This is such a freakin’ good idea. See, when our “public servants” walk into office having “plans” and “introducing legislation,” they immediately start screwing stuff up, why is why Mayor Cass’s bold move should set a precedent, from POTUS on down to the local dogcatcher: once you’re elected and you have your inauguration (if you can get a zombie James Brown to play the inaugural ball, more power to ya), you take a powder for at least three months.

Godspeed, Mr. Mayor, but stay away from the drinks that have the umbrellas. You think they’re some sort of chick drink, but they will mess you up.

Now that I have the floor, I’d like to explain a little bit about how I became a citizen of Bootleg City, and how this week’s featured bootleg is a perfect example of why everyonr should live here. Actually, I’m not really a citizen, seeing as how I was here from the very beginning — I set my homestead here long before the city was a reality. They surrounded me. These guys came to my land.

And speaking of reality, it’s always been about live music for me. Seeing a band in concert playing their own music has to be the greatest thing in the world. I remember seeing a video of a thousand girls going nuts during a Beatles concert, yet I remember seeing the same girls going nuts when the Beatles got off a plane. Even early on, I instinctively knew that wasn’t about the music.

The first “live” songs I ever heard were on Frampton Comes Alive! (1976). The songs were nice enough, but I didn’t think they were anything special because I had no knowledge of the studio versions that came before. They were just songs on the car radio as my mom ran her errands and drove us kids around after school. I now know, of course, that very little was “live” about that album — it was more about selling an image (and, well, a record or two).

What sucked me in was Lynyrd Skynyrd’s One More From the Road (1976). I knew Skynyrd. The older stoner brother of a friend would play their albums nonstop in his room while the friend and I geeked out with comic books or something in another room. So I was familiar with Skynyrd, and I pretty much liked what I heard.

One day I heard songs coming through the wall that I recognized, but they sounded a little different; I realized that the guitar solo on “Gimmie Three Steps” was longer than usual. When it ended, I ran into the other room and asked my friend’s brother what it was.

“It’s the live version, little man.”

I wanted to hear the song again, so when it came around to the solo, I kneeled down to listen. I knew something was happening.

Then I heard it — the singer yelled out to the crowd, “Can he play?” as the extended solo began. I realized that when a song was played live, it was different. It was powerful. It was better.

But what sealed the deal was “Free Bird.” I know, it’s a cliche now, it’s a rock and roll joke. But you remember when you heard the live version for the first time, right?

“What song is it you wanna hear?” Ronnie Van Zant yelled. The Redneck Tabernacle Choir answered in unison: “‘FREEEEEEEEE BIRRRRRRRD’!!!”

If you think back, there was a silence in the crowd when Billy Powell started tinkling the piano. Playing those opening chords with a piano instead of an organ confused them, I guess. Then the audience recognized they were hearing the song they wanted and they fucking exploded.

I can still remember how I felt about that moment. It was the most fantastic thing I’d ever heard. Music, in a live setting, is an exchange between the band and the crowd, and those heartbeats between Powell kicking off “Free Bird” and the crowd realizing what it was changed my life.

I lived for live albums. I bought the studio albums of the bands I liked and I listened to what my friends recommended, but as I heard the studio versions of songs for the first time, one thought was always going through my mind: I wonder how this sounds live.

In the ’80s I became a concert junkie. I saw 40 to 50 major shows a year, hockey arena-type shows and countless theater shows. And when I got old enough, I hit the clubs.

The big ones, they were shows. Seeing a 30-foot inflatable dragon run through with a sword brandished by a five-foot Ronnie James Dio was a show. Watching Dr. Righteous, Lt. Varnish, and Colonel Hyde throw fake guitars through a wood chipper on Styx’s “Kilroy” tour was a great show. Billy Gibbons told off-color jokes between songs, David Lee Roth did karate workouts during the drum solos. It was all about the show. The show was whatever it took for the performers to connect with the audience.

But it still boiled down to the music created in the junction between the crowd and the band. I still live for those heartbeats between the start of a song and the recognition. However, I quickly learned that a live album isn’t the show.

Hell, for a while I thought every live album was a recording of an entire concert (I remember thinking that the folks who went to that one particular Foghat show had to be pissed they only got to hear six songs). As I started to read liner notes, I learned that live albums were often recorded on several different dates, with the band’s touring lineup changing from night to night. That wasn’t a recording of the show, and I found that live albums sometimes didn’t even contain the music of a show, thanks to overdubs and various other studio tricks, which ruined the magic for me (even my Skynyrd was overdubbed, sob sob). This was not what I wanted to hear — I wanted the ups and downs of an entire concert.

So, I got into boots. In the ’80s, if you were into boots, you were into the Grateful Dead and Led Zeppelin, and the Dead, live, were great. (Zeppelin was hit-or-miss.) But I wanted more.

I quickly graduated to the local NYC and Connecticut radio stations that played that Sunday-night concert from Westwood One. I got to hear Ozzy with Brad Gillis playing a ghost’s music from Memphis. I got Supertramp from LA, the Stones from Atlantic City. I taped what I could and listened to them all over and over again.

I know you’re now reading this and saying, “Dude, this isn’t a basement tape. What the hell does all this have to do with the Cranberries?” Simple — you may come across a bootleg by a band you don’t necessarily like or “get,” but when you hear them in concert you suddenly become a fan, at least for that show. Which brings us to this week’s boot …

I never liked the Cranberries very much. First off, there was the enormous amount of audio processing, plus Dolores O’Riordan’s voice, which more often than not was double-tracked to give it even more presence. “Linger”? Well, let’s just say that song was aptly named.

The Irish band’s sounds were studio enabled. To me, a little Cranberries went a long way, but for a few years in the early ’90s they were indie champs, with crossover appeal and an international following.

Not being a big Cranberries fan, my knowledge of the band is mostly limited to this particular concert from October 24, 1994. They were in Europe for some warm-up shows before their first major headlining tour of the United States, and they’d recently dropped No Need to Argue, their second major-label LP. Some of the reviews weren’t pretty.

Although some of the songs from the new album had been performed live for nearly a year, the Cranberries sound like they’re still getting the live-arrangement kinks worked out on other cuts you hear on the “Songs Against War” bootleg. To top it all off, the whole thing was broadcast live on German TV and radio.

On a side note, does anybody know anything about Alabama Halle, the club where the band performed on 10/24/94? It’s been around for years, and I think it might be named after Skynyrd’s most famous song. (No kidding.) Did some ex-military man from the States go back to where he was stationed during World War II and start a club? I don’t speak German, and the English-translated website offers very little in the way of clues. If anybody out there knows anything about this place, let me know, will ya?

So, were the Cranberries a one-hit wonder about to suffer the dreaded sophomore slump? Of course we know now that that second album pushed them from the level of international stars into the upper echelon of Friggin’ Huge. But in October of ‘94 they were unsure of where they stood; “Zombie,” the first single off No Need to Argue, was slowly creeping up the charts. Within a year, however, it would be the biggest hit of the band’s career.

If you ask my cynical self, “Zombie” is the work of a pragmatic producer: He stuck his head out the studio door during recording, wet his finger, and stuck it into the wind. The wind replied, “The kids are listening to grunge.” So Mr. Producer went back into the studio, dialed up the Big-Ass Marshall Stack Sound With Heavy Reverb setting on the mixing board, and “Zombie” was born.

