Tuesday, August 20, 2013

The 50 Greatest American Albums.

Nowhere is America freer than in its music.

Over the centuries, songs have passed between the races, over the terrains, through the social levels, & around on phonograph records. Like the finest American artifacts, authenticity falls flat as a vastly more complex melting pot of people, ideas, & songs take shape. But what are the finest examples America has to offer of this? I've seen lists of the best rock albums, pop albums, soul albums, jazz albums, blues albums, etc., but rarely one that went by country of origin, as opposed to style or genre. But what are the greatest American albums of all-time? 

What follows is my humble attempt to answer just that. I tried to keep it as "free" as I could—my only restrictions being that it had to be music (i.e., no spoken word), commercial (i.e., no field recordings), & in its "best" representation (hence for things like Armstrong's Hot Fives & Sevens & Elvis's Sun recordings, I tried to find the most definitive modern issue). The rest was totally open. So here's a list of rock, pop, R&B, soul, rap, country, folk, gospel, blues, cajun, & more.

If American music is a temple to freedom, these 50 artifacts laid its foundation.



1. The Anthology of American Folk Music, Various Artists [Edited by Harry Smith].

The years between 1926-1932 were a watershed in American History, a time between the wars in which many of the hallmarks of modern America took place—the Jazz Age crashed into the Depression, Henry Ford introduced (& sold over 4 million of) the Model A, the Great Flood wreaked havoc on the Mississippi, Lindbergh flew solo across the Atlantic, talking motion pictures were introduced, & FDR was elected.


But amongst all of this forward-looking culture was a group of people collectively looking back—to the 19th century, to the old country, to an old way of life that once was, could've been, or never was. Thanks to then-recent advances in recording technology (i.e., the electric microphone, among other things), "folk" music was being recorded commercially for the first time. &, to virtually everyone's surprise, it sold. Pretty damn well. This was in part because a large number of people buying these records didn't own record players, but got them anyway as a token of their culture.

There was old mountain ballads, country blues, rural spirituals, reels, two-steps, waltzes, archaic shape-note singers, unintelligible cajun tunes, love songs, jail songs, work songs, drinking songs, comedy songs, protest songs, preaching songs—& many several at once. For modern ears today, there are many simply weird songs—country & field hollers with surreal lyrics that came down from generation to generation, changing slightly with each new telling. The coo-coo is a pretty bird, she warbles, as she flies; but she never, hollers coo-coo, 'til the Fourth of July.

Thousands of these records were made, & then forgotten about, cut off by World War II as a relic of old times gone by. Then, in 1952, folklorist Harry Smith took his own collection of 78 RPM folk records & created the Anthology of American Folk Music, three double-record sets of 84 folk songs, meticulously & lovingly arranged: The first volume, Ballads, were American versions of old European ballads, placed in order & brought up-to-date by the inclusion of more recent event songs about the McKinley assassination, the Titanic, & Stagger Lee; the second volume, Social Music, was one disc of dance music followed by one disc of religious music; the third volume, Songs, was two discs of music that couldn't be easily classified any which way. Some of the collection's most enduring songs—Clarence Ashley's "The Coo-Coo," Bascom Lamar Lunsford's "I Wish I Was a Mole in the Ground," & Rabbit Brown's "James Alley Blues"—come from this volume.

Smith saw this music as a true American melting pot & was careful not to put any of the performers' race or genre on the set's liner notes, creating a veiled country in which someone's race & social standing could be as free as the music coming out of a 78 record.

The album became the founding document of the early-'60s folk boom, as kids like Bob Dylan, Jerry Garcia, & Roger McGuinn pored over copies, trying to figure out tunings, words, & meaning, incorporating much of it into their own modern American rock sound.

Because, if there's anything that the seemingly backward-looking music of the Anthology of American Folk Music shows us, it's that the finest American music stands at a crossroads—reaching deep into the past, while simultaneously charting the way towards the future.


