This month there’s lots of great stuff to cover, from an eclectic compendium of a country legend to a few under the radar artists worthy of more press. I’m even stepping out a bit and covering a book about one of the most important bands this continent has ever spawned. So kick back and let’s dive in together. As always I welcome and enjoy your feedback so feel free to email me at jjcassara@aol.com with your own thoughts and suggests. What are YOU listening to these days?
Buck Owens
Buck ‘Em! The Music of Buck Owens (1955-1967)
Omnivore Records
This double-disc set is hardly your typical collection, but rather a hybrid assortment of non album singles (lovingly restored to their original mono state), live cuts, outtakes, radio station promos, and other rarities. As such it paints a far more interesting portrait of Owens’ most experimental and rewarding period than would your usual best of.
1955 through 1967 were his prime years, and Buck ‘Em! gives us the other side of that well documented coin. There are hits aplenty among the fifty tracks included here but they’re nearly all different versions than the ones you’re probably familiar with: “I’ve Got A Tiger By The Tail,” “Love’s Gonna Live Here,” “Second Fiddle,” “I Don’t Care (Just as Long as You Love Me),” and “Before You Go” are all in glorious mono, while an early live version of “Act Naturally” shows how Buck and the band road tested their material before heading into the studio.
While there is many a Buck Owens collection readily available-some essential and others clearly not-this is one of the few to really explore the years prior to his signing with Capitol Records and creating what is today widely known as the “Bakersfield Sound.” It’s a wonderfully revealing look at Owens the rockabilly rebel and honky tonk hipster (long before the word entered into our mainstream lexicon).
By the end of the period covered here Owens had become a superstar, and while some deride the hambone era of Hee Haw, which made him a television fixture to some and a laughing stock to others, I’ll go on record as having a tender spot for those years as well. Buck ‘Em! The Music of Buck Owens (1955-1967) may leave off a few of the hits and is clearly not intended for the casual Buck Owens fan. But the musical diversions and round about tunes it contains are a vital and fascinating part of a much larger quilt. ****
John Mayall
A Special Life
Forty Below Records
The widely recognized “Godfather of the British Blues” is now into his sixth decade as a touring musician and bandleader, and while his days as a true innovator may be past-he is after all 80 years old-he remains a force for the blues, an itinerant and consummate troubadour whose primary role is no longer as mentor to younger musicians (Clapton, Mick Taylor, Peter Green) but more likely ambassador to a generation of listeners. Over the course of his career Mayall has continually expanded the boundaries of the Blues, ranging from gutbucket acoustic to country tinged and jazz infused, but he’s never really strayed too far from his roots.
He’s certainly slowed down a bit-as have all of us-but he still releases records at a steady rate, continuing to refine and build upon his legacy. A Special Life is his first studio recording in four years and the second to feature his current touring band of Rocky Athas (guitar), Greg Rzab (bass) and drummer Jay Davenport. It also guest features Cajun singer and accordion player Clifton Chenier on a pair of tracks that rank among its finest.
The formula is typical Mayall: A pair of classic Blues numbers (with Albert King’s “Floodin’ in California” the stronger of the two) and several Mayall originals, most of which hit a groove, maintain it, and tend to be lyrically predictable and the expected drawn out jam. It’s interspersed with piercing harmonica solos (Mayall remains a master of the instrument), rollicking piano fills, and Athas’ sublime guitar playing. Chenier’s “Why Did You Go Last Night” is the one true highlight, anchored by a series of shuffling accordion swells, and while much of A Special Life seems like old hat to Mayall that’s not really the point.
At this stage in the game anyone still paying attention to his career must love and appreciate the man and his music, and nothing here is going to change that. It may be run of the mill Mayall (although “World Gone Crazy,” his attack on religious fanaticism and the violence its propagates, is pretty heady stuff) but it’s the sort of down the center Blues that he’s done since 1964 and of which no one has yet to do better. ***1/2
Randy Jackson
Empathy for the Walrus
Red River Entertainment
Neither a former American Idol judge (the pleasant one who seemed to like people) nor a member of the Jackson Five, this Randy Jackson is a skillful musician with some pretty impressive credentials.
