Posts Tagged ‘John Cale’

The Most Disturbing Halloween EVER!: John Cale

That’s right, folks, the most disturbing Halloween EVER! From now until Halloween, the Popdose staff are going to be thumbing through their record collections in search of the music that gives them the worst case of the heebie-jeebies. In this installment, Jack Feerick looks back at a John Cale album from 1982. —Anthony Hansen

I came to John Cale by way of Alan Moore. That sounds pretty roundabout, but I figure it’s not uncommon. See, Moore used a (misquoted and misattributed) Cale line as the epigram for the mind-blowing final chapter of Watchmen, and Watchmen has probably sold more copies over the years than any John Cale record has, ever. So there must be other poor souls out there who closed the book on that final panel — impossibly stark, just white text on black with the icon of a clock, hands pointing to midnight — and then flipped back to the indicia to find the source of the quote.

It would be a stronger world, a stronger loving world to die in.

Because, you know, you read a line like that, a line that in itself seems to offer up (not unlike the ending of Watchmen) both a bleak judgment of the human condition and a steely glint of compassion. I was aware of Cale only by reputation — I had not yet heard the Velvet Underground, though of course I knew of them, and I knew that Cale’s solo work tended to veer between prettily orchestrated chamber pop and screaming maniacal rock, and that his lyrical worldview tended to be dark, bloody, and perverse. Yeah, okay. But a line like that begs for some context, is what I’m saying. (And, y’know, Alan Moore knows the score.) And so, in time, I hunted down a cheap cassette of 1982’s Music for a New Society — a title that seemed, again, both hopeful and ominous — took it home, slipped it into my Walkman in my bedroom, in the dark, late at night, to listen while I settled down to sleep.

It was weeks before I found the courage to listen to it again. Hell, it was a couple of days before I found the courage to sleep again. This was — well, it was scary stuff.

Now, “scary” covers such a broad range of emotion, from the enjoyable tingle of watching a horror movie to utter pants-shitting terror, and it shades into sadness or anger at either end. A ranting madman can be scary — but so can a whisper in a quiet house. Almost all effective music has a certain spooky quality (it’s no accident we speak of a catchy melody as being “haunting”), but self-consciously “scary” music is hard to pull off without turning into wretched self-parody (see the oeuvre of Brian “I’m the Devil! BOOGA BOOGA BOOGA!” Warner, of the popular beat combo Marilyn Manson).

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Unsolicited Career Advice for… Jandek

To know the unknowable is one of the great pursuits of sentient beings everywhere.  Has been for as long as there’s been sentient beings.  But to truly know the unknowable (or at least be rendered confused and queasy from it), spend an hour or two listening to and pondering the music of the outsider artist Jandek.  Or, like Uncle Donnie, stumble upon him completely by accident and start writing him harassing memos, offering career advice.  Your call.  – RS

TO: Jandek
FROM: Don Skwatzenschitz
RE: Career Advice

I know who you are, Jandek. Oh, you think you’ve pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes, but I know where you are and where you live and where you’ve made all 55 of your records—every last uncomfortably atonal, virtually indecipherable one of ‘em. How, you might ask? I have friends in the Houston suburbs who had me over for dinner last month while I was in town for the John Basedow Abdominal Exercise Seminar and Chili Cookoff. You might know my friends—Carrie and Tom Milkowitz. As in your next door neighbors Carrie and Tom Milkowitz?

As I sipped my Manhattan on their back deck and watched you pick snap peas from your garden, it occurred to me that you could be so much bigger than you are. I mean, I only knew you from Spin magazine and that documentary done about you a few years back. I’ve only recently started making my way through your voluminous discography (I can only do it while my wife Mitzi is out with her canasta group, or when she’s asleep), and there’s some interesting stuff in there. And by interesting stuff, I mean uncomfortably atonal, virtually indecipherable stuff. But it’s all marketable, if you take my advice and try a couple things: (more…)

Lo-Fi Mojo: Proto-Little Feat

Lo-Fi Mojo

The original Lowell George-led Little Feat had a string of classic albums in the 1970s, from their self-titled debut on through 1978’s live Waiting For Columbus, their best seller.

After George died at the age of 34 in a hotel room in 1979, of an apparent heart attack, during a tour in support of his one and only solo album (Thanks, I’ll Eat It Here), Little Feat reformed in the late ‘80s, featuring all the surviving former members. They’ve been successfully touring and releasing albums in one incarnation or another ever since.

But as successful as late-model Little Feat is (was?) – their 1988 “comeback” album Let It Roll went gold and contained the band’s career-first No. 1 hit (on the Mainstream Rock Chart at least), “Hate to Lose Your Lovin’” – and even though they’ve been Little Feat longer without him than with him, the shadow of Lowell George will forever hang over them.

Lowell George was best known for his phenomenal slide guitar playing. He got a distinctive sound primarily due to his use of a socket wrench instead of the traditional glass or steel tube, which he apparently started using due to an injury to his hand involving a model airplane propeller.

But George’s talents weren’t limited to his guitar playing. He also had an amazingly soulful voice, and as a songwriter he’s penned enough classics to ensure his place in the pantheon of great rock ‘n’ roll songwriters. George also played on John Cale’s landmark 1973 album Paris 1919. And as a producer, his most famous credit (beyond Little Feat’s own albums) was the Grateful Dead’s 1978 masterwork Shakedown Street (though due to his drug use he had to be replaced.

Here at lo-fi central, however, we’re not as interested in the classics as we are the prototypes of those classics. So in regards to Lowell George and Little Feat, we’re reaching back to a few tracks recorded prior to their 1971 self-titled Warner Bros. debut, all pulled off the career-spanning box set Hotcakes & Outtakes: 30 Years of Little Feat released in 2000.

”Lightning-Rod Man” was recorded in late 1966 by The Factory, a pre-Little Feat Lowell George group that also contained Martin Kibbee (a future George songwriting partner co-writer of such Little Feat hits as “Dixie Chicken” and Rock & Roll Doctor), Richie Hayward (the drummer who’s still in Little Feat more than 40 years later), and none other than Frank Zappa, who, in addition to adding piano and distinctive backing vocals, also produced the cut. Two years later, in fact, George joined Zappa’s band (Weasels Ripped My Flesh era) for a stint. The story goes that George was booted from the Zappa camp because of George’s song “Willin’,” which contains some none-too-subtle references to drug use (“weed, whites and wine”) – though it could just have easily been due to a violation of Zappa’s well-known no-drug policy for his players.

The next three songs were recorded in 1969 by the earliest version of Little Feat, and feature bassist Roy Estrada (an original member of Zappa’s Mothers of Invention), as well as Hayward and keyboardist Bill Payne (the second-longest member of the group who’s tenure has remained current through the present day). The recordings also feature Elliot Ingber (guitar) on “Teenage Nervous Breakdown” and “Juliet.” Ingber went on to play in Capt. Beefheart’s Magic Band (after being renamed Winged Eel Fingerling).

“Little Feat – Crack In Your Door”

“Little Feat – Teenage Nervous Breakdown”

“Little Feat – Juliet”

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