2. Louis Armstrong: The Complete Hot Five & Hot Seven Recordings.

This is where music in America became American music. The sound achieved by Louis Armstrong's original Hot Five may not have invented jazz, but it perfected the sound.  Specifically, the triple lead parts of Armstrong's trumpet, Kid Ory's trombone, & Johnny Dodds's clarinet kept the sound cooking with an orderly chaos, instruments weaving in & out of each other, in a way that somehow felt at once orderly & improvised. Throw in Armstrong's charismatic vocals & you have a music that bears the fruit of extensive expertise, but casually knocked off in late-night sessions where almost anything could happen—& did. There was the groundbreaking scatting of "Heebie Jeebies," the virtuosity of "West End Blues," the beauty of "St. James' Infirmary"—& countless more, all classics in their own right & all in the versions that would solidify them as jazz standards in the decades to come. If America is truly the cradle of freedom, this is the first music to rock the cradle.




3. Sunrise, Elvis Presley.

At less than 20 songs of originally-released material, this is one of the cornerstones of American music. Like Louis Armstrong, Elvis didn't invent the music so much as he mastered it & perfected it as an art form for others to follow.  If Elvis is the biggest figure in America's biggest music, it's striking how small these founding documents are. At the center of the Sun recordings are 10 perfect sides—5 R&B songs backed by 5 country sides—that combined run less than 25 minutes. But with tunes like "That's All Right," "Good Rockin' Tonight," & "Mystery Train," this is about as rich as music gets, as you hear so many conflicting elements—blues & country, electric & acoustic, rural & urban, black & white—impossibly & effortlessly united by ELVIS. The most comprehensive collection of this music is the inexplicably out-of-print Sunrise, which has all of the masters, as well as at least one alternate take of each song, as well as early demos & live recordings, many of which were unreleased at the time. But if you ever need confirmation of the King of Rock & Roll's genius, just put on the first disc of masters & hear the music once again for the first time. & what a rush it is.


4. Lady in Satin, Billie Holiday.


The most controversial album by America's greatest singer, Lady in Satin has long divided its audiences & critics—& for obvious reasons.  Holiday was far past her prime by the time she made these records & it shows in every gravely twist of every nuanced word. But Holiday's chief innovation to popular music was to bring the emotion of the song to the forefront, not simply singing the song but performing it, akin to how an actor might read their lines. Songs like "I'm a Fool for You," "You've Changed," & "I'll Be Around" aren't just heard but felt—often devastating torch ballads handpicked by Lady Day herself. Everyone from Frank Sinatra & Elvis on down has been influenced by her in one way or another, & this, her final masterwork, plays just like it sounds: A world-weary master standing at the end of a long road. It is also, not coincidentally, the work that she felt was the finest of her career.



5. Songs for Swingin' Lovers!, Frank Sinatra.

There are two sides of America, & Sinatra caught them both—& in a row, at that. There is the late-night, failed & lonely, what-coulda-been lament that he captured in his first full-length album, In the Wee Small Hours, & there is the bright-&-shiny exuberance of his follow-up, Songs for Swinging Lovers! From the opening "You Make Me Feel So Young" through timeless classics like Gershwin's "Love Is Here to Stay" & Porter's "I've Got You Under My Skin," 
the music is as joyful as In the Wee Small Hours was stark. Sinatra's vocals—bold, blunt, offhanded, cocky, charming—were at the height of their power & conductor Nelson Riddle gave him perhaps the finest canvas he would ever grace in his long career. For it is Sinatra's voice that drives the album, a seemingly effortless extension of his personality & style. I mean, no matter who they are, everybody likes at least one Sinatra song. It would be almost un-American not to.


6. Highway 61 Revisited, Bob Dylan.

From the gunshot drum-hit opening "Like a Rolling Stone" through the surreal, winding finale of "Desolation Row," this is easily the most influential American album of the rock & roll era, & arguably the finest (really only Pet Sounds could challenge it). It was Dylan's first fully-electric album, released around the time he was plugging in at the Newport Folk Festival, & it captured the thrill & fury of his music—an endlessly fascinating sprawl of abstract poetry set to shambling garage rock that few would ever top, including Dylan himself. "Like a Rolling Stone" has since been voted the Greatest Rock & Roll Song of All-Time by Rolling Stone (natch!), but that's just the tip of the iceberg, as even ballads like "It Takes a Lot To Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry" & "Ballad of a Thin Man" show that Dylan could be just as terminal even when things were slowed down. So, how does it feel? Pretty damn epic.


