It took him almost two months, but Anthony Hansen is back with the final installment of his guide to David Bowie’s recording career. Let’s get eclectic … and let’s dance!
So Bowie sold out. Really, what else could he do? Selling out was the thing to do in the ’80s, and Bowie was always one to stay on top of current trends. Of course, he had to have it his own way, drafting Nile Rodgers as producer, enlisting Stevie Ray Vaughan as the lead guitarist, and making a hit out of an old Iggy Pop collaboration (that would be the only slightly cringe-inducing “China Girl”). And of course, some of the songs had to kick ass. “Modern Love” is as exciting an opener as any in Bowie’s catalog, and the title track was a deservedly huge hit, an addictive slice of disco-funk that sounds like it was recorded in an exceptionally trebly cathedral. The rest of the album is carried along by the momentum of the three singles, not just in terms of quality but stylistically as well, which means that this is essentially a party album through and through. It may be the one case where all the “style over substance” claims lobbed at Bowie ring true, but it’s still one hell of a style. Fuck art — let’s dance.
Apparently running out of ways to surprise his audience, Bowie decided to try failing miserably. This isn’t terrible as far as mainstream ’80s pop goes, but by Bowie’s usually high standards, it’s a complete misfire. Supposedly he didn’t even want to record this album, and it shows: more than half of the album’s songs are attempts to get Iggy Pop more royalty money, leaving two genuinely good singles (“Loving the Alien” and “Blue Jean”) and two lame-ass covers that make a valid case for manually removing and eating one’s own eardrums. I suppose there’s some decent stuff among the Iggy numbers, provided you’re comfortable with a barely-audible Tina Turner, an overzealous horn section, and a full-time marimba player. Welcome to the ’80s, Bowie fans. Welcome to hell. (more…)
Most people born before 1990 have some familiarity with the rock band KISS. Fans my age (44) remember the glory years in the mid- to late ‘70s, while younger fans remember the reunion tours of the mid-’90s, or bass player Gene Simmons’s A&E reality show, Family Jewels. Hand in hand with familiarity come opinions regarding the efficacy of the group: Were they just a glam band with a great marketing plan? Is their music any good? Or as my friend Debbie said, “They’re okay, but they’re no Scorpions!”
I’d like to help the non-KISS fan here to:
recognize the musical appeal of the group;
know which albums to embrace and avoid;
gain a greater appreciation for what KISS did for live rock ‘n’ roll performance.
By the same token, KISS did (and continues to do) ridiculously stupid things, and pointing out some of those foibles makes for good sport. So let’s begin at the beginning with the first three albums, released in 1974 and ‘75.
He’s been dismissed as insincere, overrated, pretentious, and unoriginal. He’s also been praised as a visionary, a genius, and one of the single most important musicians in the history of rock music. He’s made an entire career out of defying expectations, changing his style and image on what is sometimes an album-by-album basis. In his “classic period” alone he went from being a brainy, introspective singer-songwriter to a flashy glam-rock idol to a cocaine-fueled funk enthusiast to an aggressively left-field purveyor of experimental rock. All this in little over a decade, each phase spawning virtual legions of imitators. He almost single-handedly revived the careers of Iggy Pop, Mott the Hoople, and arguably one of his own biggest influences, Lou Reed. He was one of the first rock artists to openly flirt with bisexuality and play with gender roles, giving a lot of insecure and sexually confused teens in the macho ’70s a rock idol they could call their own. His back catalog is dense and divisive, and to pick one album that sums him up is nigh impossible.
The point is, he’s David Bowie, and depending on which variation of David Bowie you encounter, there’s no guarantee that you’ll like what you hear. The best of his material, however, retains a freshness and relevance that counters any dismissal of his talent as mere trend hopping. So here it is, folks — hot on the heels of the most pompously reverent-sounding introduction I’ve ever written, part one of the Popdose Guide to David Bowie.
