Who Moved My Cheese Metal?

Falsetto! Which is to say, deliberately singing above one’s natural range. It’s ordinarily a man’s trick — indeed, some say women can’t properly do it at all, though I don’t know if I’d agree — and it doesn’t just mean a guy singing high (and it doesn’t mean a guy singing like a girl).

Pete Townshend, for example, never needed to push above his normal range, since he was very nearly a male alto naturally. Or trained singers like Meat Loaf or Steve Perry could get sky-high without ever ranging into falsetto.

But many good singers have falsetto at their command as a useful special effect, and, of course, some of the men we’ll be talking about over the next few days — as we look at Great Moments in Falsetto — live up there all the time.

Particularly, since we’re Who Moved My Cheese Metal? and all, we’ll be talking about the “metal falsetto,” that glorious shriek heard from so many men of metal in the ’70s and ’80s.

And one of the finest practitioners was big Ian Gillan of Deep Purple.

It’s right there in the first 30 seconds: That absolutely fantastic, echoing yowl that opens this song, and opens Purple’s remarkable Machine Head. That yowl is, to my mind, the birth of heavy metal. Everything before “Highway Star” was just hard rock.

The lyrics are pretty goofy (“big fat tires and everything!”), but Gillan’s solid, straightforwardly rocking vocal bounces back up into a great, scratchy falsetto when the chorus comes around: “I love her! I need her! I see her!”

With the guys Gillan had playing behind him, he had to use every tool available to make an impact. He had to be able to create urgency and demand attention, and level the playing field for a singer against four showy, first-rate players who were generally making a hell of a lot of noise. And he does it, on this and many other records, by going high. Gillan’s raw, raunchy falsetto is surprising and powerful and sometimes sexy and always the opposite of feminine. No wonder it was so often imitated.

(And while you’re here, if it’s been a while or you don’t know this one as well as “Smoke on the Water” or “Woman From Tokyo,” take six minutes and listen to the whole thing; it’s just a fantastic record. And if that long guitar break that starts at 3:45 does not amaze and delight you, you might recheck your headbanging credentials. Because that, even after nearly 40 years, is the real thing.)

I always enjoy digging out old songs that I haven’t heard in years and seeing if they still have that fascination they once did. I mean, if you haven’t played them for years they can’t really be that good, can they? And from time to time when I dig out an old one, I find myself putting it in the “What was I thinking?” pile.

70′s cheese Paper Lace comes to mind.

Notice that it is not an “official” video. That could be because when it came out in 1974, very few acts recorded videos, or it could be because they could never get enough people to stay in the room long enough with this song playing in the background to get anything done.

In my defense, I was young and when I picked up the 45 single from Woolworth’s I do recall buying Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” at the same time. That’s got to count for something.

I have written before about my passion for searching and hopefully, eventually finding some great songs from the past. Every now and then you remember a great one. You search for it, and it’s there. Then you get disappointed when you realize, (after the first two notes for me), that it’s some cheesy re-recording by one guy who was the drummer for about five minutes about twenty years after the song was a hit because he’s the only one still alive or the other members just don’t care any longer.

Then sometimes you hit gold.

Chinese Wall from 1984 was Phillip Bailey’s most successful solo album, being certified Gold with the title single “Chinese Wall” reaching 46th spot on the Billboard Hot 100 and the duet “Easy Lover,” with Phil Collins of Genesis, just missing the top spot at number 2.

The album was produced by Collins, which is not very hard to guess when you hear the drum tracks on “Chinese Wall.” Phillip and Phil had struck up a friendship based on their love of R&B music, which Collins had been experimenting with on his solo albums away from his progressive rock band Genesis.

If Bailey’s voice sounds familiar, it should. He was the falsetto lead singer for Earth, Wind and Fire all through their most popular period in the seventies and eighties.

This collision of styles worked magically on “Chinese Wall.”

This song has such a sweet sound with the jangly guitar intro and Bailey’s unmistakable voice coming in over the top with his “yeah, yeahs” — it just grabs your attention. Collin’s nearly continuous drum rolls give the song an unusual rolling feel to it, almost as if you’re on the water somehow. When you reach the end of the verse, the drums are joined by a strong horn section and Bailey’s switch to his tenor register moves the song to a very emotional and powerful place. Almost angry for a few lines.

“Three misty nights waiting by the shore. May be that my lover comes no more. Red chamber dream from the sky above. Ancient tales of hidden Chinese love.”

A wonderful intensity ensues until it settles back into the chorus bringing, almost, solace.

To me this song is addictive. Turn the lights out, turn the volume up and listen…

This one I am quite happy I found again.

