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May 2007

The Zombies - Live at Bloomsbury Theatre, London

The Zombies Live at Bloomsbury Theatre, London 3.5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

The Zombies may have set some kind of rock and roll record for inactivity, going 37 years between recordings. Their live “reunion” recording, “Live at Bloomsbury Theatre, London,” is a 2 CD extravaganza that proves it was worth the wait.

The Zombies were an early pop/rock group formed in 1961 by singer Colin Blunstone, keyboardist Rod Argent, bassist Chris White, guitarist Paul Atkinson and bassist Hugh Grundy. Despite scoring on the charts with the jazzy pop singles “Tell Her No” and “She’s Not There,” the group had a relatively short shelf life, disbanding in 1967. “Odessy and Oracle,” their final album, was released a year later, and is considered an early rock classic during a period in rock history when groups cared more about the sales of their 45s than their LPs. (According to the band, the album title was deliberately misspelled.) Their final single, “Time of the Season,” released after the group had broken up, was powered Blunstone’s breathy vocals and Argent’s rapid improvisations. It slowly climbed to #3 on the charts, but it was too late for the group to capitalize on their success. Insurance salesman Blunstone made his way back to music recording under an assumed name, then embarked on a solo career aided by former Zombies Argent and White (who would write, produce, and act as Blunstone’s sidemen). Argent formed what would soon be a highly successful art-rock quartet under his own name. In 2003, Blunstone and Argent were reunited at a charity benefit and decided to carry on for a few more gigs under their old moniker. (No one was using the name anyway. Grundy had retired from the music scene, White was a successful producer and co-writer of many of Argent’s hits, and Atkinson, who became an agent and signed Abba and Bruce Hornsby to recording contracts, died in 2004.) Argent re-enlisted his cousin Jim Rodford to play bass. (Rodford had played in Argent and when the group broke up then moved on to The Kinks where he served as their bassist for 20 years.) Rodford convinced his cousin that his son Steve could handle the drums (sometimes he can’t) and Blunstone brought along Keith Airey from his own band to play guitar. On “Live at Bloomsbury Theatre” the group is occasionally abetted by a string quartet: Peter Hanson (first violin), Louisa Metcalfe (second violin), John Metcalf (viola) and Sophie Harris (cello). Blunstone made extensive use of a string section on his first three solo albums, “One Year,” “Ennismore” and “Journey,” and it’s no coincidence they were his most successful recordings.

“Andorra,” an obscure Blunstone solo cut from “Ennismore,” is a gutsy opener. Steve Rodford is steady, eager, and Argent sounds as if he’s got six hands. Blunstone still has a breathy, boyish voice that can climb to the nether reaches of the scale. Argent backs Blunstone on piano during the first two verses, while guitarist Airey carries the soloing in the last verse as Argent moves over to synthesizer. Airy knows how to solo without sounding loud, flashy or longwinded.

“This Will Be Our Year” is dance hall material that suits Blunstone’s leisurely delivery. Steve Rodford’s a bit heavy-handed for this type of carefree material, giving it a plodding beat which occasionally messes up Blunstone’s pacing, but Argent’s piano fills are effective.

“I Love You” is an old Zombies song, and Blunstone gives his vocal chords a work out, getting a well deserved hand. Argent and Jim Rodford provide excellent harmonies with Blunstone on the top, Argent in the middle and Rodford down low. Stevie Rodford is clumsy on the verses, but knows the stop and go points of the song and has a musical empathy with his father that musicians who play together for decades don’t share.

One problem The Zombies had when they reformed was a dearth of material. They solve the problem by cherry picking songs from the group Argent, as well as Blunstone’s solo career. In 1980, Blunstone teamed up with Dave Stewart for a remake of the Jimmy Ruffin R & B chestnut “What Becomes of the Broken Hearted.” The band gives it a hostile left field intro that’s more harsh than good and rocks at a faster pace than necessary -- in fact it’s a gallop. Blunstone tries to keep pace with Stevie Rodford, who’s probably too young to realize the song is a ballad and not The Hustle. Blunstone tries to rescue this one, but Stevie just won’t let him.

“Mystified” is swinging blues with Argent putting in adroit, solid work on piano. He stalks Blunstone’s voice, and combines with Jim Rodford to give Blunstone some brisk vocal back up. He also performs the neat trick of playing two keyboards, keeping the rhythm going on piano while playing an organ solo.

The Band dusts off “A Rose For Emily” from the “Odessy and the Oracle” album. One listen and it’s not hard to figure out why the album was well received by critics but stiffed on the charts. “Rose” is an esoteric, hard to fathom curio that Blunstone, Rodford and Argent attempt to sing as a round. Unfortunately, Rodford reaches for vocal nirvana and his voice cracks – ah, the hazards of live recording! It’s a dense song that worked in the experimental 60s but not in the light of sobriety. “Beechwood Park,” also from “Odessy and the Oracle,” is next; most likely to give the audience a flashback of what music was like in ‘67. Unlike its predecessor, “Beechwood Park” has a discernable form. Blunstone mails this one in, but Argent continues to add excellent instrumental color to the background, his rich Hammond playing reminiscent of Procul Harum’s organ player Matthew Fisher (the guy who made “A Whiter Shade of Pale” sound like Bach).

Sticking to their Zombies persona, the band charges into the inevitable – a version of “Time of the Season.” It’s a little faster than the original (once again you can point the drumstick at Stevie) and as a result, Blunstone has to strain a bit, but with Jim Rodford’s bass digging into the beat the verses are funkier. Argent plays his solos with the same flair he did when the song was recorded (ouch) forty years ago. There are tons of air guitar songs – here’s one for would-be keyboardists.

The previously unheard string section slides into action on “I Want To Fly,” a quiet ballad elevated by Argent’s classy piano playing. Not having Steve Rodford pounding away helps as well (Stevie takes a break on this one). Blunstone is allowed to sing the way he does best, in a murmuring, secretive tone that turns every phrase into a tear. Yes, given the right vehicle, Colin Blunstone can still make you well up. As the music takes wing, “I Want To Fly” will make you feel as if you are indeed soaring with the eagles.

“Keep on Rolling” is an Argent throwaway that was so out place on Argent’s second art-rock effort “Ring of Hands” it wasn’t included until it was reissued in CD. Time hasn’t been kind to this slap dash jolly rocker. Fortunately, Blunstone doesn’t have to bear the embarrassment of stepping to the mike -- that falls on Argent, who is hustled at an unnecessarily fast pace by Stevie, who should really go back and listen to the music he’s trying to recreate -- so he doesn’t desecrate. Argent does a great Jerry Lee Lewis impersonation though, and the crowd loves his playing, if not his pluck.

The first CD ends with “Hold Your Head Up,” Argent’s biggest hit. The original was sung by its composer, Russ Ballard. Blunstone is a more than able replacement, supported by Argent wailing proudly. Stevie’s cavemen beat gives the song a bit more drive than the studio version, so this is a case where Stevie being a few beats faster than the original works. “Hold Your Head Up” is Rod Argent’s chance to show he’s still a dervish on the organ and he doesn’t disappoint, and Airey pulls off the descending guitar part originally assayed by composer Ballad by playing it on slide (ah, technology).

The second CD starts out like the first, with a daring, obscure choice... So what did Quasimodo seek in “The Hunchback of Notre Dame?” “Sanctuary.” The rickety opening piano run in “Sanctuary” sounds like it ought to be part of the sound track to a silent film, but then it shifts to a Bosa Nova, with Stevie manning the bongos. “Sanctuary” turns The Zombies into a resort band on the beach of Rio, and it works because of Blunstone’s sweet-as-honey vocalizing and Argent’s ongoing ability to adjust to any style and fill an arrangement.

“Pleasure,” an Argent tune from their second album “Ring of Hands” is up next. The album version featured joyous speaker-filling harmonies by Jim Rodford, Argent and Russ Ballard; with the addition of Blunstone and the subtraction of Ballard (and the fact its live and you can’t hide), the harmonies are a little ragged. Surprisingly, it’s Blunstone who’s the culprit in this song. He pushes a bit too hard, harkening back to the notion that the song has to be right for his voice. Hardly a catastrophe, but it’s noticeable. But Argent’s the lead vocalist here, so Blunstone’s only out of place during the choruses. Argent so accurately recreates his solos it sounds like he’s in the studio.

