As we discussed in the previous PGTW installment, Disc One of Ruby Trax was a rather inauspicious first step for such an ambitious project. They had their pick of the UK’s top acts, and they thought that letting the Fatima Mansions creep their way, both literally and figuratively, through Bryan Adams’ “Everything I Do (I Do It for You)” was not only a good idea, but worthy of the opening disc? Huh.
And in the interest of full disclosure, that would not be the last lapse in judgment they would have. In fact, Disc Two of Ruby Trax, while far more consistent than Disc One, opens with Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine covering… “Another Brick in the Wall.” (Brought to you by Bad Idea Jeans.) On the surface, you might think that the boys behind “Sheriff Fatman” might be able to inject a little fun into Pink Floyd’s dark disco juggernaut, but no. Instead, they slow it down to a snail’s pace, and for no reason whatsoever, they shout “Motherfucker!” after the second chorus. Next.
The next two songs have been the subject of much discussion and debate, even between the bands themselves. Blur tackles “Maggie May” minus bassist Alex James (he was vehemently opposed to covering Rod the Mod and refused to play on the song), and how much you like this cover depends greatly on your reverence for the original. Personally, I like “Maggie May” but heard it more than enough growing up, so I’ll take Blur’s cover gladly, though it sounds like they recorded it in about 20 minutes. Then comes Tears for Fears’ note-for-note cover of David Bowie’s “Ashes to Ashes,” and once again I will admit my bias. One of my favorite Bowie songs being covered by one of my favorite singers, ever. I couldn’t care less that it’s identical to the original, since it’s a pretty hard song to “make your own,” as it were. Apparently Roland Orzabal had tried doing something left-field with it, but it wasn’t working, so they went the Gus Van Zant “Psycho” route instead. Orzabal acknowledged that the band more or less took the easy way out with the Bowie cover when compiling B-sides for the band’s Saturnine Martial & Lunatic album, but then said, “Still, it’s better than Blur’s version of ‘Maggie May.’ (Or is it?)” Yes, Roland, it’s better. But I like your version too, Damon. I’m such a kiss-ass. (more…)
Call this mix the postscript of Beatles Week at Popdose … a postscript that’s a couple of weeks late! But better late than never, right? There’s been a lot of talk about the marketing savvy of Beatles merchandise, and it’s pretty damn impressive. I mean, getting people to buy remastered recordings they’ve probably had in their collections for years (and I’m talking about vinyl, cassette, 8 track, CD, and mp3s) is no easy feat – unless the product really is superior to what came before. And yes, the remasters did live up to the hype. But if I may start a second sentence with a conjunction, what also lives up to the hype is the long shadow of the Beatles’ style of music on popular recording artists. Billy Joel, Andy Partridge, Roland Orzabal, Jeff Lynne, Neil Finn, and the Gallagher boys must have all, at one point or another, fantasized about being “The 5th Beatle” while singing along to one of the Fab Four’s songs. So much so, that they all wrote songs that were unabashedly Beatlesque.
Billy is certainly a singer/songwriter who doesn’t need to copy the style of musical giants since, well, he’s in that pantheon. I’m not a big fan of his music, but The Nylon Curtain was, for me, the most impressive of his catalog. The sappy love songs were absent and the themes tackled were certainly a step up from what came before and after this album — and having several nods to the Beatles only added to the depth of this album. (more…)
I was writing up a track for a future White Label Wednesday piece (it’s set to run May 27) when I had a strange thought. Well, two strange thoughts, actually. (Expect some snarky one-liner from a Popdose editor to follow that last sentence.) [Get over yourself! -Ed.] The first thought was about how obsessed musicians were with nuclear war during the ’80s. From album titles (the Vapors’ New Clear Days) to lyrical one-liners (”You’re about as easy as a nuclear war,” “If it’s not love, then it’s the bomb that will bring us together”), the topic was always close at hand. The kids today surely roll their eyes at these songs, since they’ve spent most of their lives in the post-Cold War world, but it was a very real threat at the time. It was the Gen X version of terrorism, only you were allowed to be pro-peace without being labeled unpatriotic.
The other thought was about how many of those nuclear war songs were tunes that you could dance to. Seems inappropriate to dance on the proverbial graves of millions, but then again, what better way to get an important “message” across to the public than by putting it to a drum machine? And thus, this week’s Mix Six was born: nuclear war songs with a beat. Wait, do you hear something, like an air raid siren…?