Still slammed, workwise, so just tossing up a note on the situation from these sharp-dressed Clevelanders:

(This is 1966, so the hair is still big rather than long.)

Odd performance clip — the lead vocal seems clearly lip-synched, but on the first refrain the low harmony is miles off key, so that at least must’ve been live.

That big, relaxed guitarist in the back is band founder Tom King, with a teenage Sonny Geraci on the vocals, and Mert Madsen playing that nifty-looking bass.

But what is with the shirts thrown through the windows?

A quick midweek Cheese Gem — since I can’t find any songs about being on deadline, though I’m sure there are some:

I love this ridiculous song. Love, love it, love it.  Yes, it’s absurdly sophomoric social commentary, to the degree that it makes any sense at all. But it is one of Elton’s best vocals ever, and has a string section ever rocked quite like this?

Listen to the bass in the verses. And then, in the bridge — under all that “Jesus, he wants to go to Venus” stuff — the bass all but drops out, and the cellos pick up the bass line precisely, playing the same fills. It is  just such a homely and touching detail, and it suits this odd, unhappy song. The strings are the heart of this one.

(Paul Buckmaster arranged the strings on this and on many of Elton John’s early records, and he’s still doing that job for pop and rock acts now.)

And one more to wind up the Irish theme — unless Pete has more, but I’m out for now — a wry bit of heartbreak pop from the Cranberries:

(Sorry about the Vevo-driven commercial; this is the world we are living in.)

Dolores O’Riordan, though her voice can be guttural and is not at all pretty, is an expressive singer who puts a rueful edge on this little heartbreak song, added to by her Limerick diction — she’s one of very few Irish popsters to let an accent fly free.

The lyrics are un-soppy and unpretentious, a sensible approach when you’re just looking to make good radio pop. Let the sound and the singer carry it and don’t get clever, and on this one O’Riordan puts a world of disappointment into a simple declaration that “I thought the world of you.”

“Linger” was a perfect fit for pop radio in 1993, with the female vocal and just enough going on to make it jump out a bit on the air — it’s driven primarily by the strings, swirly but not too sweet, and has those oncoming-train drums to give it some guts. Though it was very hip in its day, “Linger” has become an evergreen that still gets play on AC, hot AC, and adult hits (“Jack” stations) radio — and that’s an accomplishment too.

Is Saint Patrick’s Day really over?

I’m still stunned by the combination of being stuck three hours late at work on the 17th and an all too late evening making up for lost time exploring the wonders of Irish whisky, listening to my favorite Irish bands and playing my Irish Bouzouki.

Whoever said the Irish are lucky doesn’t have to leave the house at six in the morning to get to work after being up till 3am.

That reminds me of a song…

NSFW!!!

The Pogues “A Pair of Brown Eyes” is just one of those songs… From one of those bands…

Lead singer and primary song writer Shane MacGowan is quite the character. Not much of a singer really, but as a songwriter and musical influence he’s near the top of the food chain in modern Irish music. Starting in the early eighties, The Pogues with their heavily punk influenced take on traditional Irish music became international stars for a time. Songs like “Dirty Old Town” and “Waxies’ Dargle” attracted major attention for the band and The Pogues unique take on these more traditional songs would help to develop MacGowan’s own impressive song writing abilities.

At The Pogues peak of popularity they charted a few number 1 hits in Ireland and just missed in England with their single, “Fairy Tale of New York” which was voted the number one Christmas song of all time by VH-1 UK viewers. Always a tough sell to American audiences, The Pogues still managed a few appearences on the U.S. charts as well.

The influence of The Pogues and MacGowan in Irish music circles is immense. Major Irish traditional music artists such as Christy Moore have covered MacGowan penned tunes and in 1986 an American, Peter Case, (My Favorite version!!!), formerly of The Plimsouls covered “A Pair of Brown Eyes”on his epynomous album produced by T-Bone Burnett no less.

“A Pair of Brown Eyes” is such a striking song in many ways. I have played “Brown Eyes” a few times in some of the bands I have been in over the years, even going so far as having started to record a version myself. (I’ll get back to it someday…)

The blunt imagery, “One summer evening drunk to hell, I stood there nearly lifeless,” is hard to miss. Is this a love song? Or a drunken illusion about being in love? Or just a song about being drunk? It’s hard to tell. That’s why it is so powerful. It means something and you can’t quite put your finger on it.

I do know the power of the song when performed. It’s right up there with Oasis’ “Wonderwall” when played for the right crowd.