Though Utopia isn’t quite to Todd Rundgren what Tin Machine was to David Bowie, there are definitely some parallels that can be drawn between the two projects. Both represented an already established artist subverting their egos to pursue a completely different musical path within a band framework, essentially giving them the freedom to establish a separate identity without the high expectations that would have been attached to their own material. Rundgren started Utopia in the early 70s as a response to all the progressive rock bands he saw getting popular at the time, and made them the over-the-top, theatrical flip side to his highly personal, quietly eccentric pop style. What’s interesting, though, is the way Utopia actually evolved over time, quickly becoming more and more commercial as Rundgren’s own material become more and more esoteric. That said, Utopia was still every bit as unpredictable as Todd Rundgren’s own career. The upside to this is that they eventually grew into being a bona fide band as opposed to a mere vanity project, but taking advantage of the freedom to do whatever the hell they wanted meant they never kept a solid audience for too long, outside of the already-devoted Rundgren aficionados. A damn shame, if you ask me, but that’s what the Popdose Guides are for, I suppose. And on that note…
Though many categorize this album as Todd Rundgren’s big leap into progressive rock, I actually hear a pretty big jazz-fusion influence here as well (Ã la Return to Forever and the like). Frank Zappa also casts a mighty shadow over the proceedings, “Freak Parade” being more or less a 10-minute Zappa pastiche. To sum it up briefly: this album is a perfectly valid exercise in prog-jazz-rock-fusion-whatever-you-wanna-call-it, mainly because the band is full of first-rate players and Rundgren makes sure to throw in some actual song-like parts amidst all the noodling. However, unless I start investing in a serious psychedelic drug habit, I can’t see this ever entering heavy rotation on my personal playlist. It’s not every day that I’ll want to sit down and listen to a half-hour piece of music, regardless of how good it is (this would be “The Ikon”), and the shortest track on the album (“Freedom Fighters”) is also the least memorable. In spite of my nitpicking, however, this is still a fascinating curio in Todd Rundgren’s discography, and definitely worth at least a cursory listen (though it takes a lot of patience to get to the good stuff). Here’s my favorite track, “Utopia Theme”. (more…)
Click full screen to get the full effect. Also, just so you know, I’ve never done radio, a podcast, or pencast in my life, so please consider this the rookie effort it is.
For someone who can talk your ear off, Syd Straw certainly has built an enigmatic career. After establishing her bona fides as an arty modern-rock diva during the mid-’80s, as part of the Golden Palominos collective, Straw released her solo debut Surprise in 1989 – then didn’t make another album for seven years. Her next break, following 1996’s War and Peace, was even longer: a dozen years, ending with the appearance last year of Pink Velour.
Not that Straw wasn’t working through the intervening years. Her husky, distinctive voice has made her a favorite among discerning artists and producers looking for a duet partner or backing vocalist; her list of guest credits is as long as her own discography is short. She also found work as an actress during the 1990s, and a generation of Nickelodeon-bred dorks (you know who you are) remember her as the number-fetishizing Miss Fingerwood on The Adventures of Pete and Pete.
Most of all, she has remained a beloved, influential (and eccentric) presence among fellow musicians, indie-rock scenesters, artists and literary types – always quick with a bon mot (or 10), always with her beloved dog Henry in tow, and always generous with her time and talents. (The title of this Popdose Guide was Straw’s idea, something to do with a well-connected artist who’s released just three albums in 20 years circling all the way back around from obscurity to a position just the other side of ubiquity.)
The Golden Palominos, Visions of Excess (1985) and Blast of Silence(1986)
Straw got her first exposure to the musical big time singing background vocals for Pat Benatar, but she rose to prominence with her contributions to these albums, which (like all the Palominos’ discs) featured collectives of high-profile alt- and art-rock musicians gathered together by former Feelies and Pere Ubu drummer Anton Fier. Visions of Excess was the group’s second album and its most popular, thanks to Michael Stipe’s vocals on “Boy (Go)” and “Omaha” as well as John Lydon’s on “The Animal Speaks.” It was Straw, however, who proved the real discovery on Visions; her riveting vocals came as a revelation toward the end of the set, on the tracks “(Kind of) True” and “Buenos Aires.”
Blast of Silence followed a year later and featured an utterly different sound from its predecessor; two decades on, it’s remembered as one of the albums that gave birth to the alt-country genre. Fier’s assemblage this time featured Matthew Sweet, Jack Bruce, T-Bone Burnett, Don Dixon, Chris Stamey and many others. Again, however, it was Straw who provided the most resonant contributions, including “Angels” (which she co-wrote with Fier and Peter Blegvad) and a terrific cover of Lowell George’s “I’ve Been the One.” Straw toured extensively with the Palominos during this period, enhancing her reputation as both a lead vocalist and band member, and endearing her to a vast array of alt-rock insiders who would provide her with work and comradeship for decades to come. (more…)
To fans of her four albums of marvelous acoustic pop in the mid-to-late ’80s, Marti Jones seemed on the cusp of becoming the next (albeit far hipper) Linda Ronstadt. Jones had inherited La Ronstadt’s knack for putting a mainstream sheen on the songs of neglected rock tunesmiths; meanwhile, her partnership (professional and otherwise) with producer Don Dixon brought her music a modernist edge even as the couple matched terrific melodies with her bright, if slightly world-weary, alto voice.
