This week’s chart is being covered by Popdose’s own Matthew Bolin. Boy, it seems like only yesterday he was giving Popdose readers too many Wham! songs or a reason to love Rod Stewart again. He now runs our “When Good Albums Happen to Bad People” column, and does a damn fine job. Please give it up for Matthew! — JH

I have a theory that the music playing over the radio when you were in the womb can shape your personality — that the muffled vibrations that work their way into your first home can actually have an effect on the person you end up being (or at least they can have an effect on your mom, which in turn has an effect on you). What scientific proof do I base this on? Absolutely nothing, tough guy. However, I figure that the music of the mid-1970s is as good enough a reason as any for why I’m the crazy nut I am today. So, when given the chance by Jason to attack a chart from when I was negative-seven months old, I said “lay it on me.” Let’s take a look at August 11, 1973!

10. Monster Mash — Bobby (Boris) Pickett and the Crypt-Kickers Amazon iTunes
9. Uneasy Rider — Charlie Daniels Amazon iTunes
8. Yesterday Once More — Carpenters Amazon iTunes
7. Let’s Get It On — Marvin Gaye Amazon iTunes
6. Smoke on the Water — Deep Purple Amazon iTunes
5. Bad, Bad Leroy Brown — Jim Croce Amazon iTunes
4. Touch Me in the Morning - Diana Ross Amazon iTunes
3. Brother Louie — Stories Amazon iTunes
2. Live and Let Die — Wings Amazon iTunes
1. The Morning After - Maureen McGovern Amazon iTunes

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You probably won’t be surprised when I tell you that this has been the hardest post for me to write since Popdose started. I mean, it’s been a damn month: what’s the holdup? Well, the truth is I discovered it is a lot easier to write about straight-up criminals like the members of Mötley Crüe, or hardcore divas like Diana Ross, than smug, pretentious assholes like today’s subject, Roger Waters. Simply put, it’s rather entertaining to write about individuals in the former categories. To write about Waters, however, is as trying a task as actually listening to his solo work in an attempt to find if any of them are worth talking about in this column. But I was able to find a good one, or a “good” one, depending on one’s ability to stomach conceptual prog joints. First though, a refresher on Herr Waters’ crimes of pomposity.

-Waters became the default main writer in Pink Floyd after Syd Barrett’s descent into mental illness, apparently exacerbated by a horrible LSD experience. And while Waters often spoke about how he wished to find and kill the man who gave Syd bad acid, this level of care did not apply to the addictions of other members of the band. Waters made the unilateral decision to fire founding Floyd member and keyboardist Richard Wright during sessions for The Wall, when he deemed Wright’s addictions too much of a distraction. Then, as an added slap in the face, he hired Wright back as a session musician to complete the album and go on the abbreviated Wall tour. In other words, Wright was not messed up enough that his talents couldn’t be used, but was messed up just enough that Waters wished to symbolically disassociate himself from him. Charming.

-More than just the main lyricist, Waters made himself de facto leader of the Floyd, taking complete creative control of the direction of the group. This culminated in refusing to put any Gilmour’s songs in 1983’s The Final Cut, then leaving the group after its release and declaring them over, with that album as their final, definitive statement, as if the rest of Pink Floyd really wanted to have their last album be a de facto Waters solo album: The record jacket even said “The Final Cut by Roger Waters, performed by Pink Floyd.” Waters then sued the other members of Pink Floyd to stop them from carrying on under that name after he left the group. His defense was that Pink Floyd should not be allowed to continue because he was the creative leader of the band, and additionally there remained only one original member (Nick Mason) who wanted to carry on. In other words, though Gilmour had been the musical centerpiece of the group for two decades, he was still nothing more to Waters than a hired hand to replace Syd Barrett, so f-all what he wanted. (more…)

When thinking about Rick James nowadays, it seems easy to slip into one of two moods: One is the enjoyment of the way Dave Chappelle satirized his life so humorously, making the phrases “I’m Rick James, bitch!” and “Cocaine’s a hell of a drug” part of the pop culture vernacular for umpteen months. The other is a sense of pity and sadness at a man who was cut down before his time, first by a stroke in 1998, then by death itself in 2004 at age 56.

What these two portraits painted of the original Slick Rick end up doing, though, is making people forget the things he did that went beyond simply having a “bad boy” reputation for loving to party, loving the ladies, and loving to imbibe in the various medicinal cocktails easily obtainable in the 70s and 80s. Things such as:

-After joining the US Naval Reserve at the ripe age of 15, James decided within a year that he preferred music to the military. So, he did what anyone would do in that situation: he just didn’t show up for involuntary weekend training, and went to gigs instead. Then, when word got to James that the military found out about his actions, he went completely AWOL and fled to Canada. Mind you, this was during a time when other members of the military were starting to head to Canada as well. But most of them were at least 18 years of age, and were doing it to avoid war, voice conscientious objection to the war, or both. In Rick’s case, he simply was trying to avoid paying the piper for choosing to spend his weekends holding a bass instead of an anchor.

