This story I’m telling, it starts in the middle. But this is a story that loops and circles in on itself, like a cloverleaf roadway; you’ve got to start where you are, and go forward to the beginning.

Imagine you’re Steve Winwood. As the Sixties turn into the Seventies, you’ve already made your bones with the Spencer Davis Group, formed Traffic and broken it up (twice), and headlined the supergroups Blind Faith and Ginger Baker’s Air Force. Now you’re in the studio, laying down tracks for what is supposed to be your first solo album.

And you are twenty-two years old.

Faced with a head-on plunge into rock superstardom and its pressures, and with the druggy chaos of Blind Faith still a fresh memory, perhaps it’s not surprising that you shy away. You retreat back to old collaborations, and even older musics — absorbing the sounds of English folksong and ’50s cool jazz. Moving forward, you loop back to where you started; Steve Winwood’s solo career goes on hold, and Traffic is reborn once more.

You know what? Let’s skip ahead to the beginning.

Origins and Early Singles

It was American producer Jimmy Miller who brought the members of Traffic together — and who defined the sound to which they would hew even after his departure — in sessions for Winwood’s first band, the Spencer Davis Group. Miller remixed the SDG’s “Gimme Some Loving” for American radio, bringing in journeyman musicians Jim Capaldi, Chris Wood, and Dave Mason (who had been the SDG’s road manager) to add percussion and vocal overdubs. The remix cracked the US Billboard top ten, and Miller took the three into the studio with the Davis Group to record the follow-up, “I’m A Man” (download). The elements of Traffic’s sound are all in place; predominant keyboards, gang vocals, and kitchen-sink percussion bubbling through a deep, layered stereo mix.

Leaving Davis in 1967, at nineteen, Winwood threw his lot in with Capaldi, Wood, and Mason — turning the winning sound of late-period Spencer Davis Group towards more psychedelic rock-oriented material. Three lead singers, four songwriters, all proficient in multiple instruments — with an embarrassment of riches, the new group, dubbed Traffic, began a period of intense collaboration, decamping from London to an isolated cottage in Berkshire where they would live, write, and play together. (more…)

Popularity: 13% [?]

Few bands in the history of rock n’ roll have been simultaneously as lucky and doomed as Badfinger. Lucky because they were not only one of the wildly eclectic assortment of artists the Beatles signed to their Apple Records label in 1968, but also because they had the talent and the songs to actually make something of their good fortune. And doomed because of poor management and a fatal dose of hopelessness. But we’ll get to that in a bit.

When the band joined the Apple roster, they were operating under the name the Iveys. And, much like their similarly botanically named contemporaries the Hollies, the Iveys – who consisted of vocalist/guitarist Pete Ham, vocalist/guitarist Tom Evans, bassist/vocalist Ron Griffith and drummer Mike Gibbins – were playing a highly melodic, often jaunty and sometimes dramatic mix of British invasion rock n’ roll. They were slightly out of fashion in the late ’60s, and yet, being that they sounded an awful lot like the Beatles, it mattered very little. The Beatles could do no wrong, and as the Beatles themselves were acutely aware of this, they wisely took the band under their wing. In time, Badfinger became the most successful act on the Apple roster, apart from the Beatles themselves. Along with Big Star and the Raspberries, the band helped shape what we all would come to know as “power pop.”

The Iveys - Maybe Tomorrow (1969)
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Tony Visconti was tasked with producing the debut LP by the Iveys. The album was preceded by a single that was thought to have great potential, the melancholy, Left-Banke-ish, Tom Evans-sung ballad “Maybe Tomorrow.” When it failed to dent the top 40 in the states (the single stalled at #67), the album’s release was canceled by Apple’s US distributor, Capitol. However, the album still made it to store shelves in Japan and parts of Europe. What those countries heard was a mixed bag of feisty rockers, cutesy pop ditties and a very Beatley sound.