On “Songs Against War,” thankfully, “Zombie” is allowed to breathe. Melody is so important in a pop song, and God only knows how many takes and edits were required to get O’Riordan to stay on key on the studio version. But in a live setting, melody takes a backseat to emotion. You can hear the anger and frustration in O’Riordan’s voice as she sings about the horrific subject matter.

“Dreams” was the Cranberries song you heard if you watched any kind of teen-angst TV show or movie in the mid- to late ’90s; here, it becomes a workout in discovering how much of a Celtic yodel is needed. And “Linger” is fantastic. It starts with a little intro that’s unfamiliar to me, but when the chords that actually start the song are played … well, like I said, those moments between the start of a song and the crowd’s recognition still make me smile.

All in all, each song presented here is far superior to any studio recording I ever heard from this band. There’s power here — band and audience worked as one to put on a show. And that’s why the live concert (and thus the “unauthorized recording” of it) is so vital to my listening pleasure. The Cranberries made me a fan, at least for one night, but just because that one night happened 15 years ago doesn’t mean it no longer counts.

At the tail end of ‘94 the Cranberries were on the threshold of the biggest step of their career, with a just-released album that wasn’t universally accepted right out of the gate. They eventually became huge. Their lead singer eventually became the richest woman in Ireland. And for a while there in the mid-’90s you could argue that they were one of the biggest bands in the world.

But not here. On “Songs Against War” they make mistakes. They were still trying stuff out. But in the end they came out and did their thing, and this bootleg is the historical document of that moment, never to be repeated, nor could it be. Which is why it’s the best Cranberries recording I’ve ever heard — until I find another concert, of course.

How
Sunday
Linger
Dreaming My Dreams
Daffodil Lament
I Can’t Be With You
Wanted
I Don’t Need
Ode to My Family
Ridiculous Thoughts
Waltzing Back
Zombie
Pretty
Everything I Said
Not Sorry
So Cold in Ireland
Empty
Dreams

I have some bonus tracks for you. (Consider it my payment to you for listening to me ramble.) While opening for Duran Duran on their first tour of America, the Cranberries were invited to play KROQ’s Almost Acoustic Christmas shows at the Gibson Amphitheatre in Universal City, California, on December 11 and 12, 1993. Perhaps the fact that their debut album, Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can’t We?, had just gone platinum had something to do with it. Enjoy the Cranberries’ unplugged five-song set from the latter date:

Ode to My Family
Sunday
Linger
False
Empty

Thanks, Mayor Cass, for letting me take over for a bit and allowing me to wax philosophic about the glories that are live boots.

Now, as the Minister of Fast Food for Bootleg City, I’m off to see if I can convince Wendy’s to make me a triple Baconator. (Seriously, Wardlaw — Taco Bell? Ugh. Show some pride.)

Bend It Like Bender! – Devin Townsend Project from Addicted (2009)

Blue Cheadle – Cheer-Accident from Fear Draws Misfortune (2009)

Cruisin’ With The Deuce – Quarterflash from Quarterflash (1980)

Elegy – Bob Belden from Black Dahlia (2001)

Hard Shoulder – Mark Knopfler from Get Lucky (2009)

Love’s Got A Lot To Answer For – Nick Lowe from At My Age (2007)

My Blue Heaven – Django Reinhardt from Django in Rome 1949-1950 (2004)

Never Mind – Minster Hill from MiNsTeR HiLL (1999)

The Road To Hell – Chris Rea from The Road to Hell (1989)

Rocks In The Ocean – Al Stewart from 24 Carrots (1980)

Take Me Back (Deja Vu) – Van Halen from Balance (1995)

That Old Black Magic – Louis Prima and Keely Smith from Capitol Collectors Series: Louis Prima (1991)

What She Wants – TDF from Retail Therapy (1997)

Witch’s Promise – Jethro Tull from Original Masters (1985)

Wooden Planes – Art Garfunkel from Watermark (1977)

Okay, so now that I’ve stopped Brian’s team of blood-thirsty lawyers in their tracks (kidding!), we can take a look at this week’s chart. And I don’t mean to cast a cloud over this Top 10, but I’m not thrilled with most of these songs. Although three of them did hit #1 (one of them is actually the #1 hit of 1977), five of them didn’t make the Top 100 of either 1976 or 1977 at all. And as you’ll see, the songs that actually did hit #1 aren’t that great either. Things were better earlier in 1976 and later in 1977, but this specific week is, in my opinion, a low point. Do you agree? Let me know — and let’s attack November 20, 1976!

10. Do You Feel Like We Do — Peter Frampton
9. Beth — Kiss
8. Just to Be Close to You — Commodores
7. Rock’n Me — Steve Miller
6. The Rubberband Man — Spinners
5. Disco Duck (Part 1) — Rick Dees
4. Muskrat Love — Captain & Tennille
3. Love So Right — Bee Gees
2. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald — Gordon Lightfoot
1. Tonight’s the Night (Gonna Be Alright) — Rod Stewart

10. Do You Feel Like We Do — Peter Frampton

One day, if I’m lucky enough to have kids as geeky as I am (seems kind of inevitable), I’ll sit them down and tell them about the improbability of this song’s success. Sure, I’ll have to explain terms like “double album,” “record label” and “radio,” but I think it’ll be worth it. I’ll explain to them how Peter Frampton managed to remain on a major record label, A&M, despite the fact that his first three albums (as well as his first eight singles) didn’t even crack the Hot 100 (”what’s the Hot 100, daddy?”) and his fourth album peaked at #32. And that despite these failures, A&M decided that his next release should be a live album — and when he turned in the live album, the head of the record label (Jerry Moss) complained that it was too short (!) and should be a double album (!!). And so Frampton — who had recorded most of the album at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco, went to record more tracks live at SUNY Plattsburgh, better known as the least sexy of all the NY State-owned colleges. (I know. My dad went there.) “Do You Feel Like We Do” was one of the tracks recorded on the college campus. Unedited, it clocks in at 14:15. And children, guess what? “Radio stations,” as they were known back then, actually played the full, unedited version of the song! “Disc jockeys,” who were the people who actually had some control over what songs were played on the radio, used the song as an excuse to go to the bathroom or do other things that I’ll tell you about when you’re older. A&M understood that some stations might not want to play a 14-minute song, though, so they reasonably edited the song…to 7:19. 7:19 was considered reasonable, children!

At this point, my kids will probably be asleep from boredom, and that’ll be a shame, because I haven’t even explained to them why the unedited version of this song became so successful. Two words: TALKBOX SOLO. And here’s what I want to know, people: why do I have to wait SEVEN MINUTES AND 25 SECONDS for the talkbox solo? There should have been one in the beginning, in the middle, and then another one at the end. No, wait: the end one should be a false ending, and then there’d be another one after that one. There. That’s your perfect song. And I know the audience would have agreed, because you can hear how loud they cheer when he starts using the damn thing. You can’t deny the power of the talkbox. The talkbox is so powerful that the audience forgets the fact that anybody using one looks like a total douche.

“durrrrrrrrrrr!”

