…that the last few bars of the guitar break on the Kinks’ “She’s Got Everything” (1964) are interestingly similar to the riff that anchors “Woman From Tokyo” (1973)?
And did anybody rock harder than Dave Davies in 1964? And the Kinks? Ignore the too-cute words and listen all the way through.
As a music nut and working musician, I have (as you may too) the sometimes-annoying tendency to know and even care who played what instrument on a particular track or album. I display this knowledge with smug superiority over those around me.
For some fans of David Bowie, it’s just not that important who the bass player was or who did the cool guitar lead on “Heroes.” (Or the fact that a young and not too well known at the time guitarist named Stevie Ray Vaughan played most of the guitars on his “Let’s Dance” album.)
Nothing wrong with that at all.
I do know that there are other self-appointed guardians of the session players out there. We just don’t talk to each other much, nor do we get out into the real world all that often — unless it’s to go to a concert, or play at one. (Or to the day job most of us have to pay for the music we love.)
Why does it matter?
There are these folks who are so good at what they do that they are called up on the phone, told when to be at the studio and expected to be brilliant and perfect. Every time they play. Or they don’t get the next call.
Steely Dan hired only the best players. Jeff “Skunk” Baxter, Danny Diaz, Larry Carlton, Lee Ritenour, Mark Knopfler and more on guitar. Steve Gadd, Jeff Porcaro, Jim Keltner and Rick Marotta on drums. David Paich, Chuck Rainey and Donald Fagen on piano and keyboards. Walter Becker and a few others on bass.
Fagen and Becker were “Steely Dan.” Those folks listed above, and many more, are the people who made the music with them that you have been listening to for thirty years or more.
Paich and Porcaro went on to found Toto with some other studio musicians they met in the mid-seventies. It was a rare time when some people behind the scenes got the chance to become stars themselves.
Whatever you feel about Toto, those guys and people like them have had a huge impact on popular music as we know it.
You probably know them, but if you don’t, you should.
Doesn’t it seem like the 1980s produced more people who spent time as genuine pop stars — some arena headliners, with several hits, more than one successful album — who have vanished? Greg Kihn, Huey Lewis, Billy Squier, Flock of Seagulls, Men at Work, that dude with the hair who did “St. Elmo’s Fire” — they all became genuine, established acts, then, just a year or maybe two later, fell off the edge of the world.
I don’t mean they stopped having hits and having their new music played on the radio. That is a time that comes to all men sooner or later (even Aerosmith). I mean vanished as in “Everyone pretty much forgot they ever happened.” Why do, say, Left Banke or the Vogues seem to be more widely (and fondly) recalled than Billy Squier, who in his day was a far bigger star?
Greg Kihn, of course, has a radio show, and Huey Lewis, apparently a major road warrior, did a movie or two and popped up on a not very interesting single with Garth Brooks last year, and most of the others have websites and some level of fan base.
But they have simply not left the same kind of imprint on rock as even many one-hit wonders of earlier days. Why not? I don’t have a firm theory here, but I wouldn’t be inclined to write it down entirely to qualitative differences, since none of these acts is much worse than, say, Gary Puckett & the Union Gap, a mid-level act that left a far greater impression.
I would say, though, that video had something — or a lot — to do with it. MTV had a nearly insatiable desire for product in the early ’80s, and pretty much anything by a white rock artist could get on the air. And top 40 radio largely followed MTV’s lead. Did the novelty of music videos simply push a higher percentage of unmemorable artists into the public eye?
The start of this well done review of the new Saga record got me thinking about bands that have lost their defining frontmen*, and how they have carried on thereafter.
Depends on how you define carrying on, I guess. AC/DC, as noted, rolled on with Brian Johnson after the death of Bon Scott, and were more successful than they’d ever been. And that’s largely because, everything else aside, Brian was better.
And then there’s Genesis, who, with the change from Peter Gabriel to Phil Collins, didn’t so much mutate artistically as change species altogether. It wasn’t technical difficulties, but taste — Gabriel and Collins have similar vocal ranges, and Collins is probably the stronger singer, so pretty much anything Peter could sing, Phil could get around about as well. But Collins shed all that art rock heritage about as fast as the fans would let him, or a little faster. And, of course, before he bailed out for a solo career, Genesis were bigger stars as mild-mannered pop rockers than they’d ever been as high-tech prog gods.
Then there’s Van Halen/Hagar, depressing in pretty much all incarnations, but clearly commercially successful in both.
But then there are those where I see more room for doubt. There is no demand for new studio material from Queen, and nobody to write it if there were. Journey (always Journey…) never got a record on the radio that Steve Perry didn’t sing. Styx, whatever one thought of them in their metal pop prime, have nothing to say without Dennis DeYoung (Tommy Shaw was a better singer. Doesn’t matter).
