Well, due to the recent atmospheric disturbance on the East Coast it looks like a certain Shady Dame and I are trapped here in Paris Dayton, Ohio, until Sunday.
I know, I know. Boo fucking hoo, right? In any case, curse you Al Gore, for your pernicious influence.
Of course, for a variety of reasons, regular posting will be fitful for the next few days, depending on my mood.
But in the meantime, here's something you might enjoy.
On our day trip to London earlier this week, we went looking for Number Six's apartment (from the opening credits of The Prisoner) at 1 Buckingham Place, and it turns out it was just blocks from our Belgravia hotel.
So of course, I had to pose myself in front of it.
Optional soundtrack for the above: The Times' 1982 hit "I Helped Patrick McGoohan Escape."
From 1965, and the sessions for what would become the Summer Days and Summer Nights album, please enjoy The Beach Boys, despite the dickishness of Mike Love, as they rehearse a song expressing my sentiments about the recent atmospheric unpleasantness in my beloved Hackensack, New Jersey (the Paris of the Tri-State Metropolitan Area) and elsewhere on the East Coast.
Here in the actual Paris, it's seasonably lovely at the moment, and our plan is still to return home sometime on the morrow, weather permitting (obviously). Our flight still hasn't been cancelled as of this writing, so we shall see.
But in the meantime, fuck every single Republican in Congress who voted to slash the FEMA budget.
Seriously -- fuck every one of them with a rusty chainsaw.
[Still languishing in the land of the Ignoble Frog, and given the Frankenstorm about to strike the Northeast and my beloved Hackensack NJ -- Paris of the Tri-State Metropolitan Area -- I have no idea when I may get home. So it seems like a good time to pontificate on a subject near and dear to my heart. Thanks for indulging me. -- S.S.]
As Dr. Livingstone should have said to Stanley: What took you so fucking long?
Seriously, it's not exactly a secret around here that I'm a fan of those guys; in fact, the first post of mine that ever went up here was a revisit to my retrospective gush about them that originally appeared in (and served as my audition to) STEREO REVIEW, back in 1972.
That said, when the subject of the nomination came up last week over at Sal's place, there was a lot of the usual pooh-poohing. Because, you know, they're just One Hit Wonders. You know -- like The Singing Dogs, Whispering Jack Smith, and whoever sang the theme from Dawson's Creek.
Which always gets up my nose because a) The (admittedly inferior to the studio version) live orchestral "Conquistador" was almost as big a world-wide hit as the ubiquitous "A Whiter Shade of Pale"; b) "A Salty Dog" has been an FM staple for decades; and c) at least three of Procol's albums are transplendent masterpieces, and another three or four are way better than just good.
So -- submitted for your approval, five Procol Harum songs that aren't "A Whiter Shade of Pale" or "Conquistador" or "A Salty Dog." Any or all of which should be grounds for inducting the band into the Hall several years ago.
5. The Devil Came From Kansas
Drummer B.J. Wilson -- the band's secret weapon -- gets to strut his amazing stuff here with (starting at the 2:46 mark) an over-before-you-know-it drum break (with hand claps) that's quite breathtaking in its concision. And the rest of the song and performance is pretty world class as well.
4. Salad Days (Are Here Again)
From their brilliant debut album -- then, as now, a perfect synthesis of Bob Dylan, Ray Charles and J.S. Bach. The interplay between Matthew Fischer's Hammond organ and Gary Brooker's piano -- especially on the solo section -- is the very definition of glorious.
3. Your Own Choice
A particularly droll Keith Reid lyric -- the hippie broads at my old college used to rewrite it as "There's too many Stevens and not enough smoke" -- mated to the catchiest tune imaginable, and an exquisitely melodic harmonica solo on the lengthy outro by the great jazz and classical mouth organ exponent Larry Adler (uncredited).
2. Quite Rightly So
Goose bumps from start to finish. That's all I'm gonna say about this one.
1. Ramblin' On
And have I mentioned that these guys had the most magnificent live sound imaginable? If I haven't, or if you can't imagine it, a listen to the above -- recorded by the original, classic five piece Procol lineup at the Fillmore West in 1969 -- should help to convince you.
BTW, I should add, and for the record, that I expect nothing I've said here is going to garner PH enough votes to get into the Hall this year.
So I'm blaming Jann Wenner in advance, even if he has nothing to do with it.
The view outside our hotel window last Thursday night, after we arrived in Paris Dayton, Ohio. As photographed by my beautiful and brilliant girlfriend.
I like to think it's exactly the same view Rick and Ilsa would have seen out their window just before the Occupation. It's the romantic in me.
Our flight into Paris yesterday was one of the most enervating and unpleasant experiences of my recent dotage, so I don't really have it together to post anything new until next week (and trust me -- Monday's entry will be a doozy).
But to tide us all over through the weekend, I thought it might be amusing to repost this entry from last year's sojourn to the land of the Ignoble Frog.
So from 1963, please enjoy Roger and his Son by remarkable Polish-French modernist Balthus.
And then tell me the son in the painting doesn't look disturbingly like this MTV icon.
Seriously, I have no idea if Mike Judge had this painting in mind when he created Beavis and Butthead, but the resemblance strikes me as too close to be an accident.
I should also add that there actually is another rock-and-roll connection with this painting -- Bono (yes him) sang at Balthus' funeral. Go figure.
P.S.: The title to today's post is a reference to perhaps the greatest movie ever made. I am not kidding about this.
Well, we arrived, safe and sound, this morning in beautiful Paris, France Dayton, Ohio.