Perhaps one of the best compliments a song can be given is acknowledging the effect it has on an audience when played, how much they love it and react to it, even if they don’t know what the heck it’s about.

We can’t do a week on Irish rock without the biggest Irish band there is or ever was or is ever likely to be. By which I mean, of course, these guys:

Reaching almost the way back to the beginning for this one, “Gloria,” from their second album, 1981′s October. And trying hard not to make any obvious comment about how absurdly young they all are, and to refrain from remarking about the sweet mullet on the dude who was known at the time, though not for much longer, as Bono Vox.

First, I have to say I give U2 all the credit in the world for staying relevant to radio, record buyers, and concertgoers for 30 years. They have had ups and downs, of course,  but every one of their 12 studio albums has gone platinum, with eight of those multi-platinum.

They stalled at radio somewhat with 2009′s No Line on the Horizon, which didn’t have a breakout single, but they have had an astounding run, and even if they fall off in the sales and singles (it comes to all of them in time), U2 will be able to fill arenas until they’re 80 if they choose. And they still have their original lineup, and have, by and large, resisted the temptation to irritate the masses with solo albums and side projects.

All the credit in the world, I say that up front, because I really can’t stand this band. Sure, I was as enchanted as everyone else when War was new, but by the time of Joshua Tree, they were getting on my nerves, and that’s pretty much been the case ever since. For all their periodic attempts to pop it up, they appear to have had their senses of humor removed in early life, and what’s the point of a rock band that isn’t having any fun? (I mean, geeze, even Pink Floyd has a sense of humor.)

They started out way back when with an earnestness that was just fine, even kind of cool — see “Gloria,” complete with Latin refrain — but quickly settled into pomposity, and never really shook it. U2 often seem not quite persuaded that anybody else has ever been, you know, against war and stuff.

Rock music can occasionally achieve importance, whether it’s artistically, culturally, or even just commercially. But what can easily be lethal is the sense that an artist is trying to be important. Or educational. If there is one thing rock music should not convey, it is the sense that it is good for you.

Anyway, back to “Gloria.” The 20-year-old Bono’s habit of oversinging is already well established (the man has no dynamics), but the shouting was all very fresh back then, and the emotionalism jumped out in the hypercool early ’80s. (Singers tend to look so unfocused on early videos, don’t they? You know there’s someone yelling at them, “Don’t look at the camera!” )

But it’s The Edge’s guitar that drives this — gutsy and inviting, talking to itself and responding, the church-bell harmonics on the refrain, feeding into a solo handled with a slide instead of fast-picking. I am not wild about the choir business at the end, but there is at least some logic to it given the devotional theme of the song — the lyrics are extremely simple, and the Latin doesn’t seem to quote any specific Catholic prayer directly, but the religious feel is of course very much there.

Appropriately enough, since this is, after all, a day to celebrate a saint.

For reasons unknown to the universe Irish rockers have a well known affinity for punk rock. All in all that’s a good thing to me. Someones got to do it and it may as well be done with an Irish attitude.

The Flogging Mollys certainly have a punk edge to them with a bit of sophistication gained over the years since punk briefly ruled the radio in England. Perhaps that’s why the Irish bands have such a taste for punk, they took the idea and ran with it long after the U.K. bands faded away just to be spiteful.

The Dropkick Murphys are more properly an Irish/American band forming in Quincy, Massachusetts in 1996. I always find that a bit humorous as Quincy was the hometown of our second President, John Adams when it was still known as Braintree. Somehow I don’t think President Adams would approve…

Opening with an evil sounding “dun dun, dun dun,” then banjo and accordion joining in, the traditional Irish music sound is unmistakable. Throw in the rude guitars, drums and bass and off they go on an anger filled binge of Celtic punk craziness.

“I’m Shipping Up to Boston” was written by legendary folk singer, songwriter Woody Guthrie. Something tells me Woody would not have anticipated this.

 In keeping with the punk tradition, one of the things I love about “Boston” is the fact that it is nearly impossible to understand what he’s singing most of the time. All I know is he’s lost his leg while shipping up and is not happy about it.

Dropkick Murphy’s version of “Boston” was used in the soundtrack for the movie The Departed as well as in a Simpsons episode, the Debarted based on the movie. “Boston” is used frequently at Boston’s major league sports events and was the walk on music for Red Sox pitcher, Jonathan Pabelbon in 2007.

A great example of what happens when you have a head on collision of American folk with Irish folk, the result is Irish Punk and I don’t think anybody could have predicted that.

As we stay in Irish Gear for the week of St. Patrick’s, today it’s a look at two very different tracks from Van Morrison.