Their creative alchemy reached its zenith on 1988’s Used Guitars, one of the decade’s finest recordings, and a celebratory four-night run at the Bottom Line in New York that brought together all the album’s songwriters. Those shows (and a subsequent appearance on Late Night with David Letterman) were a highlight of Jones and Dixon’s never-ending tours of those years, which we discussed last week here at Popdose. But a funny thing happened along Jones’ ascent as the pre-eminent interpreter of modern pop: Used Guitars, like her previous albums, didn’t sell, and neither did its highly touted follow-up, Any Kind of Lie. Within a couple years she had parted ways with two different major labels and found herself effectively out of the industry.
Since then Jones has released precisely two studio albums in two decades, focusing instead on her budding career as a painter; these days you’re far more likely to find the fruits of her creative labor on a gallery wall than in a concert hall. Her paintings reveal the same idiosyncratic spirit that always characterized her musical performances – sometimes serious, sometimes whimsical, always authentic. Popdose posted an exclusive “official bootleg” of a Don-and-Marti show last week; next week, Jones will discuss her recent endeavors, as well as the highlights of her musical career, in an exhaustive Popdose interview. Until then, you may view some of her artwork at www.martijonesdixon.com, and join us now as we explore her back (and, in far too many cases, out-of-print) catalog.
Jones, a product of the surprising musical hotbed that was northeastern Ohio in the 1970s, began her career playing the club circuit in the Akron-Canton area. Friend and fellow Ohioan Liam Sternberg, who was already an established producer and songwriter by 1980, gave Jones her first studio experience singing demos – including one for a Sternberg ditty that eventually became one of the decade’s biggest and most polarizing hits (more about that next week). It was Sternberg who suggested she join up with the three members of Color Me Gone, an established Akron act in need of a lead singer. He then arranged a deal for the band with A&M Records, resulting in this six-song EP of promising, if slight, jangle-pop.
The tuneful lead track “Lose Control” set the tone; songwriter/guitarist George Cabaniss (formerly, if briefly, one of the Stiv Bators-led Dead Boys) kept things tuneful and gave Jones plenty of dramatic high notes, qualities also employed to good effect on “Almost Heaven” and “July/December.” The production (by the high-profile trio of Sternberg, David Anderle and Barry Mraz) and the musicianship are workmanlike, the harmonies somewhat less so. What really leaps off the grooves, of course, is Jones’ voice – which explains why, when Jones bailed out on the band following a dust-up with Cabaniss, A&M gave her a solo deal and relegated the rest of the band to obscurity. (more…)
Don Dixon may never quite achieve the lofty stature of rock and roll’s Great Men, but there’s no questioning that for nearly 40 years he’s been one of the industry’s great guys. He’s a repository of well-told tales about musicians famous and forgotten; a producer of renown who midwifed some of the ’80s’ greatest “college-rock” hits; and co-godhead of a cult following that blossomed over years of onstage magic he created alongside his wife, singer Marti Jones. Through all of that, Dixon also has built a small but diverse catalog of recordings under his own name. His songs have explored themes ranging from the personal to the momentous to the ridiculous, but even as his work has matured Dixon has never forgotten the value of a great pop hook.
Dixon’s recollections of his producing career were the topic of last week’s Hooks ’N’ You column, and he reflected on some of his best-remembered songs two weeks ago in that same space. We’ve got more Dixon- (and Jones-) related tricks up our sleeve in the coming weeks here at Popdose; in the meantime, here is an overview of his recordings, with commentary from the man himself.
The word “seminal” gets tossed around way too frequently in rock-crit circles, but here goes: In 1969-70, as a student at the University of North Carolina, Dixon co-founded a band called Arrogance that played a seminal role in the growth of the music scene around the state’s “triangle” area (Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill). Arrogance released five LPs over the next decade, and nearly made the big time despite the usual assortment of personnel changes and label difficulties. Their best chance came with a signing to Curb/Warner Bros. and the release of an album titled Suddenly in 1980; unfortunately, the album stiffed, and within a couple years Arrogance was no more. (Tracks from the band’s records can be downloaded from efolkmusic.org.) (more…)
Listening to rock radio in the early ’90s — particularly the college and ‘alternative’ varieties — was an experience like no other. The ratio of tolerable to intolerable music was so high that no aspiring hipster ever needed to flip through top 40 stations again. The cream of those groups (Soundgarden, the Afghan Whigs, Dinosaur Jr., and of course Nirvana and Pearl Jam) were getting their due on MTV, too. There may not have been the kinds of explosive social and political issues, at that time, to galvanize a generation the way ’60s did, and that the last eight years have had, but much of that early ’90s music made a similarly strong connection and reflection of the awkward psyches that were and are common in high schoolers and college students.