“Two Tribes,” Frankie Goes to Hollywood (download)
“The air attack warning sounds like…” Yikes. Remember, this song was released the year after “The Day After,” so the idea of nuclear holocaust was still very real, and no one had made it seem as imminent, and yet as cartoonish, as Frankie did in this song and its accompanying video. And, as an added bonus, I give you my personal favorite of the six million mixes commissioned for “Two Tribes,” the eight-minute Carnage mix. Don’t be alarmed. (more…)
When I first heard that the new Doves album, Kingdom Of Rust, hearkened more toward their first album, Lost Souls (2000), than their most recent, Some Cities, even though that album is now four years old and strains the definition of “recent,” I worried a bit. I liked Lost Souls, but was very impressed by the directness of Some Cities, both in the songwriting and in the band’s seemingly newfound restraint in the fields of reverb and feedback. The latter seemed to find new ground for the group, versus the by-now-rote Radiohead-meets-shoegazing sound. Four years is a long time to retreat.
It is with great relief, then, that I say that not only is Kingdom Of Rust its own creature, but that the band has found a comfortable common ground between both their phases. The opener, “Jetstream,” finds the band adopting an electro-chug and guitarist/vocalist Andy Williams slipping into a vocal sound easily mistaken for Tears for Fears’ Curt Smith. It’s a shocking start, but a good one because it absolutely indicates you’re not getting old wolves in new sheepskin. The title cut has a country ramble feel that builds into the guitar and string majesty we’ve come to expect from Doves, yet the framing device gives it all a freshness, and a killer melody is hook enough for repeated listening. This all leads to track three, “The Outsiders,” which deceptively begins with Pink Floydian psychedelic washes, segues into a Coldplay-like rocker, only to jump into a nicely head-thrashing chorus.
The 3/4 shuffle of “Spellbound,” while at complete odds with the track that follows it (”Compulsion” sounding like a mutant of Human League brit-funk, Adrian Belew-era Talking Heads and those barely restrained atmospherics) really catches up all this album is in a neat five and a half minutes. Jimi Goodwin’s vocals drive the song right up front, the rhythm suggests decades of pop ancestry and, all the while, the waves of sound that in the past swallowed the band whole is at complete service to the tune.
Some Cities made me rethink Doves, and became one of the most compulsively enjoyed CDs of 2005 for me. With its variety and willingness to try almost everything, while not abandoning the core of their sound, Kingdom of Rust continues that trend and may very well surpass it.
It still seems strange that Tears for Fears, two Janov-loving introverts from Bath, were one of the biggest bands of the ’80s. In a decade defined by excess (Motley Crue, Guns ‘n Roses), sex (Madonna), outrageous fashion (Cyndi Lauper), blue-collar values (Springsteen, Mellencamp) and, conversely, fundamentalism (U2), Tears for Fears were the textbook definition of ‘one of these things is not like the others.’ That mantra applied to their albums as well; with the possible exception of Talk Talk, you’d be hard pressed to find a band that evolved over the course of its first three albums at the rate that Tears for Fears did. It stands to reason that they wouldn’t play gloomy synth pop forever, but no one could have predicted that they would trade it in for Beatle-esque grandeur.
The transition would not come easy, though. It would take three years, four producers (Clive Langer, Alan Whitstanley and Chris Hughes would all come and go before the band decided to produce it themselves, with the help of engineer Dave Bacsombe), and wheelbarrows full of cash. And it would all start with a piano player at a Kansas City hotel bar, of all places.
Touring behind their monster hit Songs from the Big Chair (1985) was taking a toll on Roland Orzabal and Curt Smith. They loved their new songs, of course, but the manner in which they were constructed — barring “I Believe,” the album was programmed and sequenced within an inch of its life — was starting to get to them. They felt paralyzed by their music’s lack of flexibility. One night, after a gig, Orzabal and Smith showered and headed down to the hotel bar to unwind, and promptly had their minds blown by a no-nonsense piano/bass/drums trio fronted by one Oleta Adams. Orzabal and Smith knew what they needed to do next: kick out the style, bring back the jam. (It would be almost 20 years before I realized that Orzabal may have been asking Paul Weller to quit his then-current band in favor of his former one with that line.) Their next album would be more organic, the work of men and not machines. And its lead single would be one of those unforgettable, ‘Holy shit I can’t believe what I’m hearing’ moments that simply doesn’t happen anymore.