Blunstone takes center stage to perform two songs from his superb first album, “One Year.” “Say You Don’t Mind” makes full use of the string section and is tailored for Blunstone’s romantic voice. There’s a note at the end you fear he’ll never hit (he is after all, in his sixties!) but Blunstone plows forward and nails it. “Misty Roses” was originally written and recorded by troubled folkie Tim Hardin. Hardin’s performance was predominantly acoustic and a mirror into his very screwed up soul. Blunstone’s studio version was recorded with a string quartet; here it’s Airey on acoustic with Blunstone (like Hardin’s version), until the middle part of song where the quartet solos with jaw-dropping effectiveness. This will indeed get you misty. “Say You Don’t Mind” and “Misty Roses” are the highlights of the entire performance and rightfully get the evening’s longest and loudest round of applause.

“I Don’t Believe in Miracles” is another Russ Ballard tune that was performed by both Argent and Blunstone, who made it the first song on his second solo album, “Ennismore.” Blunstone once again hits an operatic high note at the end that seems impossible for a set of sixty year-old lungs. (See what happens when you live a clean life kids? You can enthrall an audience and hit incredible notes like Colin. There’s also show-stopping version on “Argent Live” that’s worth listening to if you can find it. The song builds, beginning with Ballard alone at the piano and gains steam as a new instrument joins in after each verse until it’s an emotional avalanche.)

A trusty version of “Old and Wise” follows “Miracles.” Wow, these guys are pulling out material from everywhere. Blunstone was one of the eight gazillion guest singers Alan Parsons used on his albums during his heyday in the eighties. This is one of their less memorable songs, but Airey finally gets a chance to strap on the electric guitar and show why he’s such an in-demand studio session man, and Stevie figures out a beat that enhances rather than hurts.

“Care of Cell 44” is another dippy song from the overrated “Odessy and the Oracle.” The story of a jail sentence set to pub music, it’s a disjointed patchwork of maudlin ideas that makes incarceration sound like the narrator’s cell mates were Keats and Shelley. It wasn’t attractive then, and it’s less so now. The mod “Indication” starts badly and falls apart quickly, with Stevie once again exposed as a percussive neophyte. If the song wasn’t bad enough, Argent’s solo is taken from the Christmas classic “Comfort and Joy.” He also takes a page from Lionel Hampton’s book and hums loudly to himself while soloing. All indications are this song should be skipped.

The big hit “Tell Her No” is as strong and entertaining as the original. Blunstone works his voice with precision and Stevie’s in his element. It’s a fast pop tune that needs his revved up beat. Blunstone’s voice threatens to crack during “She’s Not There” and Stevie’s back in hyper drive, but daddy Jim holds the song together by being animated but sensible. Argent finally goes outside the lines a bit, soloing like a mad monk, and Airey’s solo flies with equal abandon.

“God Gave Rock N’ Roll To You” is so identified with Russ Ballard and the Argent band you wonder if Blunstone can pull it off. (Sorry Kiss fans, but God didn’t give rock n’ roll to you, only the ability to approximate Kabuki Theater. Their version is an atrocity, which is in step with most of their schlock. There I said it.) Blunstone’s higher pitched voice shouldn’t work, but it does, and when Argent and Rodford join in on the chorus you’ll want to sing along. It’s a hugely successful version that would have ended the CD on a high note. Instead the CD ends with a version of “Summertime.” I’ve never liked this song, especially when Janis Joplin shrieked her way through it. But Blunstone’s soft tone is right for it, Argent lays out another light-handed solo and the strings are back to give it some bounce. It’s not the inspiration triumph that “God Gave Rock and Roll “was, but its a lot better anyone could hope for.

The solid bass lines of Jim Rodford, Rod Argent’s concert master chops and Colin Blunstone’s still phenomenal pipes are worth the price of admission. Drummer Stevie Rodford must have misunderstood his dad when he told him he was going to be with the Zombies. He must have thought Jim said, “Play like a zombie,” because Stevie often takes the Bam Bam Rubble approach to providing a beat, pounding on his kit as if it was made of granite and his sticks were jack hammers. When Stevie’s off his game he tends to blindside Blunstone, who wisely tries to continue singing at his own pace. Guitarist Keith Airey doesn’t have to do much to collect his shillings, but whenever he’s called upon, Airey performs admirably.

“Live” would be a great addition to any classic rock fans collection. It’s the time of the zombies…

Posted May 18, 2007 Permalink

Elvis Costello - Rock and Roll Music

Elvis Costello Rock and Roll Music 1 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

The bespeckled punk nerd with the vocal charm of a septuagenarian passing a kidney stone returns with a second helping of flotsam mislabeled “Rock and Roll Music.” The only rocks involved here are inside the heads of folks who think whining is the equivalent of singing. Dead End Elvis Costello is not without talent – he can occasionally turn an amusing if somewhat nasty phrase – he simply has the larynx of a petulant kindergartner in need of an enema. After a few testy tunes this rock rolls over and dies.

“Lipstick Vogue” kicks things off with a busy drum roll. The beat’s simply too hyperkinetic for Dead End’s verklempt vocal abilities. Credit drummer Pete Thomas with the barbaric beat, while bassist Bruce Thomas provides a frantic counterpoint, but Dead End Elvis can’t keep up with the pace. He’s spends the too much time playing catch up with the arrangement. When he sings “its yoooooou not just another lipstick vogue,” his nasal gob burrows right into skull like a bad hangover at dawn.

“No Action” is more out of control pop punk. There’s a better flow here than on “Lipstick Vogue,” but there’s too much action. Dead End Elvis sputters and spits out the words, which are as caustic as regurgitated bangers and mash: “I don’t wanna kiss you, I don’t wanna touch you, I don’t wanna see you, ‘cause I don’t miss you that much.” The feeling’s mutual, Dead End.

Steve Nieve’s wobbly keyboard takes a more prominent role in “Big Tears.” Dead End abuses the lyrics with a ridiculously poorly paced vocal. Pete Thomas lays down a more pedestrian beat, but Dead End can’t get behind it. It’s more WAAAAAH at the mike, another self-indulgent diatribe. At least there’s some consolation – Dead End begins to lose his so-called voice at the end.

“(I Don’t Want to Go To) Chelsea,” which was annexed to “The Best of” returns, which is a shame because I didn’t want to go to Chelsea the first time and I still don’t want to go. This is like coming out of police station after being assaulted and getting mugged all over again.

“This Year’s Girl” has the right mid-tempo beat to keep Dead End’s vitriol from spewing into overdrive. The Thomas’ continue to be inventive, while Nieve continues to be a work in progress whose made little headway. On “This Year’s Girl” he lays down thick chords that carpet the background and keep you from paying too much attention to Dead End’s baying. Better yet, he does it with a real organ instead of that wimpy Farfisa.

Less pissed off than his usual early fair, Dead End still projects memories of an angry punk poet with “Miracle Man.” Dead End also flashes his basic knowledge of guitar with a simple learner’s permit guitar break. “Miracle Man” has more sway and more melody than most of his early material and somehow works, in spite of Dead End’s weak-kneed vocal.

“Clean Money” comes in at a such hell bent for disaster pace you know Dead End’s going to slam dance you into a squinty-eyed froth. This is a crashingly bad mix of pop and punk with back up vocals that sound like they were swiped from Paul McCartney’s “Helen Wheels,” and that was a classic, wasn’t it? “Clean Money” is as worthless as a Confederate dollar.

“Wednesday Week” is the perfect background for a Keystone Cops movie, rapid, dangerous and side-splitting funny – too bad it’s not intended to be that way. Nieve hits the keys like he’s Mr. Kite introducing a circus act. Dead End slows the beat down halfway through but doesn’t help; this is one hump day no one can get over.

