The Jayhawks, Music From the North Country: The Jayhawks Anthology – Deluxe Edition (Sony Legacy)
In the grand history of pop music, there haven’t been all that many voices that blended perfectly. Oh sure, there’s been lots of harmony singing, but what I’m talking about is two voices that just sound like they were born to be together. There were the Louvin Brothers, the Everly Brothers, and the Wilson brothers, but those are kin. In the non-related category, I’d offer Bobby Hatfield and Bill Medley of the Righteous Brothers, David Crosby and Graham Nash, and John Lennon and Paul McCartney as examples. I’m sure that you can add your own favorites. Since they were not related, they had to find each other, and the stories of how that happened are often the stuff of music history.
Gary Louris and Mark Olson belong in that category. The story of how they met is really nothing that special. Both were kicking around in different bands in Minneapolis, and when the timing was right in 1985, they got together. Along with bassist Marc Perlman and drummer Norm Rogers, they formed one of the most important roots bands in American music. Call it alt-country, Americana, or No Depression, The Jayhawks were pioneers in the movement. Together with Uncle Tupelo, and later Wilco, they forged the path that many, many artists have followed over the years. Named not for the fabled bird as many suspect, but as an homage to the Dylan-backing Hawks, who became the Band, the Jayhawks have been through some changes over the years, both in their music, and in the band’s membership. They’ve never really achieved the sort of success that they’d hoped for, but they have soldiered on.
Originally inspired by the Sweetheart of the Rodeo-era Byrds, the Flying Burrito Brothers, and anything else that Gram Parsons had to do with, the Jayhawks added something of their own to the stew, and eventually had a sound that defied categories, and ignored trends. They were originally signed to a local Minneapolis label, the legendary Twin/Tone Records, and in 1988 their early demos were spruced up and released on an album called Blue Earth. The beautiful sound of Louris and Olson’s voices blending together became their trademark, and the songs that the two co-wrote were no small part of the equation. In 1989 the august Village Voice called the Jayhawks “the only country rock band that matters.” (more…)
This was the only charting single from McMahon, off his excellent album No Looking Back. A few weeks ago we had the king of soundtracks, Kenny Loggins. This guy has to be the lost, long-distance fifth cousin of Loggins. He didn’t have any hits from soundtracks, but actually enjoyed making music for movies more than making full albums. He wrote and/or performed songs for Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Spring Break, All the Right Moves, and many more movies and TV shows throughout the years. His most well-known song, though, is probably “Cry Little Sister,” from The Lost Boys (where he’s credited as “Gerard McMann”).
Introducing an occasional series wherein we take a look at some of the most massive-sounding songs in pop history. A funny thing happened around 1971, or maybe 1972 — it depends on who you talk to. Progressive rock had been a part of the 1960s music scene, but was most commonly lumped in with psychedelic music and drug rock and was seldom considered an entity unto itself. Then, at the dawn of the Watergate decade, prog escaped into the wide open fields of seven-minute solos, half-hour compositions and mountains coming out of the sky and standing there. The aim was clear — to make a popular form of rock that was as ambitious, orchestral and big as classical music.
Let us begin with the Brothers, Righteous and Walker. The similarities are immediate, starting with the fact that none of the five among the bands were actually brothers. The Righteous Brothers were, famously, Bill Medley and Bobby Hatfield, and their sound was built on a foundation of boomy, wall-of-reverb ambiance, slowly building orchestration from just simple strings to full, rich sections and backup singers that oooh-ed and aaaah-ed like a choir. It would not be strange to call the Righteous Brothers a blue-eyed gospel group under these conditions, especially in Medley and Hatfield’s emphatically roaring delivery. Key examples come in the ripping bridge of “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling,” where their singing is closer to testifyin’ than harmonizing, and on “Unchained Melody,” where Hatfield moves from understated arrangement to nothing less than heaven appearing from the parting clouds. 
The great thing about breakup songs is that you have absolutely no control over what they are; they just happen to be playing in the background, clamped into the CD player or turntable by some tinpot DJ who has no idea the sheer level of emotional damage you’re either enduring or creating. Sometimes this random process creates entertaining non sequiturs; sometimes it creates a moment so jarring that even Patrick Swayze couldn’t make it more awkward.