-James first spent time in prison in the late ’60s — in a military brig, to be exact, after he snuck back into the U.S. to sign with Motown and record songs with his band the Mynah Birds (featuring a young Canadian by the name of Neil Young). As as result of a likely increase in success and income with a record deal, Rick and his bandmates informed their manager that they needed someone who could better manage their new day to day needs. Their old manager handled his dismissal surprisingly well, and with a lot of grace and…oh wait, no, he didn’t. He ratted Rick out to the Feds. (more…)

Berry Gordy is a powerful man. Not only did he found Motown Records, building a musical empire that allowed blacks to crossover into what had pretty much been a white-controlled music industry, but almost as amazing, he was able to convince a young Diana Ross that her crap doesn’t stink, and she has not deviated from that belief one iota over the past 45 or so years. In an industry of big egos, the one belonging to Miss Ross (remember, she must be addressed as such or you will be thrown out — and don’t you dare look her in the eyes!) is likely the biggest, and she has wielded it to not only obtain her huge success, but to build herself into a prick so immense that it would make porn stars gasp. Here are but a few examples of Miss Ross in action:

• While neither the best singer nor most attractive member of the Supremes, Ross did have one important thing up her sleeve, namely, Mr. Gordy’s penis. After unsuccessfully pursuing Smokey Robinson, Ross set her sights on (the married and 15 years older) Gordy. As the mistress of Motown’s founder, she was able to gain full power over the group, becoming its lead singer, getting its name changed to Diana Ross & the Supremes, and upstaging the other members, eventually leaving and employing the full power of the Motown promotional machine behind her solo career, while the Supremes were left to sputter out slowly over the course of the ’70s. Ross, meanwhile, ended up bearing Gordy’s child in 1971, but did not publicly acknowledge who the real father was for 22 years, until she released and was promoting her autobiography (which actually didn’t mention who the father was, either).

• Not only did she upstage the other Supremes throughout their career, she upstaged former Supreme Florence Ballard at Ballard’s own funeral. She went up to the front of the church during the service, grabbed the mike, and announced that she and Mary Wilson were going to lead a silent prayer. Wilson at the time was in a back pew and had no idea what was going on.

• In 1983, she agreed to do a one-off Supremes reunion with Wilson and Cindy Birdsong (Ballard’s replacement in the group) for the Motown 25 TV special. But Ross said she would only do one song instead of the requested four, and refused to practice for it. She also wanted the other two women behind her throughout the song, and when Wilson, who wasn’t informed of Ross’ demand, tried to step forward during the performance, Ross shoved her (this part was cut out of the final broadcast).

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“That’s Leonard’s Jeep,” Robert said as we walked his dog past the monastery. My wife and I had driven north about ten miles, most of it curving two-thirds of the way up Mt. Baldy, to watch my professor’s cabin while he was away on a business trip. The most important part of the job was to make sure his old dog, Toby, was looked after, and walked twice a day. As he showed us the normal route that Toby liked to go, he pointed over to the Buddhist monastery right across the street, halfway between his cabin and the public campgrounds. There were a few vehicles outside the building, all of them likely part-time visitors who would come up for a few days at a time to gain peace and wisdom at the feet of the monks. Among the vehicles there was a silver Jeep, which was likely bought by the unofficial Poet Laureate of Canada to make his nearly-weekly trips from Los Angeles to Baldy, trying to shake a depression, a “cloud” that had settled over him sometime in the early 1990s, and had literally kept him unable to create anything new, either on the page or in the studio, for nearly a decade.

“We’ve had breakfast a couple of times,” Robert added, as he let Toby off the leash and let him wander the ravine separating the monastery from the road. And that was that. No juicy gossip would be forthcoming. But, then again, I wouldn’t have expected any. Not about Leonard Cohen, who even before his period at Mt. Baldy seemed to already carry an almost Buddhist sense of mysticism, both in his work and his very presence. The man was a study in Taoist contradictions: a poet who became a songwriter, while most popular artists went about it the other way around. A man with a voice once called “the worst to ever be signed to a major label,” yet one that perfectly suited both the man and his songs: full of passion, mystery, and the texture of a well-aged port. An Anglo-Quebec native with much more in common, it seemed, with the artists of continental Europe than the Quebecois or English who surrounded him. A Jew whose most well known songs were populated with associations to Christian imagery. A man who looked and sounded like a philosophy professor, and yet always came off as the coolest motherfucker on earth. (more…)

You know who’s good for breakups? Bruce Springsteen. He’s also good for budding romances, weddings, funerals, long walks on the beach, calculus tests, trips to the jungle gym, pretty much anything. But as Matthew Bolin tells us, he’s also a prophet, and has the power to make his songs appear at appropriate times, even when you have no idea how appropriate they are.

“Tunnel of Hate”
By Matthew Bolin

I was fifteen, her name was Jenna, and she was in my class at Hebrew school. I had never had feelings for a girl, really, up until the moment that I walked out of a building at a temple camp in Malibu and saw her standing there, about twenty feet away, her back to me, and bathed in the glow of the industrial outdoor lighting. Somehow, at that moment, I was awakened to the reality of the fairer sex, and my soul blossomed…or burst. One of the two. Anyway, too overcome to do anything about this new feeling, I ran to the bathroom (my original intent when stepping outside), and by the time I came back out, she was gone.