I still remember the first time I heard “Sowing the Seeds of Love” on the radio. The big hits during the summer of 1989 were, well, there’s just no other way to say it: they were shit (Michael Damien, Martika, Bette Midler, New Kids, Milli Vanilli, “Batdance”). When “Sowing the Seeds” dropped in late August, it positively exploded out of the speakers, and exposed everything the DJ played before and after it for the pap that it was. From Chris Hughes’ spot-on Ringo impression to the mile-wide and sky-high chorus, “Seeds” wasn’t just Tears for Fears attempting to fix themselves; they were out to change the world. Unfortunately, the latter goal didn’t pan out — 1990 still stands as one of the worst years for pop music, in my mind — but with The Seeds of Love, they more than achieved the former. (more…)
There was a time — maybe 25 years ago — when mentioning Phil Collins in the pantheon of frickin’ awesome drummers was greeted with thoughtful nods. Nowadays? Not so much. The reaction you’ll probably get from folks who don’t know how good Phil is behind the kit would run the gamut from a snicker to a sneer. In a way, I don’t blame them. After all, if you look at Phil’s creative output since the mid-’90s, it’s a story of an aging rocker whose slide into adult contemporary sludge is a bit tragic. Tragic because the ballad-heavy output of hits Phil produced eclipses the complexity of his earlier work that demonstrates what a talented guy he was on the drums. Phil’s been around long enough to know that what makes for a great drummer is not flash, but knowing when to add that bit of spice to a song that will really make it shine.
My good friend Scott Malchus and I are both drummers. Because we both spend (and spent) hours in the woodshed and basement behind the traps working on our chops, it doesn’t take huge leaps of logic to know that when listening to music, our ears are finely tuned to what the drummer is doing.
Scott suggested we do a mix that highlights Phil Collins’ work as a session drummer, and I have to say that after re-listening to these songs, there are some mighty fine drum moments in this mix.
Ted: By the early 80s, some hard rock icons like Robert Plant revamped their musical styles for more radio-friendly songs. If there’s a good one word description of Phil work on “Pledge Pin” it would be “sly.” On the surface you do hear the major accent of the snare on the 2 and the 4, but crank the song up and you’ll be treated to a lot of subtle and complex minor accents and quirky fills that never detract from the groove. This is by far one of my favorite non-Genesis tracks where Phil shows he can kick some serious ass behind the kit. (more…)
Last week, the more experienced Don Henley shook down Eric Elbogen for all the quarters in his pockets, taking 68% of the vote. Next week, we’ll celebrate the NCAA tournament with a pair of songs about madness.
Happy Friday and welcome to another edition of CHART ATTACK! So last time we met here to dissect a Billboard chart, it was a Top 10 from 1971, and I got my ass handed to me by readers who (rightfully) corrected me on a million small errors I made (okay, okay, it was a Tony Orlando impersonator, not Tony Orlando! I’m sorry!). So this week, to try and save face, I thought I’d fast-forward ahead 20 years to a chart you probably don’t care about. That being said, if I botched something here, keep it to yourself let me know. Sit back and try to enjoy our journey back to March 16, 1991!
Anybody remember Tara Kemp? She had two singles in the Top 10, this one (which peaked at #3) and “Piece of My Heart,” which reached #7. This song vaguely rang a bell, but I’m not sure why: it really doesn’t have anything original going for it. It never changes chords and the drum beat seems as it was ripped off of Soul II Soul. Even worse, the song has quite a few irritating qualities. Let’s start with the “oh, whoa” that is clearly supposed to be the clever hook of the song.
Then let’s build on that with a synth riff that my dog could have written.
Then, let’s take the part where Tara breaks it down with some funky singing.
What the hell is that yelp at the beginning? On its own, it’s actually quite creepy. Imagine being married to Tara Kemp and hearing this whenever you forgot to take out the garbage.
And yet…at 2 A.M. last night, I couldn’t get “Hold You Tight” out of my head.
9. Where Does My Heart Beat Now — Celine Dion
I’m not gonna lie to you: I owned this album. I bought it after I heard her knock her vocal in “Voices That Care” out of the park. And although I only listened to it once and I don’t remember any of other songs, I’ll step up and defend this one. I think it’s a strong ballad and was a great choice to introduce Celine to the American audience: the single went to #4 and became the first of her ten Top 10 singles. And here’s a surprise for you (and me): this single was not produced by David Foster!