Frampton does a talkbox solo for four full minutes, making “Do You Feel Like We Do” not only our CHART ATTACK! Song of the Week, but perhaps The Greatest Song of All Time, Excluding “What a Fool Believes.”

9. Beth — Kiss

I was looking through the comment section at Songfacts to see what people thought of this song. Here’s my favorite comment, by Frank from Brampton, Ontario.

This is a really sad song and I cry alot whenever I listen to it. Call me a wuss if you want but it is indeed a sad song despite it being a powerful ballad. Hey it’s ok to cry whenever you hear a sad song like this.

Word, Frank. Word.

And so here we have Kiss’s highest-charting single, peaking at #7. Of course, there was only one way Kiss could reach this peak on the charts, and that was by ensuring that all members of the band kept their damn hands off their instruments. Though written by Kiss drummer (and this song’s lead vocalist) Peter Criss, the piano and string arrangements were performed by other (real) musicians. Criss was the only member of the band in the studio when it was recorded, and in concert, he performed it to a backing track. The rest of the band didn’t learn the song until almost 20 years later, despite it being their biggest hit of their career. I think this proves how much Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley hated the song (they fought to keep it off the album), and not being a Kiss fan, this is the only thing about “Beth” that makes me happy. (Although I should say that I know Paul Stanley’s mother, and she’s a sweetheart.) Actually, “Beth” isn’t really a bad song at all; the piano and strings are quite pretty, and I like the last verse, where he says “Beth, I know you’re lonely / And I hope you’ll be all right / ‘Cause me and the boys will be playing all night.” I love that in this beautiful song, he just kind of gives her the middle finger at the end: I know you’re lonely, Beth…sucks to be you!

8. Just to Be Close to You — Commodores (download)

I find this song unintentionally funny for a number of reasons. If you’re not familiar with it, download and we can discuss it together. For starters, there’s this beautiful, gentle piano opening. The first time I heard it, I was expecting a song that was soft and subtle, like “Fee Tines a Mady” “Three Times a Lady.” The entrance of the vocals are, shall we say, a bit more abrupt — I nearly jumped out of my chair when they came in. Second, the song has some space-agey synths playing random notes for seemingly no reason — like it’s a love song on Jupiter or something. Then, after less than a minute, Lionel starts speaking. Oh, this is the best part. Listen to that first “Ahh!” at about :55. I don’t know who Lionel’s trying to be, but he’s doing a terrible job at it. At 1:23, I think he’s trying to be a preacher. I love the way he pronounces the word “value.” I snicker every time I hear it.

I think what’s most clear about this song is that Lionel Richie had simply not yet mastered his songwriting-fu; the damn thing is all over the place. Sure, the hook of the song is great, and maybe that’s all they needed: something to which people could get their groove on. Who cares about the rest, right? The only thing that really had any staying power was that first line at the beginning: “You know, I’ve been through so many changes in my life, girl.” Lionel recycled it seven years later for his solo hit “My Love,” except he changed “girl” to “woman.” (Y’know, because he was older.)

I looked all over to find you a clip of Lionel singing this song live in the ’70s; I’m disappointed that I came up short, because you know there’d be nothing more wonderful than Lionel in one of those silver glittery Commodore suits, speak-singing this song while his afro collided with the other members of the group. However, I did find this recent version, from a small concert Lionel did for industry people. He performs the song with just the right amount of tongue in cheek, proving once again that Lionel Richie is super, super awesome. Please do a concert in New York again, Lionel. I need to be there.

7. Rock’n Me — Steve Miller

I know I’ve complained about this before, but man, fewer artists get me angry the way Steve Miller gets me angry. (Maybe Andy Gibb.) His success actually gets me furious. Yes, yes, the man writes a killer hook, but his lyrics are some of the most moronic lyrics I’ve ever read. “Rock’n Me” is a great example; strong chorus, but dumb-as-shit lyrics, and actually, some awful singing, too. Arrgh, where do I even start?

Well I’ve been lookin’ real hard
And I’m tryin’ to find a job
But it just keeps gettin’ tougher every day
But I got to do my part cause I know in my heart
I got to please my sweet baby, yeah

Okay. Not an awful start. I mean, you can’t rhyme either “baby” or “yeah” with “day,” but whatever. So this song is about him trying to find work to make his woman happy. I’m with him so far.

Well, I ain’t superstitious
And I don’t get suspicious
But my woman is a friend of mine
And I know that it’s true that all the things that I do
Will come back to me in my sweet time

WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS MEAN.

I went from Phoenix, Arizona
All the way to Tacoma
Philadelphia, Atlanta, L.A.
Northern California where the girls are warm
So I could be with my sweet baby, yeah

I DON’T KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS EITHER. Unless this is just Miller figuring he can guarantee either radio play or a concert audience in any of these locations. God, to think that this song might have inspired “The Heart of Rock & Roll” makes me shudder.

…and that’s pretty much it for lyrics. I am so freakin’ angry right now. This song makes no sense at all. It’s not as dumb as “Take the Money and Run,” but it’s up there. We made Steve Miller a star. Why did we do it? Why? I think I need to lie down. I hate you, Steve Miller. And you too, Andy Gibb.

6. The Rubberband Man — Spinners

Just when I thought this chart was hopeless, the Spinners come to rescue me. “The Rubberband Man” is a great soul song, and it would have won Song of the Week if it had only featured five minutes of talkbox. Instead, it features zero minutes of talkbox, so I award it no points and may God have mercy on its soul. Still, it deserves mention as one of the few good songs to rise out of the crud of this week.

Despite having formed in 1954 with a debut on the Hot 100 in 1961, the Spinners didn’t have their first Top 10 hit until 1970’s wonderful “Ill Be Around,” which hit #3. Another four of their songs reached the Top 10 before “The Rubberband Man” peaked at #2; it would be the group’s last Top 10 until their popular medleys of 1980.

There’s a great clip on YouTube of the Spinners performing “The Rubberband Man” on The Midnight Special, but I had to leave it off this week’s post in favor of Lynda Carter performing it on The Muppet Show. I’m sure you understand.

5. Disco Duck (Part 1) — Rick Dees

You know, given the fact that I’m somewhat known for my fondness of bad music (see Earmageddon or Mellowmas), I’ll admit to you that I’ve been able to fully avoid “Disco Duck” until this week. So while that’s a really awesome thing for me, it means that I can’t really reflect properly on how this song invaded popular culture enough to become a #1 hit. Rather than just blatantly curse out everybody in 1976 who bought this record, I figured I’d ask fellow Popdose staffer (and one of my favorite writers) Jon Cummings to weigh in on “Disco Duck” and its popularity. But be warned, everybody: this writing is not what we’re used to reading on CHART ATTACK!: it’s really, really good. Jon?

*******
Thanks, Jason. You’re right about one thing: No one can explain, much less justify, the popularity of “Disco Duck.” But let’s give it a shot anyway, shall we?