7. Never No Lament: The Blanton-Webster Band, Duke Ellington.

If Louis Armstrong was jazz music's heart—all spirit & joy—Duke Ellington was its mind—measured, considered, accomplished. Like Bloom's reckoning of Dante & Shakespeare, Armstrong & Ellington divide the jazz world, & between them, there is no third. These are the finest fruit of jazz's finest composer. They cover what is generally considered the finest period of Ellington's ever-fluctuating big band, named for bassist Jimmy Blanton & tenor saxophonist Ben Webster, in the period in which they overlapped between 1940-1942. It is, then, big band music perfected, with "Jack the Bear," "Ko Ko," "Cotton Tail," & Ellington's signature "Take the A Train." Like Armstrong's Hot Fives & Sevens, all are classics in their own right, & all refuse to be anything other than timeless.


8. Thriller, Michael Jackson.

It used to be that rock was rock & pop was pop.  Not so after Michael Jackson came along.  Arriving just as rock & roll's central narrative was splintering at the seams, spinning into classic R&B, dance-floor funk, rap recitations, heavy metal guitars, & a thousand more subcategories of subcategories, Jackson did something unimaginable: He brought them all together in one place, Thriller, which still stands as the greatest-selling album of all-time.  The songs of Thriller have become so ubiquitous that it's hard to hear how great (& innovative) they truly are—the cool funk of "Billie Jean," the street-smarts of "Beat It," the B-movie extravaganza of the title track.  There is not a dull moment in the pack, & to be sure, it became the template for countless other performers, with varying levels of success.  But Thriller stands above them all.


9. Precious Lord: Recordings of the Great Gospel Songs of Thomas A. Dorsey, Various Artists.

Thomas A. Dorsey began his career as blues singer Georgia Tom, scoring a major hit in 1928 with the innuendo-filled "Tight Like That." Four years later, upon learning of the death of his wife & unborn child, & wrote "Precious Lord, Take My Hand." In true gospel style, he was a man reborn, & in time would become "the father of black gospel music." Fast-forward some 40 years & you have this album, a two-LP set in which Dorsey leads a band playing his signature hits with the cream of the gospel singing crop bringing them to life. There's rocking gospel (Alex Bradford's "It's a Highway to Heaven"), tight vocal groups (the Dixie Hummingbirds' "Hide Me in Thy Bosom"), & slow, meditative spirituals (Marion Williams on the title track). It's arguably America's finest gospel album—a standing further cemented by its presence in the Library of Congress's inaugural class of the National Recording Registry.


10. King of the Delta Blues Singers, Robert Johnson.


Did Robert Johnson actually sell his soul to the Devil in exchange for his amazing blues musicianship?  We'll probably never know, but that doesn't matter—American myth has always proven greater than American truth, probably because it's always bigger. For, when you listen to mini-epics ("songs" feels like too tame of a word) like "Cross Road Blues," "Ramblin' on My Mind," "Stones in My Passway," & "Hell Hound on My Trail," it sure as hell sounds like a deal has been made with Satan (& bragged about in "Me & the Devil Blues"). This was music on a dark road that never ended, where any hope was sacrificed by pain, terror, & regret. Is it any wonder that everyone ever since (including Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones, & Eric Clapton, among scores more) couldn't get enough of it?


* * *

11. Sings the Cole Porter Songbook, Ella Fitzgerald. In terms of range, pitch, & elocution, Ella Fitzgerald was probably the finest singer America has ever produced. & in terms of a songwriter working independently (as opposed to a music/lyricist pair), Cole Porter was probably the finest songwriter America ever produced. Put them together here, & with results like "Night & Day," "I Get a Kick Out of You," & "I've Got You Under My Skin," you have the American pop in its Platonic form.