First, from 1970, the marvelous “Moondance” — which wasn’t released as a single until some years later, and just peeked into the Billboard Hot 100 at number 92.

“Moondance” is risque and charming, all infatuation and delight, and sung of course with Morrison’s usual expansive good taste. A line like “A fantabulous night to make romance” should be ridiculous, but the adjective seems right at home here. Sexy bassline, nifty piano solo, and punchy saxophones — a fine slice of ’70s pop for grown-ups.

“Moondance” is about as straightforward in topic and tune as you’re likely to get from Morrison as a solo artist, and the other selection of the day is a little bit more challenging: “Saint Dominic’s Preview.”

(Nothing on YouTube but covers, so gotta go with the LaLa link.)

From 1972, this opens with ghostly piano and has lots of those hazy horns everyone was so fond of in those days, and it has some of that singer-songwriter slickness of the era. But sonically, it actually wears very well.

Perhaps more dated are the elliptical, allusive lyrics that touch on Catholicism, Irish unrest, life in America, and a bit of culture shock (“And it’s a long way to Buffalo/It’s a long way to Belfast City too”).

As far as the title, the story is that Morrison, while writing the song, had an image of an imaginary St. Dominic’s church holding a Mass for peace in Belfast, and then a few weeks later read that St. Dominic’s in San Francisco (a real church Morrison was apparently unaware of) was indeed planning such a Mass.

But the song’s lyrics seem to center more on individual isolation or loneliness. He sings, “You know that no one’s making no commitments/To anybody but themselves/Talking behind closed doorways/Tryin’ to get outside, outside of empty shells.”

There’s what seems to be a reference to the pop star life and doing interviews — “You’ve got your pen and your notebook ready/I think it’s about time, time for us to begin.” But though he’s “socializing with the wino few/Just to be hip and get wet with the jet set,” those people are “flying too high to see my point of view.”

“Saint Dominic’s Preview” is long and rambling and odd, and Morrison’s blunt vocal seems to be trying to get more across than the cryptic lyrics express. But it’s a powerful record.

As Pete notes, this week we are getting our Irish on in honor of St. Patrick (or St. Paddy, if you must, but never, ever St. Patty). Looking strictly at the British Isles, the Irish have made a significant contribution to rock over the decades, producing far more genuine rock stars than their Scottish or Welsh islandmates. (Of course, if you start looking to Canada and Australia, that’s two other kettles of fish.)

The English, of course, clasped rock to their pale and scrawny chests the moment it was heard on their shores, and have made at least as great a contribution as Americans, far outpacing the rest of the UK.  Scotsmen have had the odd hit record, but Wales’ contribution is pretty sparse — mostly a one-hit wonder, a two- (massive) hit wonder, and a genial perennial sideman (and, if one stretches a point, this guy).

But Ireland — though it can’t compete with the English in number of either artists or hits, Ireland has been rocking along, often topping the charts, for decades.

I’m starting off in 1976, with a band that had a solid following for many years but for chart purposes was basically a one-hitter: Thin Lizzy. Frontman Phil Lynott was born in England to an Irish mother, but he grew up in Ireland (a dubious blessing for a man of mixed racial ancestry), and the band was an Irish phenomenon, hard-rocking and too-hard-living.

This came out in a funny year for pop, when FM radio was still fairly freeform — just a few months before Boston and “More Than a Feeling” would arguably launch the corporate-rock era that changed the sound of FM forevermore. (And for those who hear echoes of Springsteen in the vocal and the street-story lyrics, “The Boys Are Back in Town” came out just a few months after Born to Run and was likely recorded largely concurrently. Whether Lynott had heard Bruce’s earlier work, no way to know.)

This is yet another classic rock warhorse, but it’s a warhorse for a reason. Set aside the bajillion times you’ve heard it before, and it’s actually a pretty great record. Lynott’s bouncing bass and the band’s signature doubled-up guitars support a terrific vocal — a smart and effortlessly expressive singer, Lynott creates a character as soon as he opens his mouth, giving you a maybe not-overbright punk who’s just lost in admiration of those fabled “boys” who are on their way home to drink and brawl and party hard. (Does this guy long to be one of the boys? Ya think?)

The lyrics have a wonderful immediacy, setting the listener in a specific time and place and atmosphere — the almost-underground culture of the big city, and all the punks and chicks and buddies and hangers-on you can find there.

“Friday night, they’ll be dressed to kill/Down at Dino’s Bar & Grill/The drink will flow and blood will spill/And if the boys wanna fight, you’d better let ‘em” — says it all. Grand record.