Like any good sociological phenomenon, disco didn’t emerge full-blown out of nowhere. By the summer of ‘76, even as the music had begun to dominate pop radio, the flamboyant dance-club subculture behind disco hadn’t yet expanded beyond its base in the major urban centers and entered the mainstream. The sexuality — and the sometimes covert, sometimes overt homosexuality — intrinsic to the music was unfamiliar to, and no doubt uncomfortable for, many listeners during disco’s early stages. And when the less cutting-edge elements of society encounter a new and discomfiting cultural presence, it’s not unusual for them to dismiss or ridicule that presence — or, if they choose to embrace it, to make it more compatible with their conventional worldview via imitation (see Pat Boone), comment (see “Play That Funky Music,” a #1 hit two months before this chart was released), or parody. This may explain why a radio DJ from a Southern city was able to achieve nationwide success with a single that recontextualized disco’s throbbing rhythms and pulsating sexuality with help from a universally beloved cartoon voice.

Or maybe that’s all a bunch of crap, and what really happened was that a Memphis DJ/stand-up comic encountered a goofball at the gym who could do a good Donald Duck voice, and decided it would be funny to make a novelty record that capitalized on the disco craze. And the American people, whose taste in comedy should never be overestimated, sent “Disco Duck” to #1 in mid-October. My favorite part of the “Disco Duck” story is the fact that radio listeners in Memphis couldn’t hear it: Competing stations wouldn’t play it because they were loath to give Rick Dees any publicity, and his own station’s owners thought it would be a conflict of interest to give it any spins. Dees got fired just for mentioning the song on the air! He quickly got hired somewhere else, of course — and though he lost his most recent daily on-air gig this past spring, his “Weekly Top 40″ is still going in syndication. And “Disco Duck,” though we never hear it anymore, lives in infamy — and in the #3 slot on my list of the Worst #1 Songs of the ’70s.

Back to you, Jason.
*******

Thanks, Jon! You should know that every morning, I wake up and curse your writing skills. Here’s Rick Dees on The Midnight Special performing his beloved hit.

4. Muskrat Love — Captain & Tennille

Wonderful. So right after our song about the disco duck, we have a track that answers the age-old question, “What Casio synth pad accurately replicates the sounds of muskrats fucking?” I wonder how many music fans killed themselves over Thanksgiving in 1976.

Honestly, I thought I knew this song, but when I took a listen this week, I found that I had never actually heard it before (both this and “Disco Duck” — how did I get so lucky?). I keep trying to figure out what this song is really trying to say in its subtext — but no, I’m pretty sure it’s actually about two muskrats courting. I know I said this a few songs ago, but WHY? Why did we need a song about two muskrats on a date? And even more importantly, why were Captain & Tennille the third artists to record the song? Originally titled “Mukstrat Candlelight” — and let’s just pause a second to think about the meeting where the artistic merits of this title were debated — the song was written and recorded by Willis Alan Ramsey in 1972, then covered by America in 1973 and C&T in 1976. The America version peaked at #67, but C&T made it all the way here to #4. Why? It must have been those adorable little synthesizers! Thank you, Daryl Dragon! And I’m sure there are many record buyers who thank you for including those sounds in the run-off groove on the 45, so they’d repeat themselves until someone took the record off the turntable (and subsequently threw it — and themselves — out the window).

But I don’t know. Part of me is also perversely pleased that a song about the copulation of muskrats managed to become a popular hit. Also, I have to give Toni Tennille credit for the huge grin she plasters on her face whenever she sings this song. I imagine, after 33 years, one probably no longer has a burning desire to sing about muskrats doing the nasty.

I found a few video clips of “Muskrat Love,” but this one seems to be the most disturbing. Enjoy. Or don’t.

3. Love So Right — Bee Gees (download)

I’m almost positive a memo was issued in the fall of 1976. It went to all popular artists, and it said, “Just take it easy this season. Don’t work too hard. Only give us mediocre songs. We’ll call on you for the good stuff in 1977.” Because if you look at 1975, you’ll see awesome Bee Gees songs like “Jive Talkin’” and “Nights on Broadway,” and of course, 1977 gave us the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. Summer of ‘76 even gave us “You Should Be Dancing.” But fall of 1976? This dreck. I am aware some people really like this song. I am not one of them. According to Andy Brennan’s always-phenomenal Gibb Songs website (which I could read all day), it was right around this time that Barry began to really explore this new range of his voice:

Barry had developed his falsetto to an incredible degree. [Previously] it was still breathy and tentative. Now it was loud and clear, a very expressive instrument that he began to prefer to his natural voice…‘["Love So Right"] is a more traditional kind of Bee Gees song that could easily have been done the old way had Barry been inclined to do so. The falsetto makes it sound more new and different than it is. The question of how much falsetto is enough has caused much friendly argument among fans.

I’m so glad Andy brought this up: IT’S TOO MUCH FALSETTO. And I’m not going to be friendly about it, Andy! Christ! It’s ridiculous how much high-pitched caterwauling ensues during the final minute of the song! Tune in above at around 3:00. There are actually dueling Barry Gibbs, each going falsetto-batshit all over this thing. Look, most of the Bee Gees songs we know and love wouldn’t be as wonderful as they are without Barry’s high notes. But there’s actually a line, and he crosses it here. And sadly, I don’t think I can blame Andy for it.

2. The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald — Gordon Lightfoot

It does seem a little odd that a song such as this would reach #2, considering that it’s depressing as all hell, it has no chorus and no bridge, and it’s surrounded by crap like “Disco Duck” and “Muskrat Love.” But clearly it struck a chord with the public, arriving on the charts close to a year after the S.S. Fitzgerald sank in Lake Superior, killing the 29 crew members aboard. Lightfoot had read about the event in the November 24, 1975 issue of Newsweek, and was inspired to write a song recounting the event. He took some liberties with the subject matter, or at least that’s what I’m told — I know it makes me a horrible person, but I just can’t pay attention to more than two verses of this song. As always, I hear Gordon Lightfoot and all I want to do is nap. Lightfoot considers this song his most significant musical achievement (and credit should indeed be given for including the words “Gitche Gumee” in a pop song), and peaking here at #2, it’s his second-highest charter, behind 1974’s “Sundown.”

Lightfoot gave all rights and royalties of this song to the families of those lost in the wreck, which is a truly wonderful thing. The writers from The Simpsons wanted to use this song in a section of the “Radio Bart” episode where Bart sees an commercial for a microphone that transmits to any AM radio — but because of the complications in getting permission from the families, they went with C.W. McCall’s “Convoy” instead. True story!

1. Tonight’s the Night (Gonna Be Alright) — Rod Stewart

Here it is, folks: not only the #1 song of the week, but the #1 song of 1977. We gave it to this guy.

He’s worse than this guy!

“durrrrrrrrrrr!”

I’m perplexed. First, I’m perplexed that this song became the #1 hit of 1977, considering it didn’t actually chart at #1 during that year (I’m sure this will be explained by Cummings in the comments). But more than that, I’m perplexed that Rod Stewart became a sex symbol while wearing this outfit. He looks like an inbred clown doing dinner theatre. This is the third time I’m asking “why?” today. I’m tired of it. I’m so happy this week is over.