12. At Folsom Prison, Johnny Cash. If America could talk, it might have a voice like Johnny Cash's. Loud, forceful, & fearless, yet also able to spin a joke & tall-tale. When Cash recorded this, he met his match in the inmates of the California prison—indeed, just listen to the wild screams that follow his stone-cold "I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die." 

13. I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You, Aretha Franklin. Lady Soul hit the ground running with this, her debut album for Atlantic Records. Songs like the title track & "Do Right Woman, Do Right Man," pushed the fervor of the sacred into the bedroom of the secular creating a sound. Throw in the timeless love-as-political anthem "Respect," & you have a record that is at once masterful & timeless.

14. A Love Supreme, John Coltrane. Jazz as a sermon, meticulously conceived by one of its masters. It is somehow ethereal & focused, divine & rooted, & high-concept but easily accessible. The sound of Coltrane's horn is perfectly complemented by his combo's deft touch—& the result arguably beats rock's "concept album" by a few years.

15. Pet Sounds, The Beach Boys. The finest LP by an American pop group of all-time, which perfected the rock album & inspired Sgt. Pepper, among countless other things. From the transcendent "Wouldn't It Be Nice" through the Caribbean folktale "Sloop John B." & the divine grace of "God Only Knows," few would ever top it.

16. Live at the Apollo, James Brown. Nobody would finance a live album for James Brown, so he paid for it himself. & thank God that he did. The result is the finest live album in rock, with the Godfather of Soul earning his title with every strut, grunt, & plea. The extended "Lost Someone" is rightfully praised, but I love how he suddenly breaks into "Please, Please, Please" at the drop of a hat.

17. Bing: His Legendary Years, 1941-1957, Bing Crosby. Four discs of the most influential vocalist in American history, who changed everything by plugging in a microphone & turning the belting-to-the-back-of-the-theater sound of the acoustic age into the quiet, sexy croon of the electric age. Songs like "Swinging on a Star" would make his legend, but it was his original version of "White Christmas" that remains the biggest-selling recording of all-time.



18. Live at Carnegie Hall, Judy Garland. Take one legend at her height, put her in Carnegie Hall in front of adoring fans, & record the whole thing. The result is a best-selling & Grammy Award-winning hit, which is considered by many to be the finest night of American entertainment ever captured.

19. Kind of Blue, Miles Davis. Miles Davis assembled one of the finest quintets in jazz history (including John Coltrane, Julian "Cannonball" Adderly, & Bill Evans, among others) & produced this, an uncompromised, meditative album of beautiful solitude & blissful rumination. It also just happens to be the best-selling jazz album of all-time.

20. 40 Greatest Hits, Hank Williams. In 1949, Hank Williams became the first country singer to get 6 encores at the Grand Ole Opry; four years later, he was banned from the institution & dead at 29. This set contains the father of modern country music, its finest (& wittiest) songwriter, & a haunted performer all wrapped up in one, represented by signatures like "Move It Over," "Lovesick Blues," & "Your Cheatin' Heart."

21. What's Going on, Marvin Gaye. Motown's biggest-selling album turned on, tuned in, & dropped out—then surfaced with a sermon cloaked in a concept album. At first Motown refused to release it; when they finally relented, it became their best-selling LP—eyes looking towards heaven, but soul weary as hell.

22. The Best of Muddy Waters. A crib sheet to the master of the electric blues, & some of the most influential music ever waxed. "Rollin' Stone" alone would in time lend itself to rock's finest song, most enduring band, & definitive magazine. Meanwhile, classics like "I'm Your Hoochie-Coochie Man" & "I Just Want to Make Love to You" are stone-cold standards of the modern blues.

23. Dust Bowl Ballads, Woody Guthrie. A State of the Union, c. 1935, as told by a folk-poet chronicling the apocalypse. This was singer-songwriter music in its rawest (& finest) form, with all of the grit & grime of the Oklahoma plains. "The Great Dust Storm" best told the tale, but it's "I Ain't Got No Home" & Dusty Old Dust" that have become the classics. It was an album with sullen faces here, gallows humor there, & dust everywhere else.