Ah, smell that stale beer and body fluids… Feel the bony body of a perfect stranger bouncing off your spleen as he tries to slam dance to the spine-cracking beat. It must be Dead End live…Pete Thomas carries the band and the beat on a live version of “Mystery Dance” and seems to be the only member of The Attractions who might have actually practiced before they hit the stage. Dead End packs so many syllables into the song he might as well be reciting the phone book, but Pete Thomas thankfully drowns him out whenever he comes close to sounding like he’s singing in English. Nieve continues to show tone deaf tendencies with a catty, off-balance solo. A second regrettable live track, “You Belong To Me,” is a case of Dead End Elvis trying to perpetuate a punkish persona and coming across as a mealy mouthed grouch. Given his omnipresence in the studio, bassist Bruce Thomas is surprisingly understated. Pete Thomas is the show, a bit too much at times, but he’s the only one playing rather than puffing out his chest.

“(What’s so Funny About) Peace Love and Understanding?” Nothing except there’s nothing funny about putting this yell-a-thon on a second collection. I doubt Nick Lowe needs the money or the reminder that a potential career-maker can be a weapon in the wrong hands.

Dead End Elvis goes the Buddy Holly hiccup route in “Girls Talk” and turnabout is fair play. Dead End thieved Nick Lowe’s “Peace Love and Understanding,” making it his own. Dave Edmunds took this song and made it into a classic. Amazing how he turned this laconic Ska-influenced version into danceable rockabilly. Dead End wrote a neat little pop tune, but Edmunds’ version is clearly the one that talks.

Everybody borrows the Bo Diddley beat, so why not Dead End Elvis? It always works, and it can take what would have been a mediocre tune, “Lovers Walk,” and turn it into a worthwhile listen. The Tarzan beat is perfect for Pete Thomas, who backs Dead End’s curtailed solo during the second verse. Thanks, Dead End, for keeping it short. “Uncomplicated” is a redux of the Bo Diddley beat at a slightly slower pace with elements of the novelty tune “Running Bear.” The only thing missing is J.P. Richardson pretending to be an Indian. “Uncomplicated” isn’t a great or memorable exercise, but it won’t leave you grimacing every time Dead End assaults the mike.

“Honey Are You Straight of Are You Blind?” is an offensive piece of wrong-headed bile that will make you wish you were not only blind but a eunuch as well. Pete Thomas must’ve gotten tired of being the only musician in the group, because he ruins his kit with abusive swats. Dead End strangles the life out of the title and his voice, holding notes until your eyes bleed.

“I Hope You’re Happy Now” continues the onslaught. No Dead End, I’m not. I’m listening to you snap out lyrics like a dangling desperado cursing his accusers at the end of a rope. Pete Thomas, the band’s only asset, has fallen in love with cymbal bashing, but at least the bass is finger popping good and the Farfisa’s been banished.. Still it’s hard to be happy with someone barking at you like a dog that hasn’t been fed.

Borrowing heavily from Chuck Berry’s “Memphis,” Dead End disguises “Tokyo Storm Warning” with counterpoint vocals and enough mentions of passing scenery to fill an hour on the Travel Channel. This is a case of the lyricist being eaten by his own words, of which there’s a lexicon’s worth: “Japanese God-Jesus robots telling teenage fortunes, for all we know and all we care they might as well be Martians.” That explains it. Dead End is really ET.

The demo for “Welcome to the Working Week” features Dead End alone on the guitar, scratching at it like a starving chick digging in the dirt for feed. He works himself into a lather as he beats the whey out of his strings. Listening to this you know you just picked a bad week to go to work.

“Rock and Roll Music” is for rabid Declan MacManus fans – and if you’re really a fan of Dead End Elvis than you’ll know who MacManus is. I’d rather not know.

Posted May 18, 2007 Permalink

The Best of Elvis Costello: The First 10 Years

Elvis Costello “The Best of… The First Ten Years” 2 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

Elvis Costello has perpetrated four heinous acts that have made it very hard for me to like him as a person and made me even more reluctant to listen to his music. Yet, I do, yet I do:

1. He stole the first name of a rock icon’s name to use as his own, and couldn’t be further from that icon’s music or persona if he tried. Maybe that was the irony of his choice, but if Frank Costello was still alive those red shoes Elvis Costello sings about would be made of cement.

2. He used the N-word in an otherwise insignificant song (“Oliver’s Army”).

3. To compound his obsession with the N-word, he once called Ray Charles “A blind, old …” in order to rile singer Bonnie Bramlett. It worked. Bramlett promptly made Costello hit the road, Jack, with his face. Costello was lucky Bramlett’s hot-headed boss, Stephen Stills, had already gone to bed, otherwise it would have been cryin’ time again for the bespeckled wise guy.

4. He sings like the annoying red-haired “Dead End Kid” in the Bugs Bunny cartoon who kept whining “I wanna Easter egg! I wanna Easter Egg!” The man’s voice is the equivalent of licking the third rail – it shoots through every corpuscle in your body, makes your hair stand on edge and melts your fillings.

Henceforth, Elvis Costello shall be known as Dead End Elvis…

As you might imagine “The Best Of…” is a subjective title. Even Dead End’s most devout dead heads (sorry, wrong artist) might quibble with the selections. They shouldn’t complain about the number of cuts (22). If Dead End was getting paid by the syllable he might earn enough to retire and pay more attention wife Diana Krall’s career, and that would be a blessing for everyone – except Diana Krall.

With one whiny line, “Oh I used to be disgusted,” you’re introduced to one of the 80s top curmudgeons. The good thing about a curmudgeon is he never has problems expressing himself, and “The Angels Want To Wear My Red Shoes” is rife with great lines: “Oh I said ‘I’m so happy I could die,’ she said ‘drop dead’ and left with another guy. That’s what you get if you go chasing after vengeance. Ever since you got me punctured this has been my sentence.” The bass gurgles, drummer Mickey Shine is in the pocket, and Dead End’s voice is angry but not annoying. One reason why “Angels” works is because Dead End’s band, “The Attractions” isn’t on this cut, and John McFee handles the guitar work, which is much fuller and covers more of the musical landscape than Dead End’s gnarly fretwork.

“Alison” is arguably the best song Dead End Elvis has ever written; it’s certainly my favorite by a wide margin (then again he doesn’t have much material to compete against). “Alison” is a tender (Dead End Elvis, tender?) ode to the girl who got away and is stuck in a lousy marriage. Keeping his snarly attitude under wraps, Dead End’s straight-ahead delivery smacks of a Stax singer, a little hurt, a little heart, and a little soul. Too bad he seldom displayed any compassion after “Alison.”

“Watching the Detectives” certainly ranks as one of Dead End’s better rockers, mixing a sinister Ska beat with maximum pounding from Steve Goulding on the drums. Andrew Bonar’s bass slithers around Dead End’s Ja Mon riffing. And it’s the first time I can recall a Farfisa organ ever successfully conveying a sense of dread. A nod to espionage and stalking for a living, “Detectives” would make a great song for a Peter Sellers farce (‘cept Pete’s dead).

“I Can’t Stand Up For Falling Down” is another top-flight rocker. Dead End didn’t write this one, but it shows he developed an inkling of soul through osmosis. (Must have been the rhythm of Bonnie Bramlett’s punches.) Drummer Peter Thomas is a righteous time keeper, and Dead End may not be David Ruffin or Sam Moore, (more like David Cassidy and Yosemite Sam) but here he feels rather than fights with the music, dropping his pouty lipped punk poser persona. Dead End’s having a good time in the recording studio, something else he seldom seems to do.

An example of Dead End’s voice serving rather than scuttling the song is “New Lace Sleeves.” Singing in a lower register like a punk James Darren, Dead End lets his sarcasm carry the day. (Man, somebody must have bullied this guy to no end in school.) You can’t help but focus on Bruce Thomas’ soul-schooled groove, which resembles the bass in Grandmaster Flash’s “White Lines.” Dead End may not have gotten better as he got older, but he did get smarter.

There are scores of songs on “Best Of” that serve as perfect reminders why 80s punk music never made it to the 90s. As Dead End himself says in (“I Don’t Want To Go To) Chelsea” -- “It does not move me” – which serves as an appropriate review of the song. The organ in “Chelsea” is on the money weird, swirling and sizzling in the background and the unrelated Thomas boys, bassist Bruce and drummer Pete, continue to show off their Ska chops, but Dead End’s bratty delivery will run you out of Chelsea, and you really won’t want to go back.