“Tonight’s the Night” is a song not exactly known for its subtlety; it was actually banned in Europe (and initially only played later in the evening in America) for its overt sexuality. This was mainly due to the line “spread your wings and let me come inside.” Is that really offensive? I only think it’s offensive if you think of “me” being “Rod Stewart.” Because I don’t see why anybody would want to sleep with him. Even if the song’s purpose is just to encourage others to get all sexy with each other, that doesn’t work for me either — because when the chorus starts, all I can think about is poor Rod’s vocal chords. Is it sexy to sound like you’re screaming up a lung? Of course, who cares what I think — this song became the biggest hit of Rod Stewart’s career. And if that doesn’t depress you enough, do you want to know what’s #2? “All for Love,” that stupid song he did with Bryan Adams and Sting. I think now is a very good time for me to stop writing.

By the way, I can’t believe this happened, but it did: a duet of “Tonight’s the Night” between Rod and Kim Carnes, presumably with a throat specialist waiting in the wings. I love that if I close my eyes and listen to this duet, I can’t tell them apart.

Whew! We’re done! I’m quite happy this week is over. Maybe it wasn’t as bad for you as it was for me, but personally, I’m giving thanks that we’ll be exploring a different week and year soon. You suck, November 1976. But I thank you for reading anyway! See you soon for another edition of CHART ATTACK!

The Strokes were victims of what happens to bands when the perfect storm of hype carries them beyond their allotted 15 minutes of fame. I remember publications calling them the next Nirvana. It was a poignant prophecy in a way, if by being the next Nirvana meant making three really good albums that were raw yet polished at the same time, and then never being heard from again. It’s hard when people anoint you the savior of rock and roll before you’ve actually really done anything. The Strokes unfortunately bought into the idea that they had to change the world, when they should have just kept on making Strokes albums. Their music was better than good enough, and much better than any of the solo records their hiatus has produced. Phrazes for the Young is no exception, though it comes closer than the others.

So what has Casablancas been doing all these years, besides not making an album with the Strokes? Judging from the lyrics, he’s been doing a lot of self-reflection.  He’s been thinking, he’s been growing up, he’s been trying to make sense of the world, and he’s been trying out sobriety. All of this is easily apparent in Phrazes, where he seems to be apologizing at times, and at others, even offering some advice. The album’s title and influence come from Oscar Wilde’s Phrases and Philosophies for the Young, a collection of witty and often tongue-in-cheek bumper sticker-style self-help quotes like “Dullness is the coming of age of seriousness,” and “Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others.”  The eight songs on Phrazes are based on the eight phrases Casablancas adds to the list, often slightly more serious than Wilde ever intended, like “Being nice is most important when others are not,” and “Drunkenness is cowardice, sobriety is loneliness.”

Casablancas is easily one of the most underrated talents in rock, but he only has himself to blame, and he’d probably like you to think that he doesn’t even care. The thing is, you know he does — that’s why his songs don’t suck. He’s got a thing for a hooky melody, and he’s always liked to mix it up stylistically while being extremely proficient at turning his influences into something of his own. Phrazes for the Young continues this tradition. It seems like the logical next step from his last batch of songs with the Strokes. This time, with nary a Strokes guitarist in sight, he ventures into electro-soul and ’80s synth-pop, sounding at its best moments like a young Van Morrison making an album with Erasure. He’s always written and arranged songs predominantly on the keyboard, so the synthesizer-heavy vibe of Phrazes suits Casablancas well.

It’s all a bit retro, yet slightly futuristic. ”11th Dimension” is New Order meets Motown girl group, while a song like “Left and Right in the Dark” makes me think of both Flock of Seagulls and Cyndi Lauper — in the best way possible, mind you. ”4 Chords of the Apocolypse ” is crooner cool with the added bonus of a sweet little solo, and “Ludlow Street” is a waltzy old Irish drinking song if Irish drinking songs featured drum machines. I love “River of Breaklights,” which falls somewhere between the last Strokes record and Thom Yorke’s Eraser, but my favorite is the jumpy opener “Out of the Blue,” where Casablancas is recounting mistakes of his past and only half apologizing for them. He’s learned some things along the way, but it’s not all regret. He wants to keep you from making his mistakes, yet he knows you need to. He’s “going to hell in a leather jacket,” but he’s fine with it, because “he’ll be in another world while you’re pissing on my casket.” I’m sure some people probably hate that line, but I fucking adore it. It’s a classic lyric in a song that is nothing if not classic Casablancas, and it sets the tone for the entire record. It’s not the only lyrical gem you’ll find here, either.

The negatives about this record go back to what I was saying before, and probably have more to do with what I’m used to hearing with Casablancas and the Strokes than anything really to do with Phrazes. Alone, Phrazes is an extremely enjoyable listen as far as I’m concerned, but in the context of the three Strokes albums, there’s a warmth and an attitude that’s sometimes missing, and every now and then it all feels kind of antiseptic and over-thought. That kind of thing can happen when you aren’t able to hide behind or within a band of brothers. The best thing about Casablancas with the Strokes was that they had the ability to craft amazingly good songs that sounded familiar yet fresh, all the while making it seem like they didn’t really give a shit. The Strokes had solid songs, but they also had a feel. Phrazes sounds meticulously crafted and produced, which shouldn’t alone be a negative, but I think Casablancas is just trying too hard and thinking too much, which is probably what inevitably sent the Strokes on hiatus in the first place.

Luckily, it’s a different world now, and no one expects the Strokes to change it anymore. The only people that still care about the band want nothing more than to hear more from them, and it’s just good to hear Casablancas writing songs again. If you liked the Strokes, you probably already own Phrazes, or you should. If you never liked them, this won’t change your mind — but what does become quite apparent with repeated listens is how much the Strokes are, in fact, Casablancas. Phrazes for the Young is in essence a Strokes album without the Strokes. Sure, he’s good enough to hold his own without them, but I can’t help but wonder how great this album would have sounded with the band. Julian Casablancas as a solo artist? I believe it, but I don’t want to. I just want another record from the Strokes, but I’ll take what I can get.

Like nearly all the great early songs by Old 97’s, the beauty of “Barrier Reef” is how it simultaneously works within the confines of country music while standing them on its head. It starts off with a simple guitar riff by Ken Bethea, followed by the rhythm section of drummer Philip Peeples and bassist Murry Hammond crashing in with a loping shuffle. If that wasn’t enough to scream “COUNTRY!” Rhett Miller’s lyrics seal the deal.

The Empty Bottle was half-empty
Tide was low and I was thirsty
Saw her sitting at the bar

Isn’t that perfect? Within the first 25 seconds, you’ve got a bar with a great name for the local honky-tonk, and a girl just waiting for some guy to put the moves on, which is what Rhett does in the second verse.

So I sidled up beside her
Settled down, shouted “Hi, there!
“My name’s Stuart Ransom Miller
“I’m a serial ladykiller”

Only guys who look like Rhett Miller can get away with lines as cheesy as that and have them work. It also helps when she responds with “I’m already dead.” In the third verse, they dance all night, then decide to get the hell out of there as the song builds up to the chorus.

What’s so great about the Barrier Reef?
What’s so fine about art?
What’s so good about a Goodtimes Van
When you’re working on a broken, working on a broken
Working on a broken man?

Turns out the self-proclaimed “serial ladykiller” is anything but. The lyrical shift is matched by the music, as the guitars kick in and Miller’s tone changes from seductive to desperate. After the guitar solo, Miller tells us what went wrong.