Seeing it that way, anyone who still grooves to the grunge and college rock of yesteryear either has some serious unresolved personal issues, or simply hasn’t learned how to grow up yet. As it turns out, one of that era’s icons, Juliana Hatfield, is about to publish her first book, a memoir titled When I Grow Up. Do with that what you will.
Most of us first became familiar with Juliana in the summer of 1993, when what was to become her signature song, “My Sister,” took hold of modern rock radio and MTV, disarming us with its blunt opening line: “I hate my sister, she’s such a bitch.” Either you were enthralled with empathy, you were turned off by the girlishness of Juliana’s voice, or you were like my mother and just laughed. But no matter what the response, you likely did respond in some way to that introduction.
In reality, Juliana does not have a sister (though she does have a brother, Jason, who has collaborated with her once in a while in the studio), and by ‘93, she already had six years of record-making and live performance behind her. While attending the Berklee College of Music, Massachusetts native Juliana Hatfield was approached by drummer Freda Boner (later the less eyebrow-raising Love) and singer/guitarist John Strohm in 1986. (more…)
In The Pogues’ breakthrough 1988 single “Fairytale of New York” (download), songwriter Shane MacGowan and guest vocalist Kirsty MacColl portray a codependent couple. He’s an aging alcoholic, gone beyond repentance, no longer even able to summon up an insincere promise to change. Her devotion to him has destroyed her patience, ruined her health; his devotion to the bottle has left him full of resentment and self-pity.
But they’ll get back together, as they always do, and the dance of love and hate will go on. They’ll remember the good times, before it all went south, and cling to each other in mutual self-delusion. MacGowan’s genius is in showing us how willing these people are to let themselves be deluded. It’s a brilliant, harrowing bit of songwriting. And, whether MacGowan intended it so or not, it’s a brutally honest summation of the group dynamic of the Pogues.
Origins
What you think you know about The Pogues is mostly right. Irish by ethnicity if not by birth, the name from the Gaelic pogue mahone (”kiss my ass”). Folky tunes played at punk velocity, by turns sentimental and profane. Lots of heavy drinking. Lead singer possessed of the most heinous set of gnashers in all Christendom. All correct — but missing a little context.
In Julien Temple’s Sex Pistols doc The Filth and the Fury, you can see Shane MacGowan hamming it up in the archival footage; and, like seemingly everybody else who saw the Pistols in their heyday, he went out and started his own band straightaway. After a stab at fame with his punkabilly outfit the Nipple Erectors, MacGowan hit upon an idea as simple as it was audacious — to apply punk’s DIY, anyone-can-do-it aesthetic to Anglo-Irish folksong, a musical form that valued scholarship and tradition.
MacGowan quickly recruited his sometimes housemates Jem Finer (banjo and guitar) and Peter “Spider” Stacy (vocals, tin whistle) into his new, folk-informed project. James Fearnley, briefly guitarist for the Nipple Erectors, was drafted to play accordion — an instrument he’d never touched — on the grounds that he’d taken piano lessons when he was young. Bassist Cait O’Riordan, only 17 at the time, had met MacGowan when the latter was working at a record shop. Drummer Andrew Ranken, who’d been fronting an R&B big band, was last to join the line-up. The new band, Pogue Mahone, played their first gig in late 1982, and spent the next year or two playing shows, pissing off folk purists and punks alike, and slowly building a following. (more…)
Let’s Dance (1983)
Tonight (1984)
Todd Rundgren’s Utopia (1974)
For someone who can talk your ear off, Syd Straw certainly has built an enigmatic career. After establishing her bona fides as an arty modern-rock diva during the mid-’80s, as part of the Golden Palominos collective, Straw released her solo debut Surprise in 1989 – then didn’t make another album for seven years. Her next break, following 1996’s War and Peace, was even longer: a dozen years, ending with the appearance last year of Pink Velour.
The Golden Palominos, Visions of Excess (1985) and 
Blast of Silence followed a year later and featured an utterly different sound from its predecessor; two decades on, it’s remembered as one of the albums that gave birth to the alt-country genre. Fier’s assemblage this time featured Matthew Sweet, Jack Bruce, T-Bone Burnett, Don Dixon, Chris Stamey and many others. Again, however, it was Straw who provided the most resonant contributions, including 
Color Me Gone (1984)
Most of the Girls Like to Dance But Only Some of the Boys Like To (1985)