“Pump It Up” is a boarding school cheer for punks about to put on their steel tipped work boots and mercilessly kick an immigrant to death for entertainment: “She’s like a narcotic, you wanna torture her, you wanna talk to her…Pump it up when you don’t really need it. Pump it up until you can feel it.” The organ swirls like puke exiting a rusty toilet and the normally reliable Bruce Thomas imposes a rhythm that jerks more spastically than a man enduring direct current on death row. Another anthemic tune, “Radio Radio” is also included on “Best of.” When Dead End appeared on “Saturday Night Live” in 1977 he was supposed to play “Less than Zero” (one of Dead End’s tunes that should be here, but isn’t). Dead End stopped the performance after a few lines and launched into the callous “Radio Radio” Result? Dead End was banned from the show for 12 years. It wasn’t even an original idea. Dead End stole it from Jimi Hendrix. Hendrix was booked by the BBC to perform “Hey Joe” but did a last minute change to “Sunshine of Your Love.” Result? A historic performance. Whoever told Dead End he was in the same hemisphere as Jimi Hendrix did him and the audience a major disservice.

“Accidents Will Happen” is no accident, just a fair to middling tune. Dead End is a more restrained and the song is better for it -- that faux anger of his can only goes so far. Dead takes a welcome break from Ska, with an actual bridge and some harmony near the end that has all the charm of the choking “aaah” sounds the dentist elicits from you when he sticks his fingers down your throat, but at least it’s different.

“Oliver’s Army” is musical genocide. Dead End Elvis uses the N word and even without it, this is one rag tag army with all the firepower of an empty derringer. By using the N word to refer to someone of the Caucasian persuasion, Dead End manages to offend two races at the same time. For once and for all, you can claim that using the N word is supposed to enlighten people to the evils of racial prejudice all you want, using it in any way shape or form means the guys with the swastikas and the burning crosses win. Dead End should have followed his own advice -- “I would rather be anywhere else than here today.”

“(What’s So Funny About) Peace, Love & Understanding” is neither peaceful, loving or worth trying to understand. What’s so funny is Dead End’s vision of Utopia follows a song promoting racial divisiveness (the aforementioned “Oliver’s Army”). Every syllable issuing from Dead End’s mouth is wrapped in a sneer. The Thomas boys continue to breathe life into Costello’s pretentiousness, and (phew), the migraine-inducing Farfisa is a goner here. Nice driving beat, but someone else needs to sing this – how about the guy who wrote it? Listen to Nick Lowe’s version and the lyrics won’t sound so hypocritical.

“Clubland” is a trip back to Dead End’s house of whine. He mixes styles well (cocktail music gives way to elements of Ska and melodic rock), and still wisely uses the drums and bass as the song’s foundation, but at long last, there’s a piano solo from Nieve, who sounds as if he’s taking showboat lessons from Jools Holland. “Clubland” has a highly listenable arrangement, but Dead End either refuses to try and play nice or he truly has no concept of what a human voice should sound like. At one point Dead End may very well be screeching “He clubbed me.” Hard to tell. Nevertheless, you’ll wish someone had.

“Good Year For The Roses” is rock and country married together with the delicacy of a shotgun wedding. Dead End goes Hee-Haw with strings, corn-fed back up singers oohing and aahing, and pedal steel. Repeat after me, Dead End, Barry Gibb, Eric Clapton and all you Brits who think you sound authentic singing about swamps, hush puppies or marrying your sister – sometimes actually having a grass roots connection to the genre you’re imitating helps. Fish swim. Birds sing. Rednecks torture us with country music. Brits should stay the heck away from country. Hell, everybody should.

In “Beyond Belief” Dead End takes his vocal nuance from Ian Dury, riding the arrangement then dropping down low. The only difference is Ian was doing it to be funny, or at the very least, entertaining. Dead End does a lot of experimenting here, with a droning guitar riff, and a synthesized vocal that goes static during the middle eight. It’s nice to that Dead End deviated from his typical slam dance pace, but he needed to focus on a style here for more than twenty seconds.

Dead End goes regal in “Man Out of Time.” He’s true to the title, adopting an early English pop arrangement, stodgy and self-important, very Walker Brothers. The voice wobbles, but the lyrics remain his strong suit. “He’s got a mind like a sewer and a heart like a fridge” – nice line. The end though, is completely left field. After the semi-classy arrangement Dead End goes all jungle on us, screaming to a reckless, primeval beat that wrecks the mood.

Dead End’s frozen vocal in “Almost Blue” means you can add cocktail music to the list of styles he should avoid. Torch songs require a voice with character, not a character with a voice. At least now that he’s married to Diana Crawl (Krall) he might be able to pick up a few pointers.

“Shipbuilding” is a titanic mistake. Dead End struggles to fit his lyrics into the jazzy arrangement. Is that Herb Alpert on trumpet? Nice effect when they echo the horn the second time around, very film noire. But what the heck is a trumpet doing in a song by the supposed King of Punk? Gotta give Dead End credit though for tackling a variety of styles, even if he can’t master a single one. Abandon ship.

Dead End continues to test out and wreck musical genres with “Indoor Fireworks.” Now he’s ripping off Graham Parker. Focus on an acoustic guitar, set the organ in the background and get melancholy. Parker should be proud, Dead End nails his style. With little to shroud his drone, Dead End’s delivery is serviceable, but emotionally empty. Amazing how a lackluster singer can suck the excitement out of even his own composition.

“I Want You” starts out with Dead End on acoustic before backsliding dangerously toward more nasty sentiment. When Dead End says “I want you,” run away or you’ll probably wind up wrapped up in duck tape in his basement. The grade-B horror movie arrangement buoys Dead End’s stalker lyrics. This is six minutes of unhinged obsession. You’ll have to take a shower after this one, although there may not be enough heavy drugs to wipe away its memory. “I Want You” rates one big creepy “YEEECCCHHH.”

Since this compilation only the first ten years of Dead End’s career, another “best of” retrospective looms on the horizon that’s larger than Dead End’s ego. Now that Dead End has married Diana Crawl, maybe they could collaborate in the studio. At least if Diana Crawl sings you’ll be guaranteed a manlier vocal. But enough about the nightmares that could be. Listen to “The Best of Dead End Elvis” for “Alison,” “Watching the Detectives,” and “I Can’t Stand Up For Falling Down.” The rest of this fast-paced whine and cheesy fest will make you wonder who compiled this mess. And a pile it is – a lot of the tunes never made it to the “radio radio” and if they did, it was indeed proof that “accidents will happen.” Personally “I can’t stand up for falling down” fast enough to get my shot gun, “pump it up” and turn this CD into “indoor fireworks.” Somewhere Bonnie Bramlett is stomping on Dead End’s plastic glasses and is having the last laugh.

Posted May 18, 2007 Permalink

Colin Blunstone - “One Year”

Colin Blunstone “One Year” 4.5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

Once in a while you come across a CD that’s so moving in its breadth and beauty that it puts you in a state of serenity you never thought possible. Colin Blunstone’s “One Year” is such a recording, an unlikely combination of folk, rock, and classical music. Blunstone’s aching choirboy vocals are the centerpiece, supported by Chris Gunning’s sensitive, silken strings. Seldom has rock and classical music meshed so brilliantly.

After the demise of The Zombies in 1968, Blunstone took a mundane job as an insurance salesman, but the success of the group’s posthumous single “Time of the Season” pushed his name back into the limelight. In a moment of rebellion, Blunstone assumed the name Neil Macarthur and re-recorded The Zombies “She’s Not There.” The song was a hit all over again in England. He ran out the string as Neil Macarthur for two more unsuccessful 45s before bending to the inevitable – if he wanted DJs to spin his records he’s better take advantage of his reputation and use his own name. Blunstone then wisely took his time recording his first solo album (it took a year, hence the title), employing former Zombies Rod Argent and Chris White as producers and songwriters. Keyboardist Argent brought along his new band (wisely named after himself): Russ Ballard (guitars), Robert Henrit (drums), and Jim Rodford (bass). The quartet appears on the album’s more up-tempo cuts (“She Loves the Way I Love Her,” “Caroline Goodbye,” and “Mary Won’t You Warm My Bed”), displaying musicianship worthy of four star status for their union cards. The rest of the time it’s Blunstone on his own, his sleek voice accompanied by a classically inclined string section or a muted cluster of horns. No bashing drums, no searing guitars, no funky bass, just a phenomenal singer in his prime with experienced pros.