These bands may or may not be vital on the road even now, and people are enjoying what they do out there, and obviously that matters. But if a band changes frontmen and doesn’t continue to produce new material that is at least reasonably artistically serious (by which I mean it doesn’t suck), is it still a vital rock force? Or is it just an oldies show, the same as going to see the Four Lads or the Diamonds? Though that would probably be a blast, actually.
*No, that is not redundant. Think of Roger Daltrey’s function with the Who.
(Also, any band or artist that plays a medley of hits in public, under any circumstances whatever, is a spent force artistically. No exceptions.)
Since Bridey brought it up, I’ll head down the slippery slope that is Journey.
I have always been a huge Journey fan. I saw them in concert every time they were in town from 1980 to the late nineties. The last time was with Steve Augeri at the Wiltern in their first time out with that line-up.
One cool thing we did was have dinner at a Denny’s right down the street before the show. We walked in and there were at least twenty people wearing Journey tee-shirts, head bands, belt buckles, tattoos. I was wearing my tee-shirt from the 1982 Rose Bowl show. We all wound up talking about the shows we had seen, the Forum 80, 81, 83, 86, Rose Bowl 82 and so on.
Augeri did a great job but it was kind of unsettling how much he looked as well as sounded like Steve Perry. Great show however.
Steve Augeri of Journey
My Cheese Gem?
A great Steve Perry vocal as usual. A killer guitar lead from Niel Schon. Ross Valory with the in your face bass and attitude, Johnathan Cain’s fire siren keyboards and then Steve Smith’s drums.
The drums are what make me really love this song. I would love it already but what Smith throws into the mix puts it over the top for me.
The drums in the first part of the song are pretty simple. Keep the beat and drive going. The first chorus, bring it up and go for it. The hold after the verse keeps the tension. Not too much, just enough.
Second verse, still simple with some nice fills but the fun is coming. At the end of the second verse, the wonderful wrist rolls on the toms at the break. After the solo, big rolls making it bigger and bigger while letting the rest flow by, just filling the spaces with great technique and just the right touch.
Marvelous!
but it’s funny!
Hmm. Bruce Springsteen and Eric Clapton — not on the same night, apparently — to headline 25th-anniversary concerts for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Two nights, with Metallica and Simon & Garfunkel (oh, my), and Crosby, Stills & Nash (oh, dear), U2 (oh, lord), and all sorts of other likely and unlikely people. And it’ll all be edited down for HBO, in what I’m sure will be a pleasant deal for everyone.
I am the furthest thing from a rock purist there is, but these all-star gatherings just leave me cold, and maybe a little creeped out. Yes, I know everyone else got over this about 24 1/2 years ago, but I still hate the whole idea of a Rock Hall.
Not that I believe that rock was ever “real” or other than a money-making corporate venture. I don’t think there really are, or ever were, a lot of rock fans — over age 13 or so — who honestly buy into rock ‘n’ roll image-making. People periodically attempt to expose that “star-maker machinery,” but I don’t know as anybody ever tried all that hard to hide the gears and levers. Rock stars in the ’60s were not movie stars in the ’40s.
I mean, who was horrified when Jerry Lee Lewis married his baby cousin? Or when the cute Fab Four mutated (in remarkably short order) into hairy, drugged-out freakshows? The people who’d bought the image in the first place. And that wasn’t, in general, the fans, who knew these guys weren’t all that harmless. The Beatles popped up with a slick, beautifully produced tune that’s twice as warped and misogynistic as “Under My Thumb” in 1965. (Yes, I know “Run for Your Life” is a joke. That’s exactly what makes it so repellent.)
Sure, later in the ’60s, some people were buying into the “rock poet” bit, but that was a silly time and it didn’t last (and the head poet, Jim Morrison, certainly didn’t). But, you know, David Bowie wrote the final word on rock god image-making the year he was Ziggy Stardust. And that was way back in 1972.
I’ve been to the Rock Hall — business trip, not my idea — and I guess it was a kick to see, albeit in surprisingly awkwardly staged exhibits, some of Jimmy Page’s embroidered finery or what was left of Keith Moon’s “Pictures of Lily” drum set.
And yet. There is just something so irritatingly That’s Entertainment about a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I know, rock is just entertainment, same as movies or TV or Harry Potter. It’s not any more real or genuine or honest. It’s not the voice of disaffected youth — or, if that is how it has sometimes functioned, it is certainly not what it’s for. But it’s just not supposed to be so damn innocuous.