As front man for the multi-platinum ‘80s band The Zebras, Jackson had a brief brush with genuine fame, and over the years, he’s worked with members of the original Jefferson Airplane and other well known names. He’s also a hard core Beatles fan; like many of his generation it was the music of John, Paul, George, and Ringo that set him on his way.
Empathy for the Walrus is Jackson’s low key and loving tribute to the Fab Four. His straight ahead interpretations of Beatle songs, ranging from the best known (“Norwegian Wood”) to the relatively obscure (“Free As A Bird”) reinforce what we already knew: That the band’s airtight songwriting and arrangements are damn near impossible to mess up and are still far ahead of their time.
Jackson’s voice leans decidedly more towards John than Paul-which explains why seven of the ten songs here are generally associated with Lennon-while his guitar playing is supple and skilled enough to compensate for the lack of orchestral arrangements so essential to the original recordings. He wisely keeps things simple (why mess with a great thing?) and his love of the music comes through loud and clear.
It all adds up to an album that pays homage to the greatest band ever while bringing back memories that have long since become part of our psychic blueprint. Even if you know every Beatle song by heart, and can readily conjure up even the most nuanced aspect of their songs, Empathy for the Walrus is still a worthwhile addition to your shelf. ****
Cyndi Harvell
Heartache and Revolution
Songstress Cyndi Harvell is the type of artist who drives music journalists crazy, and I mean that in a very good way. For those who crave easy categorization Harvell presents a dilemma of the nicest sort; she’s nominally grouped with other pop/rock females but there’s far more to her music than that.
Heartache and Revolution, her third album and far away the most accomplished, is ample evidence of the stylistic range Harvell so readily summons. There’s plenty of Bangles styled effervescent pop, some straight ahead rock (“Avalanche”), more than a bit of country, and even a sampling of gorgeous baroque balladry (“Moonsweeper”).
That level of confidence, and the talent to make such genre hopping seem entirely consistent, is part of what separates Harvell from the many other gifted voices out there. She also writes some of the most literate and catchiest tunes to be heard. Having recently located to Los Angeles, I see Harvell as filling the void left when Sheryl Crow moved back to Nashville.
She might not have the sheer gravitas that Crow brings to the table-and she sure as heck doesn’t have the budget-but as the album opener, “Flood” aptly demonstrates she’s no slouch in the vocal chops department.
Mid tempo rockers (“Burn the House Down” and “Backyard Dreams”) seem her strong suit but even a lighter weight number such as “Crazy Glue” is irresistibly jaunty. Heartache and Revolution might not set new standards but it constantly pushes the limits of those it embraces, and does so with a style and flair that makes it this month’s most surprising listen. ****
Johnny Beauford
A Pig Eating Past Love
St. Cait Records
There is something immediately likeable about the EP format, the notion of an artist choosing half a dozen, give or take, of their best new songs and sending them out to the world. It lessens the pressure of releasing a full length album and allows the performer to assemble a package that (in theory) showcases only their best stuff.
Let’s face it; physical albums are no longer a major source of income for any artist, so why even bother? Why not just kick out a few select tunes, hit the road, and hopefully sell a few copies at the shows? It’s a solid plan and one that works best for working musicians such as Johnny Beauford. Best known for fronting the Dallas rock band Bravo, Max! Beauford may be solidly rooted in North Texas but his sound is more broadly cast, owing as much to the Greenwich Village ruminations of Artie Traum than the dusty road weariness of Townes Van Zandt.
Oft covered by other musicians, he splits his time between band and solo work, and spends at least 200 days a year on tour. The oddly named A Pig Eating Past Love (I have no idea what that refers to) is a lo-fidelity gem, a minimalist straight ahead romp that Beauford recorded almost entirely on his own.
Between “Firefly,” which highlights his low growl to perfection, or the Springsteen like throwaway “Little Dance,” there’s a bit of something for everything. The title track is the longest and most adventurous song here, backed with cacophonous percussion and distorted yet oddly affecting vocals.