From the lighthearted tale of a “Fisherman,” sung again by the Paul McCartney of the band, Tom Evans, to the bizarre juxtaposition of a sad eviction tale sung along to vaguely Mexican-sounding, not terribly unhappy music with a supple Pete Ham lead vocal, “They’re Knocking Down Our Home” (download), the contents of Maybe Tomorrow are all over the place. Sometimes this is a good thing; other times it falls flat, like when the band added some ridiculous call-and-response to “I’m In Love,” or the silly wah-wah and affected chorus vocals in “Think About The Good Times” (download). The most impressive song here is the closer, a Pete Ham-sung, a long-ish tune called “I’ve Been Waiting” (download) that foreshadowed Weezer’s dramatic, similarly placed “Only In Dreams” 25 years later. The band’s first effort may not have been a broadly defining moment, but the power pop template was being formed. Except that nobody really knew it yet. (more…)

Popularity: 13% [?]

Yes, gentle readers, we treated you to an interview with Matthew Ryan on Monday, and today — which just happens to be the day his new album comes out — we’re giving him the full-on Popdose Guide treatment. That’s what the dudes in suits call “synergy,” except it doesn’t usually sound this good.

Like a lot of our Popdose Guides artists, Matthew Ryan has never sold a lot of records, but he’s enjoyed consistently positive reviews throughout his career; his debut inspired critics to use magic words like “Springsteen” and “Waits” in their writeups, and they’ve continued using them ever since.

Such comparisons are rarely helpful to an artist’s career — just ask the dozens of New Dylans who have been without record deals since the mid-’70s — but in Ryan’s case, it’s easy to hear why they’ve been made so often: His bruised-but-beautiful protagonists seek redemption as fervently as any of Springsteen’s working class heroes, and they’re brought to life with hard-fought vocals that suggest a raspier, more tuneful Waits.

Intrigued yet? Good. You’re in for an extra treat this week — we’ve been lucky enough to get a few words about each of these albums from Matthew Ryan himself.

Let’s get started.

May Day (1997)
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“Well, I can’t believe it’s been 11 years since I made this. To me, it sounds young. But I’m proud that my intent was true and I didn’t compromise, since I didn’t know how to make records. Fortunately, David Ricketts (one half of David & David, a really great band from the ’80s) produced it, and knew how to make records. I wanted to make music as raw as the Replacments, Crazy Horse and the Clash, but I wanted it to be as elegant as the Blue Nile & U2. Even then I felt there was strength found in conspiring with the darker self.

“It was on this record, actually during the promotion of the record, that I realized honesty is dangerous. Often when people hear something honest they don’t want to hear themselves in it. I’ve always suspected that those that hated this record, or even still hate my music, probably need it the most. I don’t say that for the sake of ego, but because of what I’m talking about, what I’m trying to communicate. This was a good and a bad time. My soul knew who I was, but my head was too sensitive.” (more…)

Popularity: 12% [?]

(This guide was originally published in 2005, before Chris Whitley’s passing. It’s been expanded and edited, but may still contain a few vestiges of its original form. Apologies in advance.)

Let’s talk about the blues.

It only seems appropriate, after all, given that it’s Tuesday, the bluesiest day of the work week — last weekend a distant memory, Friday a tantalizing speck on the horizon — and given that we haven’t really had a blues discussion here before. Oh, sure, I’ve mentioned the blues, usually as a reference point for something an artist is doing, but that’s mostly just laziness on my part. It isn’t that I’m a blues scholar, able to draw lines between pop and jazz and rock and blues; it’s that the blues is where pretty much everything comes from, so it’s usually an easy connection to make. The blues, as a genre, is the primordial sludge of American music. You can’t get away from it (at least, not if you want to write a good song) — it’s who we are. People who say they don’t like blues music don’t have any idea what they’re talking about; what they’re usually reacting to is an image in their confused brain of an evil-eyed man in a pork-pie hat, his chair tipped back against the wall next to the jukebox, guitar on his lap, muttering something about how his baby done left him.

That isn’t the blues. It’s a spot on the blues’ pinky fingernail. It is, though, a helpful starting point for today’s discussion, because it’s illustrative of the 20th-century archetype of the bluesman, and serves as a useful backdrop for today’s Popdose Guide to Chris Whitley.

Initially, Whitley appeared to be a fresh update on that evil-eyed guy leaning up against the jukebox, but over time, he proved himself to be something else entirely. An inveterate wanderer — both literally and figuratively — who seemed almost incapable of doing the same thing twice, he fidgeted restlessly with the established form and shape of the genre for over a decade before his untimely death in 2005. But like any great songwriter, no matter which way he approached the blues — stripped-down National guitar, turntables and beats, or other angles entirely — his vision held true. He embodied the blues — but not the bright, cuddly approximation favored by B.B. King and guys who wear Dockers. Whitley’s music breathes rheumy breaths; it rises with a menacing rattle, falls with an unsteady hiss, and drips with the burning dread of approaching death. It may not always be pretty — in fact, it’s often damn unsettling — but it’s usually great and always unflinchingly honest.