My heart wasn’t in it
Not for one single minute
I went through the motions with her
Her on top and me on liquor
Didn’t do no good
Well, I didn’t think it would

Remember that classic scene in Say Anything… where Lloyd’s friend tells him that, in order to get over Diane, he needs to “find a girl that looks just like her, nail her, and then dump her?” Thankfully, Lloyd didn’t take his advice, but Miller apparently did, and it turned out as well as expected. But at least he got laid, right?

As great as “Barrier Reef” is on its own, it works best in conjunction with “Timebomb,” the song that precedes it on the band’s 1997 Elektra debut Too Far to Care. “Timebomb” features Miller crazy about a “stick-legged girl” who’s “gonna kill me/and I don’t mean softly.” So when “Barrier Reef” comes in immediately afterward, it comes across as the aftermath of “Timebomb,” and forms one of the great one-two punches for an album of the past 15 years.

The Zombies: Odessey & Oracle [Revisited] – The 40th Anniversary Concert DVD was just released, and it just landed in my mailbox. Let’s cut to the chase: The second part of this fantastic DVD contains the complete and legendary 1968 psychedelic classic Odessey & Oracle album, with all 12 tracks from the original release lovingly re-created and excellently played by the original four members of The Zombies: Rod Argent, Colin Blunstone, Chris White and Hugh Grundy, during an historic 40th Anniversary reunion concert in March 2008, at the Shepherds Bush Empire in London. It’s introduced by Al Kooper, who, as staff producer at CBS/Columbia records in the late ’60s, strongly urged label boss Clive Davis to release it in the States (Kooper had picked it up in London, and loved it; the Zombies’ American label was going to pass on it). It also marked the first time the album was played in its entirety by the original band in 40 years since its release. The band played three consecutive sold-out concerts around this time. One of these nights was filmed for this DVD.

The first part features everything else performed the same evening by the Zombies Touring Band comprised of Rod Argent, Colin Blunstone, Jim Rodford (ex-Argent), Steve Rodford and Keith Airey, and augmented by a string quintet. Songs include music made famous by the Zombies and Argent, plus selections from Colin Blunstone’s solo albums.

The DVD is dedicated to the much-missed fifth Zombie, Paul Atkinson (1946-2004).

The story behind the original album (80th on Rolling Stone’s list of the “500 Greatest Albums of All Time”) is fascinating. Rather than try to summarize it here, I suggest you read the Wikipedia entry on “Odessey & Oracle.”

Here’s a taste of what you’ll find on the DVD. I think it’s a perfect stocking stuffer for the classic rock fan in your life:

Two years ago I quietly began writing the Basement Songs posts on my blog, Thunderbolt. At the time I didn’t know who my audience was, as I honestly believed that ten, maybe twenty readers were checking out Thunderbolt on a weekly basis. Inspired by some of the finer music blogs I’d come across, I thought that Basement Songs would be an interesting alternative to the daily confessionals I was posting. At least it could be fun. As I’ve written before, the early months of 2007 were tough. I believe that the 2005 death of my friend, Matt, and a laundry list of regrets and unresolved issues finally caught up with me. Coupled with the ongoing stress of worrying about my son, I sunk into a deep funk (and not the kind of funk that involves the groove of Duck Dunn). Despite those dark months, I found great pleasure in writing the Basement Songs. A friend used the term “therapeutic communication” once, and I believe that’s a sound way of describing what I was doing. Again, I had no idea who was reading; I just needed to get some things off of my chest, and I wanted to share my love of certain music.

One person who was reading happened to be Jeff Giles, whose Jefitoblog was one of the best written and enjoyable sites I visited daily. Jeff and I became friends thanks to a comment he made about Springsteen and my response. This led to the exchange of some choice bootlegs, an Idiot’s Guide to Journey, and then one of the kindest gestures I’ve experienced this decade: Bloggers for a Cure, in which Jeff and some other fine bloggers (most of whom write for this site) joined together to raise money for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. Jeff was also a strong supporter of the Basement Songs and would link each new post in his weekly “Friday Linkfest.”

As many of you know, Jefitoblog vanished like the island in Lost and a huge void was left in the blogosphere. Instead of wallowing in misery, Jeff decided to gather up a group of his favorite writers (many of whom were involved with Bloggers for a Cure) and formed Popdose. I was honored that he asked me to bring the Basement Songs to the new site. Besides the opportunity to expand my audience beyond twenty people, readers would actually get to hear the songs!

In the beginning of 2008, after revising the very first Basement Song writeup of “The Rainbow Connection,” I published my first new column (I decided to call it a column instead of a post all of a sudden) for Popdose: a 1500-word essay on Bryan Adams’ “(Everything I Do) I Do It For You.” It took a long time for me to live down my affection for that song and Bryan Adams in general. Some comment I made about Taylor Swift a couple months back seemed to quell the abuse I received for writing so lovingly about Canada’s answer to John Mellencamp.

As 2008 progressed, the column slowly transformed from a weekly write-up about a song  into a running memoir that happened to feature a song in it. However, by the fall, the weekly outpouring of emotions that constitutes my life started to get difficult. There were skipped weeks, re-postings of old columns, and I questioned how long I could continue writing the Basement Songs. At this time last year, I imagined hitting 100 columns and possibly closing the basement door forever. How much b.s. can one guy have to say about himself?

At the beginning of this year I felt rejuvenated by a month off. Determined to at least write 100 columns, I challenged myself to write a new Basement Song entry for fifty weeks and to feature a different artist each week. Besides using one Thursday in April to review the Springsteen concert I took in with my friend, Jon Cummings, I’ve met that challenge, much to my amazement. And all of a sudden, here it is the second to last week in November and I’ve hit the 100 mark! How the hell did that happen? More importantly, I don’t see an end in sight.

Each week I send out reminders to friends and family when a new Basement Song goes live. As I have told those people many times, writing this column is one of my proudest achievements as a writer. In addition to the outpouring of support and kind words from readers, doing this column has given me the confidence and discipline to tackle writing a novel and actually completing it. But it’s not just the reward of working for Popdose that’s so fulfilling, it’s being a part of the Popdose cyber family, one that supports each other and watches each other’s backs. I have only met four of these people in person (Jon, Zack, Will, and the great John Hughes, who had to step down for professional reasons). I have only spoken to Jeff and Ted on the phone once. Yet I feel close to everyone on the Popdose staff, and would miss them greatly if they weren’t in my life.

A month or so ago, the site had some technical problems that Jeff described as pretty major. For a couple of hours, I wondered if Popdose would go black and cease to exist. Although I thought, “Phew, guess I don’t have to write that review of The Life and Times of Vivian Vyle after all!” I also got very sad at the thought of not having the people who are Popdose in my daily life. On any given day there are four or five emails from our “staff lounge” Google group. The banter back and forth between everyone often has me cracking up, eliciting some strange stares from my wife. These passionate men and women are my friends, even though we may never meet face to face (but seriously, Jeff, do something about that, will you?)

It may seem odd to reflect on the website I contribute to and people I have never met. However, I use this column each week to write about my life and I would be remiss if I didn’t take the time to reflect on Popdose and how it has become a major part of my daily existence. Jeff and Jason and Robert allow me to write what I want even though it has almost nothing to do with pop culture, and for that I will be for forever grateful. I am also forever grateful to all of you people who take the time to read and leave comments or email me or call me on my shit.

