake than Tiny Tim or Slim Whitman. The tragically depressed Drake was worm food long before Murdoch was a zygote in his dad’s eye, so whoever programmed him to appreciate Drake’s music needs to be thanked. The question is what does Murdoch’s music sound like when he removes his Drake veneer? Quite frankly, more often than not, it’s a repetitive mess. Murdoch may not have a handle on his own sound, but when he’s interpreting Drake’s intimate style, “Time Without Consequence” shines.

While Murdoch’s voice is permeated with Drake’s rich tenor, even Murdoch’s most intimate songs can’t hope to duplicate Drake’s disillusioned view of the world. If Murdoch had absorbed Drake’s wounded personality as well as music, he might be playing checkers in a straightjacket instead of the guitar. The most important lesson Murdoch seems to have learned from Drake’s short lived career is its better to entertain than to suffer. Drake was a manic depressive with a crippling inability to function outside of music -- Murdoch at least sees some light at the end of the very dark, emotionally draining tune, and that pinprick of optimism is what separates him from his mentor.

“All My Days” has plenty of Drake’s world-weary presence. Hints of Murdoch’s Scottish origin and his residence in London surface in Murdoch’s enchanting delivery. Oliver Kraus’ elegant cello asides are a welcome, classy addition to the CDs first two cuts, and Jay Bellerose adroitly handles the drums, giving the song a hopeful bounce that belies its haunting lyrics: “Well I’ve been quietly standing in the shade, all of my days. Watch the sky breaking on the promise that we made, all of this rain. And I’ve been trying to find, what’s been in my mind, as the days keep turning into night.” Murdoch is the antithesis of Drake in the last verse: “Now I see clearly, it’s you I’m looking for, all of my days. Soon I’ll smile, I know I’ll feel this loneliness no more, all of my days.” You’ll replay this moody eloquent charmer over and over.

“Breathe” is breathy, sparse, with great atmospheric tension, as if Murdoch is holding his breath in anticipation. It’s stretched out, allowed to…well, breathe, thanks to a trio of musicians (Bellerose, Al Sgro and Pete Thomas) improvising on percussion.

“Home” is the first mistake, spacey, feedback riddled psych with the line, “When do you really get to go home” repeated so many times you’ll start checking your CD for divots. On the positive side, “Home” has nothing to do with Nick Drake, its pure Murdoch, with disorientating, screeching electric guitar and out-of-touch tabla. The bad news is this “home” is about as inviting as standing downwind of an outhouse on a hundred degree day.

The captivating “Song For You” makes up for “Home”’s considerable confusion. It has an optimistic Mersey influence, like Gerry and the Pacemakers gone cool. The subtle, layered backing from the string section and the moderate pit-a-pat percussion spruce up Murdoch’s very English delivery.

“Dream About Flying” may have traces of Drake’s paranoid view of the world (“These days I’m afraid of everything, ‘cause everything will die”), but the rhythm track, supplied by studio veteran Jim Keltner, is punchy and hopeful. Murdoch’s thick voice comfortably guides the arrangement. His crisp picking is fully Drake-worthy, and Ben Peeler’s lap steel glides like a bird on wing over sun kissed swamp.

“Love You More” comes across as incomplete, like Paul McCartney’s inexcusable “Brother Can You Take Me Back” rant that ruins the end of “Cry Baby Cry.” The arrangement is tight and thoughtful, particularly the mood-setting drumming of Ramy Antoun, but Murdoch repeats the title like a mantra, and it’s a boring one. Without a second’s worth of separation, “Love You More” slips into “Blue Mind,” a fully-realized, peaceful ballad that drifts along on the strength of Peeler’s lap steel and Marvin Etzioni’s mandolin.

“12” is a disaster that has filler written all over it. It’s Murdoch’s “Revolution #9” with the accent on revolt(ing). It shows a great deal of promise when it starts out with high flying guitar, dominant Jack Bruce bass runs and paddle-steamer drums blanketing a recorded conversation. Then Murdoch enters screaming “Shine!” Actually, it’s more like “Shiiiiiiiiiiine!” which he repeats for nearly seven agonizing minutes, making this loud morass as much fun as chewing tin foil with a mouth full of cavities. A shame, because guitarist Greg Leisz’s clean, David Gilmour-like licks are wasted.

The capper, “Orange Sky” has appeared in numerous TV shows and movies, including “The O.C.,” “House,” and “Ladder 49,” and was part of a four-song EP released in 2002. (“Blue Mind” and “Song For You” were also on the EP. “It’s Only Fear” was the only song struck from the full-length CDs play list.) Murdoch has re-recorded “Orange Sky” to match the CDs relaxed vibe and it works magnificently. It’s a compassionate look at his relationship with is family and friends and one of his more sincere compositions.

“Time Without Consequence” is a promising debut. Only time and subsequent releases will tell if Murdoch can find his own sound without leaning too much on the Nick Drake crutch. He could also use a lyricist. It’s alright to repeat lyrics if you’re an emotive singer along the lines of Steve Winwood, Mike Harrison or Joe Cocker, but if you’ve got a flat-line delivery like Murdoch (however attractive it may be) you can’t turn every song into a lyric loop. And don’t drag half-baked ideas like “12” out to marathon lengths Alexi, or it’ll be a lot longer before your second album. It’s frustrating when the ghost of another artist dominates your sound the way Nick Drake blankets Murdock’s, but if it’s your bread and butter embrace it.(Way too many people tell me I sound like Richard Manual when I sing, which is great, but I sure as hell don’t want to wind up like him either.) So spend some time with Alexi Murdoch – the only consequence you’ll have to face is the wait for his second CD.

Posted January 17, 2007 Permalink