Anyone unfamiliar with Argent’s sound need only listen to the enthusiastic opener, the Argent/White composition “She Loves the Way I Love Her,” to recognize the contributors. A top notch writer and multi-instrumentalist, Russ Ballard shows himself to be a better guitarist than he ever got credit for, and Blunstone coos with laid-back confidence. Composer Tim Hardin’s “Misty Roses” sets the stage for the CDs shift to a more doleful mood; guest guitarist Alan Crosthwaite does a Bossa Nova back up on acoustic guitar, giving way to the first emergence of the string section, which plays with moody integrity. The difference between the overwrought pop of the day (Barry Manifold for example) and today’s primping crop of poster boys (Coldplay, Josh Rouse, John Mayer, you name ‘em) is that Blunstone isn’t asking for your pity or forcing you understand his pain. The man is just singing, making whatever inner turmoil he’s wrestling with sound more genuine.

Blunstone’s whispery voice indeed sounds as if it’s breaking through the haze of a foggy dawn on “Smokey Day,” but eventually it’s going to be a beautiful, if somewhat dreamy day. The ensuing ballad “Caroline Goodbye,” is the CD’s highlight. More upbeat than the other string-driven songs, it’s still filled with regret, and Blunstone’s personal loss is at its core. Blunstone wrote the song about actress Caroline Munro, an obscenely beautiful horror film actress he’d dated, loved, and lost: “Saw your picture in the paper my you’re looking pretty good. Looks like you’re gonna make it in a big way, girl I always knew you would. But I should have known better, and I should have seen sooner. It’s no use pretending, I’ve know for a long time your love is ending, Caroline, goodbye.” A simple, adept acoustic guitar solo by Ballard adds refinement to Blunstone’s sighing vocal. Regal, low-key horns steady the arrangement, which is given a lift by a platoon of extras shaking their tambourines in time. (Tambourines as a lead instrument? I told you this album was different.)

A harp, no, not a harmonica, but that stringed instrument angels and Harpo Marx plays, blows the airy “Though You Are Far Away” in as if on a cloud. By quieting his already gentle delivery, Blunstone has the ability to sound as if he’s a ghostly, pained memory, and Gunning’s shivering strings rush and recess, burrowing into your very core. If you need a good cry, put this on with “Caroline Goodbye” and “Her Song.” Yep, sometime beauty can make you blubber.

Blunstone’s one misstep is Mike D’Abo’s “Mary Won’t You Warm My Bed,” which on the original LP lead off what used to be side two. Since side one lead off with an up-tempo number, it makes sense to go for a second one for the second half of the CD, but “Mary”’s tempo is too fast for the silken-voiced singer, who practically gasps his way through it. “Mary” isn’t a bad tune, it’s just out of place and it serves to interrupt the tender mood of the rest of the CD. (Time out for trivia: Mike D’Abo is the father of gorgeous actress Olivia D’Abo and the uncle of another Brit actress, Maryam D’Abo. He’s written a number of notable rock classics, including “Handbags and Gladrags” recorded by Rod Stewart, and co-wrote the pop classic “Build Me Up Buttercup” for The Foundations. He was also the lead singer for Manfred Man. It’s his voice you hear on “The Mighty Quinn” and “My Name is Jack.”)

The quivering strings are back for “Her Song.” They’re wistful and slight, with the same lost in a fantasy feel you’d associate with “The Wizard of Oz.” Blunstone’s longing whisper cries out for solace: “Hey you know, you are love to me, you hold everything like a child for me. And I think of you and your funny ways, that sweet summer smile on your lovely face. And I love you, you are love to me.” This poor guy has not only had his heart broken, he may never recover.

“I Can’t Live Without You” makes full use of the string section, who saw and pluck away with leaping delight, adding a coda straight from a Masterpiece Theater parlor farce. The heartache continues to lift with “Let Me Come Closer To You” in which Blunstone also employs a subdued horn section. The CD ends with “Say You Don’t Mind,” written by former Moody Blues lead singer and future Wings guitarist Denny “Go Now” Laine. The strings swing with good-natured authority, and the song ends with Blunstone nailing one of those reach-for-the-sky high notes that few singers can hit effectively. It’s fitting, triumphant ending to a career making success.

Even if it takes you 365 days to locate a copy of “One Year” on CD, it’s worth it. Put it in the CD player and close you eyes – this is what beautiful music should sound like.

Posted May 18, 2007 Permalink

The Doors CDs Remastered

Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

Classic rock icons don’t fade away – they just get remastered. For the second time in recent history, six of The Doors’ best-selling albums have been remodeled by Rhino Records. The remixed albums were supervised by the surviving Doors and Bruce Botnick, their long-time engineer. The new versions add background vocals and spoken snippets by Jim Morrison and discarded piano asides and guitar parts from Ray Manzarek and Robbie Krieger. Most notably, drummer John Densmore’s percussive talents are more up front in the mix, and listeners will be surprised how good the silent, surly stickman was.

The Doors
Waiting For the Sun 4.5 out of 5 stars

The album took some heat for being less edgy than the band’s previous two efforts – (in the case of the melodramatic and downright bizarre “Strange Days” that’s a good thing), but many of the tunes on “Waiting For the Sun” remain part of The Doors FM radio legacy. Ironically, the title track wouldn’t appear on an album until “Morrison Hotel,” and Morrison’s epic mini rock opera “Celebration of the Lizard,” which was supposed take up the entire second side of the album, was scratched because the group couldn’t wrestle it into shape.

“Hello, I Love You” was written about Morrison’s fascination with a black girl at the beach (“Do you hope to make her see you move? Do you hope to pluck this dusky jewel?” No lie, he calls her dusky.) With Morrison is in full drool mode, Krieger making his guitar solo sound like a boomerang and Manzarek patting lightly at his keys like a man dancing in the hot sand, “Hello, I Love You” wraps up all your pleasant memories of summer in 2:40.

Krieger, Manzarek and Densmore combine to make “Love Street” sound like a scenic stroll in the sunshine, while Morrison’s lyrics show he preferred to walk on the wild side: “She has robes and she has monkeys, lazy diamond studded flunkies. She has wisdom and knows what to do. She has me and she has you.”

There are two pairs of songs on “Waiting For the Sun” that function as mirror images of one another. The soft, cozy “Summer’s Almost Gone” plays into the disappointment that the best time of the year is about to end (and it’s the third of four songs that feed into the waiting for the sun theme. Get it?). Krieger’s low, moaning solo stands out, as does Manzarek’s placid keyboard work. Winter has seldom sounded as inviting as it does in “Wintertime Love,” a ballad with hints of a Russian waltz. Whenever Morrison chose to drop his poet/anarchist façade he could be a charmer, as “Wintertime Love’ and “Yes, The River Knows” prove. The two other songs that bookend one another, “Spanish Caravan” and “My Wild Love” expose the Doors’ music to more exotic textures.

“Spanish Caravan” opens with Krieger displaying a strong grasp of Flamenco guitar, while Manzarek’s keyboards swirl like an exuberant gypsy dancing around a camp fire. “My Wild Love” is a strangely intriguing piece; a chanting Morrison leads a moaning back drop of singers that resemble a cross between flagellating monks and a galley crew powering their ship. The music is sparse – Morrison and the monks are accompanied by what sounds like a whip and a speaker full of angry rattlesnakes shaking their tales. “My Wild Love” is a distant cousin to a spaghetti western soundtrack, not unlike “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly,” but there’s no light here, only menace, and it’s stunning.

Even if The Doors have nothing to say, they can often find an intriguing way to hold your interest. A case in point is “We Could Be So Good Together.” There’s an energetic solo from Krieger and intuitive drumming from Densmore, which serve to hide the fact that the title is actually the sum total of what Morrison has to say.

Given the era the album was recorded (Vietnam was edging into full overkill), “The Unknown Soldier” is one of Morrison’s pessimistic visions of the world that was stunningly on point then and is just as poignant today. Densmore plays the role of drummer boy, laying down a patriotic marching beat as the rest of the group acts out a mock execution. Whoever was hanging around the studio was “drafted” to be part of the mock firing squad. Morrison plays the role of martyr to the hilt.