And so, I dedicate this week’s basement song to the women and men of Popdose. It’s one of my favorites from the summer of 1991. The lyrics fit the moment and I know, oh I know, that it’s by an artist that everyone on the staff admires and loves.

No, it’s not Bryan Adams.

Until next week,

Aloha

P.S. Oh, what the hell, here’s a Bryan Adams song anyway.

Here’s a catchy (and very ’80s) theme for DK himself. One note about the song: I don’t know whyit speeds up like that. The record isn’t warped (although some of the people involved with the record might be). I think it’s supposed to remind you of when the game gets faster and faster. Or the original version was warped when it was recorded and transferred to the record in the same condition. This is already more time than I’ve spent in years worrying about Donkey Kong.

Donkey Kong Theme

The story opens with the circus coming to town with Donkey Kong as one of its attractions. He used to be part of the zoo, until the zoo closed down and he was sold to the circus. The circus truck passes by the old site of the zoo, now torn down. DK goes there, reminisces, and escapes from the circus truck to head to the construction site. This goes into a song called “The Climber,” which really has nothing whatsoever to do with DK himself. It could just as easily have been a song about Spider-Man.

The Climber

A young lady named Pauline tries to stop him, whereupon he grabs her and takes her to the top of the construction scaffolding. The narrator explained that DK meant Pauline no harm. He just remembered her feeding him at the zoo. Yeah, right. The next song, sung by a Christopher Cross soundalike (Boy, I bet that was a lucrative business!) is called “On Top of the World.” Again, it really has nothing to do with Donkey Kong. It’s just some guy that sings, “I’ll never be the one to run because I’m sitting on top of the world.” If you understand what that means, let me know.

On Top of the World

OK, now the story starts picking up. The narrator calls out to Mario (who delivers pizzas for a living and speaks in a cheesy Italian accent that would put Father Guido Sarducci to shame) to rescue Pauline, who also happens to be Mario’s pizza delivery girl. Mario would visit Donkey Kong at the zoo too, so the narrator knows that DK wouldn’t harm him. He goes to climb the scaffolding, whereupon the big ape throws barrels of oil down at Mario. According to the narrator, Donkey Kong just wants to play catch with Mario. Great advice there, Ms. Narrator! The singers tell Mario to “Jump Up,” which I guess was appropriate considering that that was about all he was able to do in the game. I also like the guy early on that shouts, “Hey! What’s going on?” in an incredibly annoying voice.

Jump Up

Well, as I’m sure you guessed, Mario saves Pauline and, to reward Donkey Kong, declares that the top of the building become a zoo for him. That’s just what the city needs: a two-ton gorilla living on the top twenty floors of a multi-story building. Can you say, “Lawsuit in the making”? Anyway, here’s the song the townspeople sing to Mario, their hero, where they try to rhyme “Mario” with “Smiley-o.” I do like the harmonies on the “M-A-R-I-O-Ki-Yay” part though.

Mario Delivers

So that’s the story of Donkey Kong. If you want the entire album it can be found here. I thought it was interesting how they tried their best to make Donkey Kong himself out to be just a poor misunderstood gorilla that was homesick for the zoo. That was never the impression I got from playing the game. How about you? And how come all cartoon Italians either make pizza or work for the Mafia? These questions will probably not be answered in the next “Way Out Wednesday”!

The American music industry has never been particularly interested in — or good at — pursuing slow, sustainable growth models. Americans in general are obsessed with speed, and that’s reflected in our rock folklore — from Elvis striking God’s perfect chord during his first Sun Studios take to Taylor Swift writing hit songs while she was still in high school, we love a fast, out-of-nowhere success story on the pop charts. There’s a whole world outside the spotlight, however, and even though it doesn’t seem to happen as often as it used to, the major labels have occasionally functioned as impatient and/or semi-unwilling incubators for artists who, for one reason or another, take a little extra time to achieve mainstream success.

Like, say, Kansas.

Needlepoint violin solos aside, pretty much everything about Kansas is slow. The first of the band’s many lineups formed in 1970, but it was 1974 before they got around to recording an album, which flopped, as did the two that followed. It wasn’t until their fourth album, 1976’s Leftoverture, that Kansas was able to claw a toehold in the marketplace — and by 1982, when original singer Steve Walsh took a hike and the band briefly morphed into a terrifying CCM/prog hybrid, they had already slid back into commercial irrelevancy. Kansas’ last major label release, In the Spirit of Things, came out in 1988, and their last overall studio effort, Somewhere to Elsewhere, was released almost ten years ago.

While contemporaries like Boston, Styx, and REO Speedwagon managed to retain various degrees of dignity during their commercial dotage, Kansas has given off a sad, flat-footed vibe for the last 25 years or so — Walsh’s departure kicked off an era of multiple breakups, grimy club tours, and long silences punctuated by bargain-priced archival live albums. During the mid ’90s, Kansas attempted a comeback with Freaks of Nature, an album recorded for Intersound, a label widely believed to be a Mafia tax shelter; three years later, they were recording live symphonic covers of their greatest hits for another shady indie outfit, River North. During an interview to promote 2002’s live CD/DVD project Device – Voice – Drum, drummer Phil Ehart admitted that the band had been dumped by not only its last label (prog champions Magna Carta), but its booking agent — a horribly galling admission for a band with evergreen AOR hits in a touring marketplace that always has room for everyone from Air Supply to whatever jiveass live package Alan Parsons happens to be peddling.

But still, Kansas perseveres; according to their website, they were on the road more or less continuously throughout 2009, they’ve recently spun off a Walsh-less satellite group called Native Window, and they’ve teamed up with a hokey-sounding outfit called StarCity Productions to celebrate their 35th anniversary as a recording group with their recently released seventh live album, There’s Know Place Like Home.

I’ve had a long and contentious relationship with Kansas’ music, starting with a series of disappointing encounters with their hit records during my early adolescence. As much as Kansas fans might beg to differ, I’m not sure there’s a classic rock band whose album covers and song titles did a poorer job of delivering what they promised. I mean, Leftoverture? When you’re 14, that title is just about as clever as clever gets, and when you toss in an intricate painting of a beleagured Medieval priest on the cover — and awesome song titles like “Father Padilla Meets the Perfect Gnat” — you’ve got the makings of a kickass rock record with a sense of humor and plenty of quirk. It was all just a ruse, though — a cunning attempt to trick ’70s youth into buying one more album full of bloated showoff musical arrangements and desperately earnest, soul-searching lyrics. Still, there was a certain fire in the belly of those early albums, and the band did a better job than most of blending its hairy prog roots with radio-ready pop songcraft: the “Carry On Wayward Son” single edit is the proggiest 3:30 that’s ever brushed the Billboard Top 10. They may not have been as much fun as Boston (those motherfuckers put a spaceship on the cover of their first album, and they made you feel like you were on one), but they didn’t seem like they’d ever tumble below Night Ranger on the list of marketable touring acts.

