Posts Tagged ‘Popdose Guides’

The Popdose Guide to David Bowie, Part Two

Did you miss Part One of Anthony Hansen’s guide to David Bowie? No problem – just follow this link!

Let’s Dance (1983)
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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.

Tonight (1984)
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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…)

The Popdose Guide to KISS

KISS Poster

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.

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The Popdose Guide to Utopia

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…

Todd Rundgren’s Utopia (1974)
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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 (à 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…)

The Popdose Guide to Jimmy Smith

Hi all!

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.

The Popdose Guide to Marti Jones

guidelogoTo 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.

Color Me Gone (1984)
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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…)

The Popdose Guide to Juliana Hatfield

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…)

The Popdose Guide to the Pogues

guidelogo.gifIn 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…)

The Popdose Guide to Del Amitri

guidelogo.gifA drunk, an atheist and a poet walk into a bar. They’re all the same guy, and there is no punchline. Welcome to Del Amitri!

Anchored by the stereotypically “dour Scot” Justin Currie, Del Amitri has always been an overlooked gem of a band. Actually, perhaps not “overlooked” so much as “quickly dismissed.” It isn’t because the Dels lacked hooks – their catalogue brims with catchy, well-crafted, smart and hummable pop. It’s just that this pop is laced with lyrics that would drive Hello Kitty to drink. Heartbreak, loneliness, loss and resentment all play major roles, only stepping aside for the occasional swipe at God. Hence the Del Amitri gem: Picked up for its pretty shimmer, dropped when the edges draw blood.

One wonders if that’s why the band never scored any lasting chart success – by staying relentlessly bleak, they reduced whole albums to one single note. A Del Amitri release would lure you in with sunny hooks, then frown and spit at you for an hour, dipping behind dark clouds. It’s exhausting, and not for everyone.

Of course, the band wasn’t helped by the fact that their sole U.S. hit was a monster, paired with a tragically goofy video and played more often than Nintendo. Or that critics and hipsters couldn’t stomach such mainstream music – at least not from a band they’d once praised as quirky.

However. Downer moods, MOR sounds and one-hit-wonderment aside, for this reviewer’s money, when Currie (often with writing partner/guitarist Iain Harvie) is at his best, he can hang with Westerberg, Louris or even Finn. If you like your intelligent, sunshiny pop leavened with bile and bite, mope no further than this five-piece from Scotland-by-way-of-the-heartland.

Let’s find ‘em on the jukebox, buy a round of bitters, and see why they deserve a closer look. (more…)

The Popdose Guide to Badfinger

guidelogo.gifFew 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…)

The Popdose Guide to Matthew Ryan

guidelogo.gifYes, 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…)