239 plays
Yesterday, Bert Jansch skipped off into oblivion. The below was originally posted on April 12th, 2009. Re-posted as, well, you’re not going to find a better Bert Jansch song, and it seems appropriate. “That death itself is freedom for evermore.” RIP.
Bert Jansch - Needle of Death
Bert Jansch was a 60’s Scottish strum’n’croon type whose early adult life was pretty action-packed. In his early twenties, he married a 16-year old acquaintance in order to allow her to travel with him, as her age prevented her from travelling alone. They soon split, and Bert was forced to return to Glasgow after contracting dystentery in Tangiers, a small bit of foreshadowing of how shit-soaked the band Tangiers would become 40 years later. If you ask me, dystentery could be what caused the breakup. Dystentery is apparently a bit of a turn-off for the ladies. Although it’s likely quite an uncomfortable condition that could be described to firing liquid through the eye of a needle and then dying, this song is not about dysentery, but rather about smack. You know, junk. Horse. For my dollar twenty-five, this jerks a tear a lot more effectively than Neil Young’s ‘Needle and the Damage Done’. The picture below isn’t the cover of the album this song appeared on, but look at the puppy. Cute right? That puppy died tragically of a heroin overdose at the age of 27.
257 plays
Aretha Franklin - Cry Like A Baby
As reported all over the place, Nick Ashford of songwriting duo Ashford and Simpson went on to his reward on Monday. My stance on Ashford and Simpson may not be a popular one - I much prefer them as songwriters than performers, but whether you agree or not, you can’t deny they wrote an imperial pantload of great songs, a metric fuckton of halfway decent songs, and well, a lot of other songs too. The list of songs they penned that you undoubtedly know is endless; but a couple that jump out - ‘Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing’ (recorded by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell), ‘California Soul’ (originally recorded by the 5th Dimension but perhaps best known lately for the Marlena Shaw version), ‘You’re All I Need to Get By’, which just fucking slays by the way - the list goes on.
Ashford and Simpson were a husband/wife duo as well, which is a fantasy entertained by just about any male musician that hasn’t actually experienced it. Not that you ever take my advice anyway, but I strongly recommend against, how can I put this delicately, fucking anyone you work with. You would be better served to tongue kiss the next homeless person you see. What are my credentials to offer such prescriptive advice, you ask? The tracks of my muhfuggin tears, y’all.
Anyhow, one of my favorite bits of Ashford trivia is that beyond barfing out countless kilohectares of songs of varying quality, he also reportedly played tambourine on ‘hundreds’ of Motown and other sessions. I just love that visual; I mean look at the picture below, and think of this well manicured, luxuriously-maned swarthy fella loitering in the studio, forcing his tambourine work onto anything being recorded in there. “Who’s that?”, one studio tech might ask. “We’re not sure, but he won’t leave, and he just keeps playing that fucking tambourine and yelling ‘Keep rolling’. There isn’t even any tape in the machine.” Sort of a proto Rick James, really. Cocaine. It’s a helluva drug.
This little raw nugget of soulful goodness, penned by Ashford and Simpson for Aretha Franklin and released in 1966 (actually her last single for Columbia) is a well written song with a clever inversion of the song’s title in the last chorus, with a bit of a non-traditional chord progression that definitely perked up my ears. The production on this is also effin’ great. This is the 2010 remaster (don’t hate) but they really did a great job on it. RIP Ashford, you cowardly lion-lookin’, songwritin’ motherfucker.
Fig 1.1: Disco karate (artist’s rendering)
378 plays
Gregory Isaacs - Front Door
Earlier this year, reggae legend and possessor of the best nickname ever, Gregory “The Cool Ruler” Isaacs passed away, and it’s only now that I can write about it without tearing up, and definitely not that I just didn’t get around to posting one of his many amazing songs. Throughout his multi-decade career, Gregory Isaacs dropped more gems than a jeweler with Parkinson’s. In true DD:LD fashion though, he wasn’t just a prolific and relatively unsung reggae hero, he was also a world-class badass, possessing both well-documented ‘struggles’ with cocaine and crack, and a penchant for illegal firearms, which all told netted him a toothless mouth and 27 arrests, and contributed to his early passing at 49 this October. Don’t take this the wrong way, Jamaica, but to be a notable drug user in Kingston is like being the smelliest guy in Brooklyn. It’s an award nobody wants, but is impressive nonetheless. Jamaica is often portrayed as a sort of seemingly idyllic paradise with an inescapable, menacing undercurrent of violence where illicit substances are ubiquitous. That’s because it is. It rules there, you should check it out.
‘Front Door’, from 1981’s ‘More Gregory’ is Gregory’s take on the musical monomyth of the unpleasant breakup. It’s a story close to my heart; packing everything you own into a shopping bag and moving out of your old lady’s house because your relationship sucks, and maybe settling for the next thing that crosses your path rather than being lonely. Now that’s what I call romance! So much of what made the music of Gregory Isaacs notable is here on display in this classic - almost uncomfortably lascivious moaning, a dozy, dawdling backbeat, awesome little synthy burbles, and the dulcet tones of the Lonely Lover, Mr. Gregory Isaacs.
I’m not trying to suggest that I’m more fabulous than you (I am, check out this scarf!), but I’ve been to Jamaica a few times and one thing that always strikes me is the ratio of their creative output to their size. They’re to music what Sweden is to cellphones. There are dozens of bonafide international stars that call this relatively tiny island home, and just driving down the road you’ll see sign after sign for small events featuring talent like John Holt, Marcia Griffiths, etc. It was at one of these small shows that I was lucky enough to see Gregory Isaacs in 2009. I couldn’t feel my face at the time but he really kicked my lilly-white ass. True story: I was sitting having lunch in Negril the next day and Gregory Isaacs walked in with the largest Jamaican I have ever seen and sat down. I nearly shit my pants, but that was really more a factor of my diet at the time. I was excited too, though.
Gregory Isaacs, The Amish Statesman of Reggae
143 plays
The Soul Clan - That’s How It Feels
There’s sure to be a lot of Solomon Burke standards adrift out there in the ether over the last couple of days since his sudden death, on an airplane in the Netherlands, no less. It’s both suitably classy and fitting that he would die while being lifted so closely to the heavens - throughout his life, Burke skirted the line between the glitter and glamour of showbusiness while staying true to his faith and serving his community. He also reportedly knocked out 21 kids while doing all this. He also had a really rad cape. If even one of these facts was part of my eulogy, I’d be pleased as punch.
We wrote a bit about Solomon here but left a few notable elements out - he was a successful child preacher in Phildelphia, even hosting his own radio show at the tender age of 12, worked as an embalmer, and ultimately gave up the glamour of psalmin’ and embalmin’ to record some landmark songs bridging the worlds of soul, rock and pop in the 60’s.
This gem was the output of a soul ‘supergroup’, The Soul Clan, which included Ben E. King, Arthur Conley, Joe Tex, Burke and Don Covay. The idea was Covay’s, and the idea was to channel their starpower into a way to help their communities, build up black-owned businesses, and generally do a little bit more for the world than spend their royalty checks on gold chains and diamond-crusted spinners. Kind of awesome and audacious that an all-black group with designs on power for their people would named their group a ‘clan’. Hoods hats off to that, fellas!
RIP Solomon. I like your chances at the gates, pal. Especially in that cape.
This song doesn’t come from the 1971 ‘Electronic Magnetism’ release, but man, tell me there’s a better file photo than this.
170 plays
The Jackson 5 - 2, 4, 6, 8
Woah. RIP, Mike. Snarkiness postponed.