“Not To Touch The Earth” is one of the few salvageable pieces from Morrison’s misguided magnum opus, “Celebration of the Lizard.” Manzarek’s organ sizzles like a dozen eggs in a frying pan – Jim Morrison, this is your brain on booze. The band employs a nifty trick when Morrison intones “Run with me,” as Densmore turns the beat into a foot race and Krieger’s guitar imitates a man fleeing for his life.

The overtly romantic “Yes, the River Knows” is Morrison the crooner; the Lizard King as a romantic. Morrison’s voice is remarkably strong, steady, and unforgettable. Densmore’s shuffling beat, Krieger’s innocent solo and guest bassist Doug Lubahan’s thick runs frame Morrison’s lonesome plea: “Please believe me, the river told me, very softly, want you to hold me.” Not surprisingly, the exposed heartache and sentiment in the song didn’t come from Morrison, who was loathed to be perceived as weak; “Yes, the River Knows,” flowed from the prolific pen of Robbie Krieger.

By now Morrison and Densmore were barely on speaking terms. Morrison found Densmore to be humorless and square. Densmore thought Morrison was reckless, irresponsible and a drunken idiot. Both men were right and neither was giving a scintilla. But they could occasionally channel their disgust for one another into a classic, and the closer “Five to One” is one of those moments. Densmore hammers out a lethal beat and bassist Lubahan feeds off it as Morrison assumes a predatory stance: “Five to one baby, one in five, no one here gets out alive.” Another comment on Vietnam? Or was Morrison commenting on the group itself?

“Waiting For the Sun” may have cracked the group’s tough punk poet façade, but it established them as legitimate songwriters commenting on something other than the bulge in their Levi’s. While Krieger, Densmore and Manzarek flourished, Morrison thumbed his nose at respectability calling “Waiting For The Sun” and its follow-up “The Soft Parade” sell outs. If this was selling out, then The Doors should have surrendered sooner.

Waiting for the Bonuses

“Waiting For the Sun” features three attempts at “Not To Touch the Earth” and a seventeen minute rendering of “The Celebration of the Lizard.” Notice I said rendering, which, if I’m not mistaken is what you do with freshly killed meat. And you’ll feel like road kill if you can sit through Morrison’s peyote sucking bad trip. Morrison was one of those rare hit or miss geniuses, and this is as big a whiff as a blind man swinging at a knuckleball.

The Soft Parade 4 out of 5 stars

By the time the Doors entered the studio for “The Soft Parade,” Morrison and Krieger, whose songs had carried the first three albums, were bereft of ideas. Morrison was too busy living the life of a debauched poet. Now drunk most of the time, he rebelled against his rock god tag by getting fleshy and growing a beard that made him look like a rock and roll version of Grizzly Adams. It was up to producer Paul Rothchild to push the band, and he was behind the idea to flesh out The Doors’ sound by adding horns and strings. The band protested from the first note to the last, and upon its release “The Soft Parade” was criticized by Doors purists as Las Vegas lounge music and for being well, soft. The Doors previous albums had been honed by gigs in the smoke filled bars of L.A.; “Soft Parade”’s songs were written in the studio, untested by the criticism of a live audience. But in hindsight Rothchild was right. The road-weary band needed something to invigorate its sound, even if it came from outside musicians.

“Tell All the People” lets you know the experiment is in full swing. The horns burst as Morrison proclaims: “Tell all the people that you see, follow me, follow me down.” Morrison articulates Krieger’s lyrics like a confident cult figure (which he was), urging his flock to follow him down to the river for a baptismal – (although at this point in his career, Morrison was more likely to ask fans to follow him down to a bar).

There are two schools of thought as to how Robbie Krieger came up with “Touch Me.” Engineer Bruce Botnick suggests in the liner notes that the original version, entitled “I’m Gonna Love You” was inspired by a game of poker (“C’mon, C’mon, hit me baby”). Morrison biographer Stephen Davis claims the song was created after Krieger and his girlfriend got into an argument and she challenged him to hit her. (He did.) “Touch Me” is one of the Door’s most instantly recognizable staples of radio with its galloping introduction, burly horn section and dancing strings. The way Morrison’s deep, rich voice locks into the arrangement you’d never know he fought the idea of having horns on the album. Given a few bars to fill, the late Curtis Amy blasts his most memorable solo. “Touch Me” is, as the last line says, “Stronger than dirt.”

“Shaman’s Blues” is a platform for Morrison’s threatening holy man baritone and Krieger’s equally creepy guitar. Krieger wraps his guitar around Morrison’s deep vocal as if strangling the words out of the singer – who’s enjoying his macabre dance of death with Krieger. “Do It” is a rambling Morrison/Krieger mantra (“Please, please listen to the children”) rescued by Manzarek and Densmore‘s inventive playing -- check out Densmore and Krieger’s wocka-wocka guitar/percussion bit at the end of the verses. Morrison’s “Easy Ride” is the album’s only tune that’s out of step with the rest of the parade. Its country carnival atmosphere and breezy approach stamp it as filler. “Runnin’ Blue,” which surfaces later, uses a similar hoedown approach but doesn’t take itself as seriously. Manzerek’s big-top organ playing makes “Easy Ride” a great candidate for when the clown car pulls up at the circus; but not for the likes of the Lizard King.

Krieger’s opening guitar riff to “Wild Child” is he the pappy to Morrison Hotel’s “Roadhouse Blues,” gritty, with plenty of rambunctious attitude. Densmore’s drums are more upfront and he layers the song with a heavyweight beat. Krieger’s “Wishful Sinful” is buoyed by brisk strings that match Morrison’s emotions, descending when he drops his voice and rising to meet his rush of emotion.

“Runnin’ Blue” is a tribute to Otis Redding (“Poor Otis dead and gone, left me here to sing his song. Pretty little girl with the red dress on, poor Otis dead and gone.”) Given Morrison’s alleged aversion to black people (which I believe to be bunk since he hated everybody), it’s a pleasant surprise to hear Krieger take on part of the vocal chores, even if he does sing like Don Knotts. “Runnin’ Blue” is a flippant barnyard sing-a-long in the midst of some very heady material.

“…When I was back there in seminary school there was a person who put forth the proposition that you can petition the Lord with prayer…Petition the Lord with prayer…YOU CANNOT PETITION THE LORD WITH PRAYER!” Morrison’s fuming spoken (and shouted) intro to the title tune is verbose, befitting this cavalcade of styles that follow. Morrison was so frustrated with the role of rock star by now (and by the album’s direction) that he frequently arrived so drunk he was unable to complete a session, so producer Rothchild virtually assembled the album -- and this song in particular -- splicing together various takes. (Yes assembled many of their best known classics, such as “Close to the Edge,” “The Gates of Delirium,” and “South Side of the Sky,” by recording sections separately, then piecing them together, but they did so seamlessly.) “Soft Parade” has some highs – Morrison’s dirge-like baroque intro set against Manzarek’s harpsichord, and the last third of the song, powered by Densmore’s tasty tom-tom effects. The song also has some low points, such as Morrison’s disconnected, electrical banana observations (“Catacombs, nursery-bones, winter women throwing stones, carrying babies to the river…Streets and shoes, avenues, Leather riders selling news. The monk bought lunch!”). The new remix offers an additional vocal snippet from Morrison. The title track can be a frustrating trip, but with bits of rock, funk, psychedelia and classical all stirred together, there’s bound to be a section or two of the song you’ll like and wish there was more of.

“Soft Parade” made a drunk out of Jim Morrison and The Doors into a rock version of E.F. Hutton – when they performed, everyone listened.

A Parade of Bonus Tracks

The remastered version of “Soft Parade” picks up six bonus tracks. “Touch Me (dialogue)” is actually about Densmore touching his snare and his worrying whether or not his having moved it will affect the recording. Listening to Densmore speak you begin to understand why he and Morrison didn’t get along – Densmore was not a patient man and he didn’t suffer fools. His exasperation at not being heard by the engineer (that would be young Botnick) is apparent. “Touch Me (Take 3)” has a longer ending, and bassist Doug Lubahan takes a few more liberties than he does in the final version. “Push Push” is a Manzarek led instrumental credited to The Doors, but Morrison and Krieger are no where within ear shot. A cross between “La Bamba” and The Charlie Brown theme, its okay for two minutes, but not for six. “Who Scared You” is another rare Morrison/Krieger composition that sounds like a work in progress. The group hasn’t decided yet how to bridge the gap between Krieger’s radio friendly arrangement and Morrison’s angry diatribes. “Whiskey, Mystics and Men” gets two run throughs. Morrison leads the band through the first while translating the music in his head; the band chimes in with a Hungarian inspired backdrop that’s a cross between Mary Hopkin’s “Those Were the Days” and their own “My Wild Love.” They took a second, harder stab at it before wisely banishing it to the vaults.