24. The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan. The portrait of the artist as a young folksinger, which all but doubles as a greatest hits of Dylan's early period. On his first album comprised (almost entirely) of original material, he would make his legend on "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright," "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," "Masters of War," & the Civil Rights anthem "Blowin' in the Wind," which he claims to have written in 10 minutes.

25. Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen. With the swagger of Elvis, the imagery of Dylan, & the dense soundscapes modeled on Phil Spector (plus a tip of the hat to Roy Orbison), rock & roll's prodigal son gets one last chance to make it real—& on tunes like "Thunder Road" & the title track—gets it.

* * *

26. The Complete Savoy & Dial Master Takes, Charlie Parker. Jazz broken apart & reassembled as bop, by the man who would define the sound; the future starts here.

27. Lady Day: The Master Takes & Singles, Billie Holiday. Hear Holiday go full blossom from a featured performer to a vocal legend, like the gardenia that adorned her hair.



28. Are You Experienced, Jimi Hendrix. Rock's finest debut & guitar's greatest genius takes acid (& music) as far as it can go in 1967.

29. Oklahoma!, Original Cast Recording.
The first modern musical soundtrack—& as some like to tell it, the finest ever.

30. It Takes a Nation of Millions To Hold Us Back, Public Enemy. Rap music's Sgt. Pepper is never badder than bad cuz a brother is madder than mad at the fact it's corrupt like a senator...

31. Time Out!, Dave Brubeck. A rare time when the popular audience was ahead of the critics, recognizing the exploration of odd time signatures in clever songs that never tire.

32. Where Did You Sleep Last Night?, Lead Belly. With the title track, grunge-tested & folklorist-approved—& for my money, the finest history of rock & roll you will ever hear.

33. Mingus Ah Um, Charles Mingus.
A survey of African American music as led by jazz's most visionary bassist.

34. The Early Years, Bert Williams. The most famous American you've never heard of—an African American blackface performer who helped invent pop music (while perfecting deadpan humor).

35. Elvis' Golden Hits, Elvis Presley. "Hound Dog," "Heartbreak Hotel," "Don't Be Cruel," & all the rest of his peak, just before the Army came & stole his crown.

36. West Side Story, Original Soundtrack Recording. Romeo & Juliet recast as a pop opera in New York City's Puerto Rican & American gangs singing—yet somehow it all works.

37. The Essential Jimmie Rodgers.
"The Singing Brakeman" founds country music as we know it with a wink & a strum—& that signature high yodel.

38. Live at Carnegie Hall, Benny Goodman. Jazz goes uptown in the music's coming-out party, led by its greatest white innovator.

39. The Great Twenty-Eight, Chuck Berry. With "Maybellene," "Roll Over Beethoven," & "Johnny B. Goode"—the finest telling of the American Dream I've ever heard.

40. Nevermind, Nirvana.
Punk breaks, thanks to a Seattle trio led by a loser who used to live under a bridge & a little ditty called "Smells Like Teen Spirit."

41. Will the Circle Be Unbroken, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. A history of country music as told by some of its masters—& the kids they inspired—in a triple-LP set that lives up to its title.

42. Like a Prayer, Madonna. Is there a dancefloor in the church or a church in the dancefloor? Either way, the answer is the Queen of Pop's masterpiece.

43. Live at Regal, B.B. King.
Electric blues finest album, led off by "Every Day I Have the Blues," but crescendoing with "How Blue Can You Get?"

44. Red-Headed Stranger, Willie Nelson. A quiet song-cycle about a murderous preacher that all but solidified the '70s "outlaw" country sound.

45. Porgy & Bess, Original Cast Recording. Two New York Jews dream of life in the South, where the livin' is easy...

46. The Ramones. 1-2-3-4! As in: 1 sound, 2 minutes, 3 chords, 4 sick bubblegum singers posing as brothers—& inventing punk.

47. Star Wars Soundtrack, John Williams. Voted the finest film soundtrack of all-time by the American Film Institute, & who's to argue with them? The LP that launched a thousand ringtones.

48. In the Wee Small Hours, Frank Sinatra.
The Voice's other side—melancholy, looking into an empty glass, & crooning "One for My Baby (& One for The Road)."