New posting resumes tomorrow, dieu willing, but in the meantime here's a photo my beautiful and brilliant girlfriend took from our hotel window (we're staying at the same place as we do every year) back in 2010. At 8:00am, local time. Just before breakfast.
To our surprise, we could still see that old Parisien moon.
Why that old Parisien was mooning us, of course, we'll probably never know.
Posting will thus, necessarily, be sporadic for a couple of days, but please cut me some slack, as I'll no doubt be over-dosing on heavy sauces.
In any case, as is my wont on these occasions, may I invite you to enjoy the pre-cosmic Moody Blues, featuring original frontman Denny Laine, and the oh-so-sad-and-beautiful lover's lament "Boulevard de la Madeleine."
That's me, four years ago, at the very spot that inspired the song, BTW. I'm older now, but I like to think my inner Groucho, as seen in the photo, remains undiminished.
So our pal Sal Nunziato asked us to contribute a little negativity to a tribute to David Bowie over at Burning Wood/Burning Love yesterday.
It was all mostly tongue in cheek, obviously, except that I really dislike David Bowie (and always have) and Sal doesn't.
In any event, just by way of a postscript, I thought I'd add a little positive stuff about the guy.
Just to show I've mellowed.
FOUR REASONS NOT TO HATE DAVID BOWIE
4. There's a very nice bootleg from somewhere of a sort of Buddy Holly-ish acoustic and tambourine version of "Hang on to Yourself" that I like unreservedly.
Oh. There it is.
3. He produced Mott the Hoople's "All the Young Dudes."
He also wrote it. Of course, his own version(s) of it sucks, but it's his song and the Mott version is one of the great singles of the 70s..
2. He produced The StoogesRaw Power.
Bowie's mix of the album sucks, of course. But he produced it when nobody else would, and for that alone he deserves respect from mere mortals.
1. Although gay, he married the most drop dead gorgeous woman in the history of the world.
Wait a minute -- that last one actually pisses me off, now that I think of it.
From their 2012 album in progress Blah Blah Love and War, please enjoy Los Angeles indie pop-rockers The Rescues and their charmingly melodic, and charmingly sort of low-fi, ode to unwarranted optimism, "Everything's Gonna Be Better Next Year."
Wow. That's just cute as the proverbial bugs ear, IMHO.
I should confess that these kids were heretofore unknown to me -- hey, what can I tell you, I don't watch Grey's Anatomy (on which their music has been frequently showcased) -- but apparently they released a previous album on a major label. The relationship with said major label, however, seems to have been less than felicitous; I'm not saying the phrase "record company weasels" is necessarily pertinent, but I'm not saying it isn't, either.
In any case, after parting company with said major label, the Rescues have regrouped and are now doing it, as was said about sisters, for themselves.
As -- I suspect -- nature intended all along, and good for them.
If you want to help them, go over to their pledge page and give 'em some love.
Uh, you may have heard that a certain power pop ensemble from Zion, Illinois has a new album out (their first in 19 years, amazingly).
You may also have wondered why neither Mary or myself has weighed in on it to date.
Well, the answer is that Mary has been toiling on the definitive biography of said band for over two years -- it will be available over here any nanosecond now -- and I was fortunate enough to pen the intro to said tome. And as a result we both feel a little too close to the album and band to be even remotely objective about their latest.
That said, friend of PowerPop Sal Nunziato, proprietor of the inestimable Burning Wood, has kindly consented to let us reprint the review he posted over there earlier this summer.
Enjoy, please.
SHOES: SHINY, NEW & YET, VERY COMFORTABLE
I have a memory of a Creem magazine ad, 1977 maybe, for a record called Black Vinyl Shoes, by a band called Shoes. Usually, my mind traps this kind of trivia. But all I can recollect, aside from the ad, is a rave review by the mag and great disappointment upon hearing the album.
I don't blame the band. I blame myself, my still backward listening habits, and my inability to effectively think about something other than the new Bad Company record.
Jump to 1979, and a record called Present Tense by this same band called Shoes spins relentlessly on my Technics turntable for weeks and weeks and weeks. It was that record, for me at least, that set a standard for what we now call Power Pop. Black Vinyl Shoes may not have officially been the first power pop record, but for me, Shoes were the first power pop band.
More records followed, each screaming with mellifluous harmonies and those damned melodies to die for. I am a Shoes fan.
"Too Late," "Burned Out Love," "Tomorrow Night," "The Summer Rain," "Karen." "The Things You Do."
These songs, among others, were hook-filled miracles. Much needed fresh air from MTV's overload during the early part of the 80s.
And now...the boys of Zion, Illinois are back with Ignition.
It's a killer.
And yes, just maybe... 35 years later...their best record yet.
Every song on Ignition offers something...that one special riff, or background vocal hook...that made me say, "This is the one." By the end of the record, I had a dozen favorite songs.
From the opener, "Head Vs. Heart," with the subtle yet always effective bass drop-out on the refrain, a trick that gets me every time, to the call and answer chorus on "Diminishing Returns," to the beautiful melancholy of "Where Will It End," this new entry in a very special Shoes catalogue delivers. It's big, and if you're a fan of perfectly crafted pop tunes, or a sucker for three-part harmony, you will be hard-pressed to take Ignition off.
Brothers Jeff & John Murphy and Gary Klebe have done something few bands have achieved. They've created a sound and they own it. I will go on record by saying, no band sounds like Shoes.
I've gushed enough, but it is that good.
In short -- what Sal said.
To which I will add that Robert Christgau once famously observed that if you don't like the Rolling Stones, you simply don't like rock-and-roll as a form. Pretty much the same thing can be said about Shoes and Power Pop.
Have I mentioned that this is the album of the year?
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