Needless to say, I approached There’s Know Place Like Home with no small amount of trepidation, even after reading that the band was joined by original guitarist Kerry Livgren (who left in 1984 after finding Jesus) and Livgren’s original replacement, Steve Morse (whose second-tier classic rock trifecta is rounded out with memberships in the Dixie Dregs and Deep Purple), plus an orchestra. To begin with, despite the tie-in with the band’s name, I can think of few things more depressing than celebrating any kind of anniversary in Topeka, where Know Place was recorded; for another thing, it’s hard to imagine the point of yet another Kansas live release, regardless of the marketing hook. At bottom, this is just product.

I have to say, though — as far as product goes, this really isn’t that bad. It’s true that Steve Walsh’s vocals aren’t what they used to be, but the man is 58; aside from Sammy Hagar, who drinks unicorn blood before every show, I can’t think of any singer physically capable of handling such demanding material over such a prolonged period — and anyway, he sounds a fair sight better than he did on 1992’s Live at the Whisky, and the band’s sound is every bit as tight as you’d expect from a pack of grizzled old road dogs.

The set list should also be commended. Dock a few points for the inclusion of the umpteenth live versions of “Carry On Wayward Son” and “Dust in the Wind,” but both of those were pretty much a given, and Kansas deserves credit for packing its history into a 14-song set that draws from albums both old (set opener “Belexes” comes from 1974’s Kansas) and not as old (Somewhere to Elsewhere gets a nod with “Icarus II”). Even the band’s soggy ’80s output gets a nod — “Hold On,” “Fight Fire with Fire,” “Musicatto,” and “Ghosts/Rainmaker” are all tracks that most bands of Kansas’ vintage would probably rather just leave in mothballs. It all looks and sounds depressingly small for the 35th anniversary party of a band that has sold as many albums as Kansas, but even that’s kind of fitting; this is a band that, for all its prog pomp and spectacle, has always had a blue-collar heart.

That being said, there probably isn’t a person on the planet who needs to own There’s Know Place Like Home. I found it oddly interesting chiefly because I hadn’t listened to a Kansas album since Freaks of Nature, but anyone who’s following the band at this point has probably seen them live multiple times, and probably owns multiple live albums, and this doesn’t add anything truly essential to the catalog. It does offer you the chance to see the ‘09 version of Kansas in hi-def, via a separately sold Blu-ray, but that actually sounds sort of scary; this is a band so allergic to the camera that its label hired Richard Belzer to star in one of its videos — and that was 20 years ago. And why would Kansas want to muck around with Blu-ray, anyway? If Know Place drives anything home, it’s that the biggest part of this band’s charm (limited as it might be, in my opinion) is the way it’s managed to ground prog’s silly flights of fancy to iconography and subject matter that feels time-tested and solidly real. You know, the slow stuff, like rusty threshers, wheat fields, and quill-wielding priests. In a plastic-driven industry obsessed with whatever comes next, and a genre largely preoccupied with crap like faeries and armadillo tanks, that’s pretty admirable, isn’t it?

In the comment section of last week’s White Label Wednesday column on ABC, Ted lamented that I didn’t beat mix the songs together. Today, he gets his wish.

I made roughly 15 to 20 beat mixes during my time as a DJ in college (1987-1991). I didn’t own any gear, so I either made the mixes after hours at the clubs where I worked or I used the gear of a fellow DJ friend, who was brave enough to have his gear in his dorm room. Since the mixes were all recorded on cassette, very few have made the jump to the digital realm. Easy CD Creator had an add-on earlier in the decade that enabled people to input analog sources into their computer, and it would record the tracks and break them down. The program was clearly designed for vinyl, thinking that it would create a new file whenever a song ended or faded out. With beat mixes, this was a little more complicated, since the idea is for there to never be a break. I’d end up with one 12-minute file, and then 15 ten-second files. I would then take this .wav file editor and put the songs back together. Wheee.

The worst thing about uploading the tapes was that the digital recording was really quiet, so I would have to amplify the tracks exponentially, which of course amplified the tape hiss as well. You don’t really hear it when things are jumping, but when a song got quiet…whoooooosh! I should just break down and get one of those USB turntables that can convert vinyl and cassettes, but there is just one problem: I have no money, and with two kids, no time. So most of my tapes are still tapes.

Except for this one. Recorded in early 1991, before the whole ’80s nostalgia thing got into full swing, I made the Retro Mix because I had all these older 12″ singles that just didn’t work well with the newer records I was buying, so I made a mix of nothing but older stuff. This mix was recorded on my friend Paul MacDonald’s gear in his dorm room, and his mixing board had one of the coolest things I had ever seen at the time: it could actually record about three or four seconds of music, which you could trigger like a sample! I know, totally not a big deal now, but I had to experiment with it by spinning the intro to the Power Station’s “Some Like It Hot” backwards. Those drums were just asking for it.

As for the beat mixes themselves here, well, some are good, and some aren’t. Just like any of my beat mixes, really. There’s always one colossal train wreck on each mix, and this time it’s the transfer from Arcadia’s “Election Day” to Level 42’s “Something About You.” The problem was that the percussion intro to “Something About You” is not at the same speed as the rest of the song, so as I was matching the Level 42 beats to the Arcadia track, I was using the middle of the song, and then cued the record back to the beginning. Whoops. I did something atypical with this tape in that I started several of the mixes “hot,” going live with the beat mix from the very first beat of the song. (Talk Talk, Chaka Khan and the Human League, to name a few.) Much of that was out of necessity, since “Don’t You Want Me” only has eight beats before the big keyboard riff hits. And if Chaka Khan looks wildly out of place with the other artists on this mix, keep in mind that the song was written by Green Gartside and David Gamson of Scritti Politti, and sounds exactly like a Scritti song. Green even sings backup.

Now, in case I didn’t already make this clear, be advised: this is an eight-year-old, pre-USB turntable transfer of an 18-year-old cassette, where I recorded a bunch of 25-year-old vinyl. And chewed up 25-year-old vinyl at that. Audiophiles might get hives listening to this, and most of Side II is not beat mixed. (There are only two beat mixes on the entire side.) But anyone looking for an ’80s party mix, or an insight into how my college-age mind worked, might get a kick out of this.

UPDATE: King of Grief to the rescue! He has graciously volunteered to assemble all of the tracks into one mp3 file. And what a marvelous editing job he did, too. Download Side I

Side I
1. Howard Jones – What Is Love?
2. Talk Talk – Life’s What You Make It
3. Thompson Twins – If You Were Here
4. Arcadia – Election Day
5. Level 42 – Something About You
6. Depeche Mode – Everything Counts
7. Chaka Khan – Love of a Lifetime
8. Wham! – Everything She Wants
9. Pet Shop Boys – West End Girls
10. Human League – Don’t You Want Me
11. Eurythmics – Sexcrime (1984)
12 OMD – So in Love

And for reasons that I’ve since forgotten, I added this bit from an old Bugs Bunny cartoon that still stands as my favorite Looney Tunes moment ever.

Side II
1. Power Station – Some Like It Hot
2. After the Fire – Der Kommisar
3. Boomtown Rats – Up All Night
4. General Public – Tenderness
5. The B-52’s – Dance This Mess Around/52 Girls
6. Adam Ant – Friend or Foe
7. A-ha – The Sun Always Shines on TV
8. Frankie Goes to Hollywood – Two Tribes
9. Go West – We Close Our Eyes
10. INXS – The One Thing

Download Side II

Next week: another beat mix, from 2000, using CDs and then-current songs!