Here we go. (more…)

Popularity: 13% [?]

He hasn’t released nearly as many albums as most (all?) of our previous subjects, but David Mead is a perfect Popdose Guide artist — which is to say that vast portions of his catalog (or his entire catalog — whatever) remain sadly undiscovered by the majority of the listening public. Actually, in Mead’s case, they’re not only undiscovered but out of print, which is a bullshit state of affairs which we aim to partially rectify today.

So yeah, this will undoubtedly be one of our shorter guides — but trust me when I tell you it’ll be stuffed to the rafters with great songs, the kind of songs that will send you rushing breathlessly to your favorite online retailer in search of your very own copies of these fine albums. (Judging from what the Amazon links below are telling me, you can get the whole David Mead catalog for something like 75 cents used, which would send me into fits of rage if I weren’t so sleep-deprived.)

On with the show!

The Luxury of Time (1999)
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Not that I’ve given this any real thought, but if I were to compile my personal list of Best Debut Albums by Any Artist Ever, David Mead’s The Luxury of Time would have to rank, if not near the top, then at least comfortably toward the upper middle. (What? That’s still totally a compliment — there have been a lot of debut albums.) Legend has it that Mead, fresh from his stint with minor Nashville legends Joe, Marc’s Brother, strolled into the offices of RCA Records (with his manager, natch — don’t go trying this at home), pulled out his acoustic guitar, and crooned himself a deal right there and then. The RCA brass were that impressed with his talent.

And then RCA proceeded to do what they’ve done with pretty much every single one of their artists besides Elvis, which is: fuck everything up. (more…)

Popularity: 12% [?]

Doesn’t look like the godfather of punk, does he?

Well. Maybe not the godfather, but perhaps a kindly uncle. Either way, Nick Lowe’s footprint on punk — hell, on all of British pop music, really — is a whole lot larger than you’d expect for a guy whose early albums are frequently (for instance, as of this writing) out of print.

How all of this came to be is a little involved. First and foremost, Lowe is known as a progenitor of what’s commonly called “pub rock,” a British phenomenon of the ’70s that sounded pretty much the way you’d expect. The big bands of the era sounded BIG — Queen, T. Rex, Yes — and pub rock’s Working Joe aesthetic provided a stark, welcome contrast. Pub rockers tended to look pretty much the way you’d expect, too; guys like Lowe, Mickey Jupp, Paul Carrack, and Ian Gomm were long on talent and short on rock-star flash.

It’s that talent that made the difference. Calling their music pub rock played up the performers’ working-class roots, but it also obscured what phenomenal songwriters many of them were. The movement gave rise to Elvis Costello, Graham Parker, and a number of others whose names never made it to household status.

Like Nick Lowe. (more…)

Popularity: 16% [?]

What, you thought we were kidding around with the whole “Al Week” thing? Shame on you. And while we’re at it, shame on you for thinking Al Jarreau is too square for the retrospective treatment. Yes, he’s made his share of dreadful R&B music; yes, he spent most of the ’80s bogged down in adult contemporary hooey. But shit, people, Al’s got bills to pay just like you, and no matter how many sappy ballads he’s released, he has remained a ferocious vocal talent underneath it all. Here, check it out. I’ll show you.

We Got By (1975)
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A lot of critics say Jarreau’s first “official” release (not counting 1965, since Jarreau himself doesn’t seem to, and I’m not sure it’s ever been issued on CD) is his best, and while this is sort of a shitty thing to say about someone who’s been making albums for over 30 years, it’s easy to see where these people are coming from. All the missteps he’d make later in his career — excessive sentimentality, synthesizer fever, a willingness to record undemanding material — are nowhere to be found here. Instead, you hear a vocalist with uncommon range, gleefully running the gamut between pop, jazz, and R&B. He’d shortly reveal a weakness for the pretty stuff, but in the meantime, songs like “Spirit” (download) and “Raggedy Ann” (download) show that Jarreau could throw down with the best of them. (more…)

Popularity: 14% [?]