L.A. Woman 4 out of 5 stars

For their seventh, and unbeknownst to them, final album with Jim Morrison, The Doors did the unthinkable: they knowingly invited other musicians to be part of their creative process. When producer Paul Rothchild did it for “The Soft Parade” the band nearly hung him in effigy. Now it seemed like a good idea because they’d thought of it. Mark Benno, who’d teamed up with Oakie piano player Leon Russell for two albums, joined on rhythm guitar and Elvis Presley veteran Jerry Scheff was recruited to play bass. They also lost Rothchild, who was tired of baby sitting Morrison and felt the group’s sound had degenerated into “cocktail jazz.” Bruce Botnick would take over as producer. His first decision was for the group to record their new album the same way they recorded their first; in a comfortable, low tech studio with few overdubs. The Doors responded, recording “L.A. Woman” in six days.

“The Changeling” lets you know that Morrison is locked in. He grunts and struts, encouraging the anarchy around him: “I’m a changeling, see me change. I’m the air you breathe, the food you eat.” When Morrison lets out a belly full of “SEE ME CHANGE!” sounding as if he’s being torn from the inside out, you’ll be glad you weren’t there to see whatever horror the bearded one was morphing into. Intimidating, angry and inspired, “The Changeling” catches Morrison with his voice and middle finger raised in defiance.

Krieger continued his streak of compact accessible rock hits with “Love Her Madly.” Morrison is guttural and nearly chokes on the lyric, “Don’t you love her madly, wanna meet her daddy,” but Manzarek shines with a lively organ solo.

The droop-a-long blues of “The Cars Hiss By My Window” is an inspired fit for Morrison’s world-weary methadone delivery and Krieger’s floor board-tapping electric Delta blues. Morrison is in a comfort zone with the song’s grimy atmosphere, scatting through the last verse like an alley cat on the prowl. The subject matter gets seamier with “L.A. Woman.” Morrison’s observations flash by faster than his Mustang used to in the California hills (“Cops in cars, topless bars, never seen a woman so alone”). Densmore is the engine driving the beat in third gear, and Manzarek works all 88 keys, at one point borrowing the melody from Blood, Sweat and Tears’ “Overture.” “L.A. Woman” nearly strips gears in the middle when Morrison slows things down to remind everyone its his party, churning out his personal manta, “Mr. Mojo risin’” in half a dozen dampening ways, until Densmore takes the beat back in his capable hands.

Conversely, “L’America” is a twitchy, preachy bore. Morrison stumble through his ugly American imagery, his flat voice slamming against Densmore’s Bataan death march beat. This America should be deported.

“Crawling King Snake” is the lesser of two blues tunes, but Morrison still has plenty of venom in his vocal and Krieger’s sharp, lightning-fast solos have artistic bite. Manzarek plunks out some hard-core blues on the electric piano and Densmore beats his kit as if he’s trying to exterminate every reptile within a five mile radius.

“Hyacinth House” features one of Morrison’s deepest, most guttural vocals. An unnerving ballad, Manzarek’s contrasting solo is opulent and Krieger pops in out of the Morrison’s somber imagery with quick tuneful bursts. Morrison’s voice is as thick as mulch and twice as rich, capturing the narrator’s feelings of frustration and betrayal. “I need a brand new friend who doesn’t bother me. I need a brand new friend who doesn’t worry me. I need someone, who doesn’t need me.”

“The W.A.S.P. (Texas Radio and the Big Beat)” is an interesting listen, but it’s a thinly veiled novelty song. Morrison was a great singer, but was a scattergun poet, capable of vivid imagery (such as “The Crystal Ship,” or “The Unknown Soldier”) but could be sophomorically inept, (such as “Horse Latitudes” or “Celebration of the Lizard”). It’s the music that makes “The W.A.S.P” listenable, when Morrison raps about the music rising cool and slow, Manzarek revs up his Hammond that approximates a thick fog rising from a swamp. Scheff’s bass thuds alongside Densmore’s knock-wood beat, but ultimately Morrison’s lunk-headed observations take the sting out of “The W.A.S.P.”

“Riders on the Storm,” the last song Morrison ever recorded with the band, and appropriately the last song on the original album, is imbued with the sense of mystery and foreboding the bearded one sought to project. Morrison whispers part of his vocal like a sinister narrator from a horror film, and when he sings his bellowing tones bring to mind a hanging judge pronouncing a death sentence. Schiff’s bass rolls like a hearse in a fog as Dens more provides the horsepower with a steady beat in the background. Nice send off, Jumbo.

Bonus Tracks
“L.A. Woman” sports two bonus tracks. Manzarek gives the listening audience a taste of what was to come on the Morrison-less “Other Voices” album when he takes the lead on “(You Need Meat) Don’t go No Further”: “You need money go to the bank dear, you need honey look to the bee. If you need loving, well I’m your doctor; I might have the prescription for what you need.” With its lazy, loafing arrangement, and with plenty of breathing space for a beat poet, the abandoned “Orange County Suite” needed striking lyrics from Morrison. Instead we get Morrison doing an imitation of Dick Shawn’s hippy-dippy character LSD in “The Producers”: “I used to know someone fair, she had ribbons in her hair. She was such a trip, she was hardly even there.” Suite its not.

The Doors Are Open…The Rest of The Remasters
Rhino has done it again, making The Doors CDs a worthy investment with bonus and unreleased material and liner notes by rock writers Ben Fong-Torres, Paul Williams, David Fricke and others that offer new insights into the band 30 years down the road.

The Doors (4 out of 5 stars) was an impressive debut with the anthemic “Light My Fire,” the dreamy “Crystal Ship,” and an animalistic take on “Back Door Man.” “I Looked At You is jaunty and “Twentieth Century Fox” still packs a lascivious punch even in the twenty-first century. “End of the Night” is more dated than the other material, but Manzarek’s hair-raising keyboards and Krieger’s trippy guitar give it an enticing feel that will feed any buried perversions you may have. Without the visuals from “Apocalypse Now” “The End” is simply an ugly look at Morrison’s Oedipus complex – a long, ugly look. The remastered CD includes early versions of “Moonlight Mile” and “Indian Summer.” “The Doors” is a good launching pad for Doors neophytes, but Doors returnees need to keep one thing in mind. According to Botnick, the album and CD versions we’ve been listening to since 1967 ran too slowly (!). That problem has now been “corrected,” so be prepared for the faster pace.

Morrison Hotel (3.5 out of 5 stars) was the group’s return to “basics” after the horn-dominated “Soft Parade.” It picks up 9 bonus tracks, including “Carol,’ and “Money Beats Soul.” “Hotel” includes the shimmering “Waiting For The Sun;” Krieger’s guitar boogieing on the political “Peace Frog” coupled with Morrison’s supple ballad “Blue Sunday;” the dirt-between-your fingers-funk of “Maggie M’Gill;” “You Make Me Real,” a Morrison raver; and the bluesy “Roadhouse Blues,” featuring The Loving Spoonful’s John Sebastian on harp. The album drags a bit behind the bombast of “Land Ho!” the lazy saloon piano plinking on “The Spy,” the sonically beautiful but meaningless “Indian Summer,” and Morrison’s noncommittal performance on “Queen of the Highway,” but the rest of the songs are worth booking a stay at the Morrison Hotel.