You were all expecting me to rip Celine apart, right? I can’t do it. I know it’s the popular thing to do, but I can’t really find any reason to dislike her. She has a fantastic voice, and she gives your mom a reason to still buy music. That should be enough right there, but if it’s not, you should watch this video (if you haven’t already). It’s obviously trying to be snarky, but I think it kind of fails in that regard.
Raoul and the Kings of Spain is the most maligned album in Tears for Fears’ catalog…and I totally get that. It is completely out of step with everything else they’ve done before or since, closer in spirit to dinosaur rock from the ’70s — “Sketches of Pain,” while pretty, is a tad too close to “Dust in the Wind” — than the technicolor Beatlemania and moperrific synth pop that made them stars. Even more curious is how out of step the album is with what was happening in then-sole TFF survivor Roland Orzabal’s native England at the time, where the Brit-Pop flag was flying high. “Kick out the style, bring back the jam,” Orzabal had said in “Sowing the Seeds of Love,” right? Had he come up with something between “Sowing the Seeds” and the Jam — he was surely referring to Paul Weller and the Style Council with that line, yes? — Orzabal would have had a monster hit on his hands, and modern rock radio in America would have welcomed him back with open arms.
Instead, he made Raoul and the Kings of Spain. Whoops.
To be fair, the album had its moments, notably the widescreen ballad “Me and My Big Ideas.” Those strings had me from the second note — they just dripped with sadness. By the time the drums slowly faded in with the press roll-SPLASH of the cymbal, I was hooked. Bringing back Oleta Adams as Orzabal’s duet partner didn’t hurt, either. “Me and my big ideas won’t wash away your tears / No one else seems to mind that I’m not that kind,” he says in the first line. My best guess at the song’s intent is that of a couple where the girl fell for the big talking guy who turned out to just be a daydreamer with no real ambition, and now he’s trapped them both. Sort of like “Fairytale of New York,” without the name calling. I could be wrong, though; there is plenty of room in the lyrics for other interpretations.
The song came out as my relationship with College Girlfriend #2 was winding down. Things were actually going fine at the time, but a line towards the end of the song stuck in my craw:
“In a way, the dream is over”
It was over, and I knew it. I was friends at the time with two girls that I knew would be better matches for me than the one I was currently dating (case in point: I wound up marrying one of them), so while things with CG #2 were “fine,” I was stalling. Staying in the relationship was easy, but pointless. Today, the song makes me smile at my own naivete for ever thinking that she and I could overcome anything — pretty much everyone who knew us thought we made a lousy couple — as long as we loved each other. Me and my big ideas.
I always wondered how this song would have done on the charts had it been released as a single from The Seeds of Love, when the band was entering its “mature” phase but still a viable commercial property. By 1995, pop music had no place for either Tears for Fears or a song like this; the lyrics weren’t direct enough — certainly not compared to the following year’s smash hit, Donna Lewis’ “I Love You Always Forever” — and the production, while thick with melancholy, wasn’t saccharine enough. Sigh.
As we discussed in the previous PGTW installment, Disc One of Ruby Trax was a rather inauspicious first step for such an ambitious project. They had their pick of the UK’s top acts, and they thought that letting the Fatima Mansions creep their way, both literally and figuratively, through Bryan Adams’ “Everything I Do (I Do It for You)” was not only a good idea, but worthy of the opening disc? Huh.
(2002)
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When I first heard that the new Doves album, Kingdom Of Rust, hearkened more toward their first album, 
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The transition would not come easy, though. It would take three years, four producers (Clive Langer, Alan Whitstanley and Chris Hughes would all come and go before the band decided to produce it themselves, with the help of engineer Dave Bacsombe), and wheelbarrows full of cash. And it would all start with a piano player at a Kansas City hotel bar, of all places.
To be fair, the album had its moments, notably the widescreen ballad “Me and My Big Ideas.” Those strings had me from the second note — they just dripped with sadness. By the time the drums slowly faded in with the press roll-SPLASH of the cymbal, I was hooked. Bringing back Oleta Adams as Orzabal’s duet partner didn’t hurt, either. “Me and my big ideas won’t wash away your tears / No one else seems to mind that I’m not that kind,” he says in the first line. My best guess at the song’s intent is that of a couple where the girl fell for the big talking guy who turned out to just be a daydreamer with no real ambition, and now he’s trapped them both. Sort of like “Fairytale of New York,” without the name calling. I could be wrong, though; there is plenty of room in the lyrics for other interpretations.