I love rooting for the underdog. In almost any scenario, whether it’s sports or politics or just plain real life, I root for the little guy. This means I’m frequently frustrated, of course, but that’s neither here nor there; I’m giving you this personal detail because it’s the only explanation I can think of for my inordinate fascination with Toto.

It sounds a little funny calling them underdogs — it’s Toto’s style of music, after all, that formed part of the establishment that punk (just to give one example) reacted against. Most of the bandmembers were music biz veterans well before Toto the band even existed as a recording group — keyboard player David Paich, keyboard player Steve Porcaro, drummer Jeff Porcaro, bass player David Hungate, and guitarist Steve Lukather were in-demand session players for pretty much any record being made in L.A. for years. Paich and Porcaro had well-known relatives in the industry. In other words, these guys were total insiders.

And yet, in spite of all this, virtually their entire career has been one long uphill struggle. They’ve had to overcome shifting trends, rotating personnel, and critical hostility (not to mention the lamest name for a rock band ever.) They swept the 1982 Grammies, sold millions of records, and became a semi-permanent fixture on Top 40 radio in the ’80s, and yet they were never, not even for a minute, cool. In fact, due to the resolute and utter facelessness of their sound, a lot of people who liked Toto songs probably didn’t even realize they were Toto songs.

Of course, that facelessness was the band’s own fault. Though technically amazing musicians, as a unit, they were often somehow less than the sum of their collective parts. They could (and often did) play just about any type of music under the sun, but it was difficult to discern an absolute commitment to any of them, or even an honest artistic vision. During the height of the band’s success, Toto may just as well have been Chicago or Foreigner or Journey; their commercial triumphs were arguably due more to their ability to mimic current trends than anything else.

Because of all this, today’s Guide is a bit of an anomaly. I’ve written the other ones out of an intense love for the music of whichever band or artist happens to be the topic, but I have no such feelings for Toto. Have they written and recorded good music? Yes. A few classics, even? Maybe. But even though I know they’re out there, I don’t really know what makes a hardcore Toto fan tick — I just think the fact that they’ve managed to persist for almost 30 years now is deeply fascinating, and even sort of admirable. I guess what it boils down to is that this Guide will probably contain a lot of lukewarm reviews, backhanded compliments, and even a few snarky comments, but it’s all in good fun. (more…)

Popularity: 20% [?]

[He doesn’t write them anymore — in fact, they aren’t even online anymore — but truth be known, it was my good friend Ben Wiser who inspired the original Idiot’s Guide series, via his impassioned, messy, and always entertaining Field Guides. He always wrote about artists I’d never bothered to investigate too deeply, or that I’d written off outright, and even when I knew I didn’t like whatever music he was writing about, he always had a way of making me want to go back and listen to it again.

Anyway, toward the end of ‘05, I got a request from Eric at Theme Park Experience for a Tom Waits Guide. I love Waits’ early Asylum albums, but some of his stuff is beyond me, so although I’ve got all his records, that’s something I’d never write.

Luckily, though, one of Ben’s old Field Guides focused on Waits (and, actually, was my reason for going back and filling in the gaps in my own Waits collection). Through his kind permission, we re-christened it and republished it way back in ‘06 — now here it is again. Enjoy!]

Closing Time (1973)
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Tom’s debut as the late night, honeythroated troubadour. He covers a lot of ground on this one. It’s amazing to think of this as a debut, I mean, it sounds like he’s been doing it for years. If a heart beats in your chest, “Martha” (download) and “I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love With You” (download) will make you weep. The whole thing is a classic. Like a Capra film, it’s good for the holidays. (more…)

Popularity: 31% [?]

[Editor’s Note: I just checked, and it was November 24, 2005 when I got an e-mail from Ken saying “If you ever want someone to do a guest Idiot’s Guide to: The Smiths, R.E.M. or Lloyd Cole, I’m your guy.” He later went on to cover the Smiths for Jefitoblog — and co-authored the Lemonheads guide last year — but the Lloyd Cole guide has been our personal equivalent of the Anselmo case for many moons. Until now, that is.

Lloyd Cole has been releasing albums for damn near 25 years, and you probably haven’t heard any of them — which makes him a perfect Popdose Guides artist. Ken’s done a fine job of making a case for Cole, so sit back, open your ears, and enjoy!]

(more…)

Popularity: 19% [?]