And the inductees? Have they been announced yet? Don’t know, and honestly, don’t care.
Back in the eighties the place I went to see most of the big shows was the “Fabulous Forum” in L.A. Having grown up in the valley, the drive over the hill was always quite the event and challenge.
Show starts at 8pm.
Great. That means I need to leave no later than five, right in the middle of rush hour. So, off we would go. Being clever, we would take Topanga Canyon off to PCH and then through Santa Monica and work our way there. Nice drive but it would take at least two hours. Once you got there, parking. Always parking.
After working your way into the lot and past the ever present scalpers, through security and finally to your proper column, row and seat, directed by folks who are wearing things that people should simply never wear at a rock concert, (the red vests, dockers pants and low quarter oxford shoes kind of stand out I guess,) you sit down.
Once there you usually would enjoy the illegal aroma surrounding the crowd, drink your beer and wait for Joe Benson to introduce the band.
Def Leppard.
This was the first time back in L.A. after Rick Allen’s accident in which he lost his left arm. A wonderful thing happened.
Not only did Rick play well. He was a much better drummer to my ear than before. More powerful and sure of himself. His joy and new found way of playing ignited the band and the crowd. The confidence just flowed off the stage.
Magic in front of my eyes.
The showstopper was “Gods Of War.” A six and a half minute monster of a song. They had the stage “in the round,” so the band is always moving around Rick in the center. Lazers going crazy, drums going crazy. The band and crowd going crazy.
There wasn’t person in sight who was not standing, yelling, jumping, waving arms and who knows what else…
One of the most impressive moments in concert I have ever seen.
In “Yellow Submarine,” when the band begins to play — and plays about four bars and vanishes. It’s the sort of thing that sounds totally natural from the Beatles and would seem contrived and stupid from anybody else. George Martin at work.
In Journey’s “Lovin’, Touchin’ Squeezin,” well, first, just the fact that a song by Journey, with that title, is not a power ballad, but a die, b****, die breakup song, is delightful. But I always wait for the last time Steve Perry (a grand and consistently underrated singer, probably because he worked for, you know, Journey) goes way up high and loud on “Every, e-ve-ry DA-AY” — listen to that, and the whole vocal on that song, and think of another singer who could do exactly what he does. One of the few Journey songs I rather like, barring the 10 minutes or so of “na na na NA na, na na na NA na”s.
I joined the modern world last Christmas when my parents gave me my first iPod. A bright green Nano 8gb. It’s kind of funny in a way in that I am usually the consummate “early adopter.” I had a pager in the early eighties and a cell phone when no one else I knew did. And a computer that would have to try hard to contain the artwork for this website much less be able run this program.
But an iPod? Hm-mm. MP3? Hate them.
They got better and I guess it was time to jump in for a swim. [Still hate them, though less than before.]
I thought at the time how the heck would I ever fill this thing up? Well I have been spending my days and nights ripping all those Cd’s that I have been stacking up for years.
I am still kind of amazed by the whole thing. I started in the 24 track two inch tape era, I have a closet full of them. Then the 1/4 inch stereo mix reels, then the DAT. Remember that silly thing?
It takes a single two inch tape for each fifteen minutes of recording. If you are using SMPTE to lock up to another tape machine for more tracks, then it’s two tapes for each fifteen minutes. On and on. Each one of these things costs well over a hundred bucks and for a full CD you may need ten or twelve.
Lot’s of bucks.
These days you use your digital recording station and multiple hard drives and it all comes out on a CD that weighs less then one one-hundredth of one of those two inch tapes. We’ve come a long way.
Now with the iPod I have a stack of Cd’s about three feet high and it’s been recorded onto this tiny pocket sized thing. Pretty cool.
Where is this going?
ELO!
Electric Light Orchestra. Jeff Lynne and the guys.
I had not listened to ”Wild West Hero” in a million years. Or at least a decade.
What a cool but really strange song. A guy from Birmingham, England that wants to ride ponies and be a hero. The bridge has some strings on it that seem to be possessed by the local inhabitants of Tombstone, Arizona. A jangly piano that was played by Melvyn Gale, normally the cellist for the band. And the usual larger than life drums of Bev Bevan.
ELO is still one of my many guilty pleasures, [ABBA anyone?] Killer drums, big guitars, multi-layered vocal harmonies and a huge string section making all kinds of wonderful noise behind the rest. I am always blown away by the depth of the musical arrangements and the quality of musicianship and production.
I don’t recall the song making much of a dent in the U.S. charts but it did make number six in England. I don’t think too many ELO fans over there ride ponies. I could be wrong though. Prince Charles could be the biggest ELO fan on the planet and I doubt we would ever know.