Strange Days (2 out of 5 stars) should have called “Dark Days.” The Doors second album is partly mean as a junkyard dog, but mostly just junk. The overworked “When The Music Is Over” is “The End” part two with Morrison off on another the world’s going to hell jag, while “Strange Days” and “Unhappy Girl” never engage. “You’re Lost Little Girl” is disturbing enough to be memorable, and “My Eyes Have Seen You” is Morrison in a stalker mode. The band let Morrison loose for “Horse Latitudes,” and should have been horse whipped. Morrison tries to sound like Moses on the mountain top as he pontificates behind the sound effects of strong winds and bullwhips. Morrison was dynamic, self-destructive, conflicted belligerent drunk and his lyrics sometimes blended in well with the music. But “Horse Latitudes” is a perfect example of what to write if you don’t want to get published. There are some great Doors classics trapped on the album, “Moonlight Drive,” with some of Krieger’s best fills, the unsettling honky tonk ditty “People Are Strange,” and the raw snarl of “Love Me Two Times,” but overall, “Strange Days” is too uneven for its own good.

Unfortunately, the reissue program skips the surprisingly creative and entertaining “Open Voices” album (3 ½ stars) that Krieger, Manzarek and Densmore made as The Doors in following Morrison’s death. Luckily, the abysmal “Absolutely Live,” (1/2 star) was omitted. With the exception of the first tune, (a cover of “Who Do You Love?” with Krieger’s playing the guitar like a live snake -- and he’s out to strangle it) “Absolutely Live” is absolutely D.O.A. The Doors needed a lot more than Densmore to hold down the store. Krieger is a superb soloist, but doesn’t do much to fill the cavern of leftover empty space, and Manzarek’s Farfisa sounds sickly. These guys needed a second guitarist to play rhythm live and Hammond organ instead something that sounds as if it should be in a freak show. Most of all they needed a bassist; Manzarek can barely play his own parts, let alone try to keep up his end of the rhythm. As if to further douse the possibilities of a passable live document, The Doors perform Morrison’s odious “Celebration of the Lizard,” which is about as long and certainly as indulgent as “In A Gadda Da Vida” At least Morrison sounded sober.

Many years ago, a song entitled “Calm Before the Storm” by an artist known as “The Phantom” rekindled rumors that Jim Morrison had faked his own death and was back in the studio. The mysterious artist sounded so much like Morrison he was given a voice test, which, much to the dismay of Morrisonites, he failed. If you’re desperate for a dose of The Lizard King, it might as well be with as many revealing extras and outtakes as a CD can handle. The Doors reissues prove you can indeed petition the Lord with prayer.

Posted May 9, 2007 Permalink

Sasha and Shawna - Siren

Sasha and Shawna Siren 3 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

According to Greek mythology, a siren was a half woman, half mermaid creature whose intoxicating beauty and voice could lure a sailor to his death. Sasha Lazard and Shawna Stone, two operatic, photogenic uber blondes are the modern day equivalent. Sometimes, such as when they’re reinventing James Taylor or Kansas, you’ll feel as if you’ve died and gone to Valhalla (the Norse heaven, not the town in Westchester County). At other times, particularly when they sing opera and blare like air raid sirens, you’ll feel like one of those poor sailors whose vessel has run aground in shark infested waters.

Much will undoubtedly be made of the ladies looks. It’s unavoidable. Shawna alone will cause many an adolescent to stop by the CD racks and consider purchasing “Siren” without hearing a note. Beauty, brains, and they can sing too? Seems unfair. You might excuse their over reliance on creaky opera standards in exchange for the fetching photos on the CD (and you can bet that’s what the marketing department is hoping for), but when Sasha and Shawna lend their classically trained voices to modern material, it becomes immaterial that they look they stepped out the pages of Penthouse. They can truly sing.

Seasoned Sasha Lazard attended the San Francisco Conservatory of Music studying opera, but was equally attracted to the area’s electronic-influenced music scene. She released her classical/dance debut “The Myth of Red” in 2000, following up in 2005 with “Moonfall,” which leaned toward a more acoustic sound. Stunning Shawna Stone studied voice at the University of California and has appeared on stage in theaters on the West Coast. Add producer Peter Asher to the mix (who was part of the 60s duo Peter & Gordon and produced James Taylor’s magnum opus “Sweet Baby James”) and you’ve got an efficient team.

Get out the chamomile tea for “Fade Out,” which actually fades in on a bed of harps and tinkling piano. Its seraph music, quiet, elegant, very much in tune with The October Project or Renaissance, even though it’s a Radiohead song (!). The Sirens luxuriant vocals are in prefect contrast to the swirling, intimidating strings and dark lyrics: “Rows of houses are bearing down on me. I can feel their blue hands touching me. All these things are into position, all these things we’ll one day swallow whole, and fade, fade out, out again, and fade, fade out.” The duo does the unspeakable, blending opera with pop in “Perte/For You” a John Denver son sung partially in Italian. The more experienced Sasha powers up an impressive vibrato, and the ladies’ harmonies make Denver’s typically weak lyrics appealing, although the “Per Te” section does sound a bit too close to Abba’s “Fernando” for comfort.

“I Know It’s Real” has Disney fantasy all over it, perfect for a “Cinderella” or “Beauty and the Beast” soundtrack, and the ladies glide through it with the vocal wattage of Celine Dion. The production is wholesome (thanks, Peter) and the orchestra is prominent but not dominant. There’s a lot of mush about wanting to be in their lover’s arms and being together forever. In less accomplished hands the lyrics would sound tired and hackneyed, but having perfectly trained voices can make sappy sentiment sound important and meaningful. Pubescent would-be romantics will dig the sentiment without knowing what it all means, but “I Know It’s Real” is also perfect for couples looking to rekindle the brush fire of love.

Kansas’ “Dust in the Wind” is one of songs anyone with a sense for the dramatic can pull off. And who better to give it a shot than two opera singers? Sasha tackles her vocal in a more traditional manner – good thing there aren’t any R’s in the lyrics or she’d be rolling them like Henry Higgins giving Liza Doolittle an elocution lesson. Sasha comes off as being a bit stiff, too high society, but when Shawna joins in they sound like proud birds in gilded cages, challenging and bending notes at will. This version won’t knock the original by Kansas off of the radio, but it’s a pleasurable listen, with credible guitar work by Esteban sound-alike Tommy Emmanuel.

Another highlight, the extraordinary “Stabat Mater IXXI” follows. The Sirens sound like mystic Egyptian high priestesses casting a spell. Its music to belly dance by, a combination of the somber menace of Dead Can Dance brewed together with third world rhythms. “Sleep Song” takes the music to the shores of Ireland with Uillean pipes conjuring up visions of the fog rising off the heather. The folky, traditional approach suits the Sirens reverent approach, and they even manage to survive lines like “Looli loo li loo li lai lay” (must be an alternate translation for “tura lura li”) with their dignity in tact.

“Una Furtiva Lagrima” is pure opera and pure hooey. There hasn’t been this much Italian conveyed in such a threatening manner since Il Duce took Ethiopia. Get some opera glasses for this one – that way no one will know you’re asleep unless you snore (and snore you will). “O Del Mio Dolce” is another night at the opera, a slice of respectability that proves the Sirens have a pedigree – but nobody likes a show off. “Time (Air on the G-String)” by Bach is pop opera with a lot of tasteful, but showy warbling. Unfortunately the G-string the title refers to is not mandatory apparel for the Sirens, but seems to have something to do with the Chris Squire-like electric bass played by Larry Klein.

Sting’s “Fields of Gold” was hardly an essential tune when he penned it, but its pompous blarney is a good fit for the Sirens respectful format and makes a case for a remake outstripping the original. “One Simple Wish” is a return to Disney fantasy pop with the Sirens polished harmonies set against the abundant string section. The lyrics are bit trite (“One simple wish to carry me through, I trust my secret is safe with you”) but the ladies voices will draw you in. (Hey, they really are sirens).

James Taylor’s “You Can Close Your Eyes” is an excellent capper to the CD. (Kudos to Taylor producer Asher for recognizing the song’s potential.) Opera meets folk head on and there are no casualties. The voices twist and blend together like streams meeting in a refreshing pool. There’s a slight credibility issue when the Sirens purse their lips, claiming “I can’t sing the blues no more” – ‘cause you know the only blues they’ve got is their blue blood – but they do know how to sound enticing, and if you’ve been paying attention, that’s what sirens do.

Although it’s a little uneven in spots (leave the night at the opera stuff for the Marx Brothers), Sasha and Shawna’s maiden voyage is often as vexing as the front cover of their CD suggests. When these Sirens wail sailor, sit back, relax, and enjoy the voyage.

Posted May 7, 2007 Permalink