“S Is For Schizophrenia,” with its catchy hooks and harmonies belying the undercurrent of the subject matter even sounds like some lost Robyn Hitchcock effort. All in all A Pig Eating Past Love is a concise and delightful listen, a snapshot of a talented artist of whom I was unfamiliar, an ideal complement to a quiet afternoon. ***1/2
The Band: Pioneers of Americana Music
Written by Craig Harris
Rowan and Littlefield Press, 214 pgs.
Author Craig Harris was an insider with The Band, both chronicling their later years as a behind the scenes photographer and as a performing musician with various members and offshoot alliances of the group. As an educator, Harris has a master’s degree in music and has taught in a variety of school settings. As such he seems the ideal candidate to add to the tomes written by and about one of the greatest and most significant ensembles North America has ever produced: Which sets the bar unfairly high for this generally well researched and engaging volume. It also makes the book’s faults, readily balanced by a treasure trove of details and revelations, all the more glaring.
Harris opens the book in unique fashion, jumping ahead to The Band’s initial coupling with Bob Dylan-and the equal parts triumphant and catastrophic 1966 tour that ensued-and delving backwards into their origins and influences. It’s here the book shines, as Harris examines with a scholar’s acuity the burgeoning folk scene that brought Dylan and The Band together, as well as the collective musical strands they shared.
Few realize that Dylan never really “went electric.” He started out as a Little Richard wannabe (piano was his first real instrument of choice), fell under the spell of Woody Guthrie and the protest movement, and eventually reawakened his rock and roll roots when the burden of being “the voice of a generation” became too much to bear.
Harris’ examination of the folk era; from early 19th century giants such as Harry “Haywire Mac” McClintock, to 1940s era The Weavers, up to and including the initial days of the pivotal uptown Manhattan folk scene, are fluid and fascinating. Ample space is deservedly given over to Pete Seeger as Harris spins a series of amusing anecdotes, including one that took place here in Asheville. Chapter Two explores The Band’s nascent years as backing hellions for Ronnie Hawkins (The Hawk!), circles back to Dylan and Woodstock (the town, not the concert) and the fabled Basement Tapes.
The rest of the book covers their peak years of fame, fortune, and substance abuse-a period which has already been scrupulously detailed and to which Harris adds little-along with the post Last Waltz era of solo work, aborted reunions and the tragic suicide of Richard Manual and drug addicted decline of Rick Danko.
The ongoing feud over publishing rights, which bankrupted Danko, Manual, Levon Helm, and Garth Hudson, while making Robbie Robertson a rich and detested man, is also attended to in some needed depth. In this, Harris wisely takes no sides, but the quotes from various members speak for themselves. It’s a tragic tale of ego, greed, and misplaced trust.
There are already two seminal books about The Band: Barney Hoskyn’s near perfect Across the Great Divide and Helm’s own (co-written with Stephen Davis) This Wheel’s On Fire. Both paint a more complete and compelling picture of The Band while Harris’ entry-perhaps due to his closeness to the subject-is partly academic and partly observational without being fully successful as either. It also contains a number of egregious errors that undercut its importance.
An early section misspells the last name of film directors Ethan and Joel Coen as “Cohen” while on page 146 the song Dylan offered up for the Eric Clapton album No Reason to Cry (on which The Band contributed heavily) is misidentified as “Seven Days” (covered at roughly the same time by Ronnie Wood) rather than the correct “Sign Language.” Both those mistakes were among a handful that immediately caught my attention and led me to wonder how many others I didn’t seize upon. They’re the sort of slip ups that simple fact checking would have avoided: Having said that, I still found this volume a more than worthwhile read.
I consider myself reasonably well versed in our history of folk music, and yet Harris’ assessment of that genre and its relationship with the emerging civil rights movement both informed and entertained me. Harris clearly loves his subject and while The Band: Pioneers of Americana Music is at times frustrating, it still does this odd aggregation of rag tag musicians from the windswept plains of Canada and the sweltering hills of Arkansas proud.