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Rod Stewart’s 1991 cover of Robbie Robertson’s “Broken Arrow” (download) is perhaps the biggest hit that I’ll cover in my series. The third single off of Rod’s Vagabond Heart album, “Broken Arrow” peaked at #20 on Billboard’s Hot 100 Chart and #3 on the AC chart, and the video (featuring Rod’s latest blonde at the time, Rachel Hunter), was a staple for months on both MTV and VH1, (yes, yes, back when they actually played videos). It could be assumed that the reason Rod gives such a heartfelt performance here is because of his love for Ms. Hunter at the time of its recording. For, while it is true that Stewart has moved from woman to woman throughout his life at almost regular intervals, it does seem that for the period of time that he is with his latest paramour, he is genuinely in love. And judging by his performance on this track, Stewart must have been quite smitten with Hunter.

In “Broken Arrow,” like many of his performances discussed in this series, Rod once again gingerly walks the tightrope of his most obvious vocal impulses of this period — screaming and whispering — without tipping over the edge. In the original Rolling Stone review for Vagabond Heart, Don McCleese states that Rod “doesn’t quite connect” with the song, but I don’t agree. I think McCleese probably got sidetracked by two things about the recording — things that in my opinion actually show the strengths of Rod’s performance. (more…)

When I was 17 years old, I had my first serious makeout session. When George Michael was 17, he wrote the song that has arguably led to more makeout and baby-making sessions than any other ’80s song: “Careless Whisper“. Damn, Larry and Balki almost got busy with their stewardess girlfriends on an episode of Perfect Stangers because of it. Historically, it was a song that predated Wham!, and one whose success expedited George Michael’s solo career, and the end of Wham!.

The song also had a extra kick in the teeth for both men in Wham!. Ridgeley had to deal with the song being labeled as a George Michael solo single in the UK, and as “George Michael feat. Wham!” in the United States. And Michael had to deal with the fact that the song was listed as being written by both Michael and Ridgeley, even though Michael wrote it by himself, and Ridgeley didn’t even appear on the recording. Why was this? Well, when the group started out, there was an initial agreement that their first few completed songs would go the Lennon-McCartney route, and they’d each be listed as co-writer, no matter who the main writer was. However, that agreement soon ended, as it became clear that Ridgeley really had nothing to contribute in the way of songwriting. Or singing. Or instrumentation. In fact, though he would “play” an electric guitar in their concerts and videos, it is widely believed that it was never plugged in.

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It’s Saturday night, and it’s time to get back out on the dance floor as the all Wham! weekend continues. This time around, I’ve got a batch of Wham!-related extended dance remixes.

As I’ve said before, there’s some sort of bizarre cult following for “Last Christmas,” so a third of these remixes are various versions of that song. I’m not sure why people would go to such lengths, but I guess you have to find some way to feel you’re making use of your Pro Tools on a regular basis. Also, I think that…hey…are you paying attention?…Oh, it’s that photo over to the left, isn’t it? I thought so. Yeah, I guess you didn’t expect you were gonna come to Popdose this weekend and see something that would haunt your dreams for the rest of the winter, but sometimes life just isn’t fair, is it? Remember, though — when life hands you pale shirtless Brits in leather posing homoerotically, you make leatherade…wait a minute. (more…)

Backstory:
About fifteen years ago, I was visiting my hometown outside of Los Angeles, tooling around with a couple of friends around the local colleges. I remember where we were because we were able to get excellent radio reception from the nearest school’s radio station. Anyway, we were listening to the end of the traditional hourly campus radio raga-indie-funk-chant mashup, when the DJ comes back on and says:

“That’s it for me. Coming up next…..” at which point my friend Amit blurts out: “All Wham! All Weekend!”

Needless to say, there was much cracking up to be had. But whereas your normal human being probably would have let that moment slip into the ether, Amit’s phrase has stuck with me through the years, to the point where (now that I have the potential to captivate the world with my awesome writing) I can actually make an all Wham! weekend a reality. And why wouldn’t I? Their best stuff stands out among the best of what has been forever snarkily branded as being “So ’80s!”, and George Michael is an important, quality artist in the history of popular music (or at least he was until the mid-’90s, but that’s best left for another series, possibly titled All Wasted Talent All Weekend).

Now, Wham’s! (or is it Wham!’s?) output wasn’t all that large: even with remixes, you couldn’t fill up a whole weekend with Wham! (oho! the power of alliteration entrances you, does it not?!). So the music featured here is going to be related to both Wham! and George Michael as a solo artist (Andrew Ridgeley’s single solo output, Son of Albert, was already covered by Jefito in this site’s previous incarnation, and you will all thank me for staying away from it). Also, I doubt you’d expect me to give you a whole 48 hours of music, do you? (Answer: No.) What I am going to give you are five posts to encompass the weekend: one for Friday night, and two each for the a.m. and p.m. hours of Saturday and Sunday. Each post revolves around a specific style or theme. Those are the “rules”: Pretty simple, huh?

Well then, bitches, let’s get this started! (more…)