49. Cajun Dance Party: Fais Do-Do, Various Artists. Included for Amede Adroin's 6 Columbia songs (canjun's earliest commercial recordings), buttressed by other early masters.

50. Let Me Sing & I'm Happy, Al Jolson. America's most popular singer of the first half the 20th Century shows off his charisma in these tunes taken from his earliest talkies.

Saturday, August 3, 2013

Twit Crit.


Earlier this week, a friend of mine on Twitter (@randyprine) pointed out to me the #foxnewslitcrit hashtag & suggested I partake in the festivities. (I didn't even realize this was sparked by a real-life Fox News book-interview-turned-pathetic-debacle until I was almost done writing these.)

They kinda became their own thing, & lo & behold, another one of my followers suggested I write a blog post collecting my tweets. So here it is. Now if only I could that tweet from her...

So thank you, whoever you are.

Here is a day wasted mocking right-wing literary-journalism, Twitter-style.

















































































Sunday, July 28, 2013

Imagine: A "1971" Beatles Album.


To paraphrase the great philosopher Eli Cash: "Well, everyone knows the Beatles broke up in 1970. What this post presupposes is...maybe they didn't."

* * *

It goes without saying that the Beatles brought out something truly remarkable in one another; despite the flashes of greatness from their solo works, these were only flashes. Because let's face it, even the best Beatles solo works are only about one-quarter as good as the worst Beatles music.

This is not to belittle the efforts of Lennon, McCartney, Harrison, & Starr per se; there is no reason to believe that anyone could have created music that could make anything more than fleeting grasps at the greatness that was The Beatles.

However, it wasn't until recently that I began stacking their solo music up against each other. Although I knew that they each did some classic work in the early '70s, it wasn't until now that I recognized just how closely this work lined up. Between February 1970 & September 1971, the solo Beatles released the bulk of what was to become their solo legends.

John Lennon released his twin masterpieces Plastic Ono Band & Imagine, generally considered the finest of all Beatles solo work (including his own), as well as stand-alone hit singles like "Instant Karma!" & "Power to the People"; Paul McCartney released "Maybe I'm Amazed" as well as his classic Ram album (with his first US #1 hit); George Harrison released his triple-album masterpiece All Things Must Pass & staged his legendary Concert for Bangladesh; even Ringo enjoyed a hit with the finest song he would ever have a hand in writing, the timeless "It Don't Come Easy."

Of the music made in this time period, only McCartney would truly top his work when he released Band on the Run in 1973 after a string of uneven solo efforts. Perhaps not coincidentally, McCartney was the only one who made his 1970-1971 music in a virtual "Beatle isolation," collaborating only with his wife Linda.

The other Beatles left fingerprints all over each other's efforts. Harrison supplied lead guitar & backing vocals for "Instant Karma!" & appeared on Imagine, while Starr drummed on Plastic Ono Band; Starr played on Harrison's "My Sweet Lord" & joined Harrison as part of his Bangladesh concert; Harrison in turn produced, played on, & co-wrote (some believe ghost-wrote) "It Don't Come Easy."

In considering all of this, I began to wonder if there was something to be said for the proximity of this music to the Beatles' final days—that is, what if The Beatles had stuck it out for one more album? What would it sound like?

Well, for my money, it would sound pretty damn good.

I've spent the last week or so tinkering with what could have been a lost "final" Beatles album from the fall of 1971. It not only stands as a solid collection of otherwise somewhat patchy solo-work, it also serves as a near all-you-need primer of their solo careers.

When playing the scenario out though, I had to make some executive decisions.

1. It seems to me that Plastic Ono Band is a standalone solo album—if not the standalone solo album—& to pretend like any of it could have happened without The Beatles being separate from it (Ringo notwithstanding) would defy logic. In my version of these events, I imagine Lennon still recording & releasing it as a solo effort—just as he had with "Give Peace a Chance" in 1969—before adding some material to this "final" Beatles album.

2. Similarly, I saw Harrison's Bangladesh project as a separate entity that would have coexisted alongside this album. The concert is literally its own event, & the hit single it spawned felt more like an appendix to that than its own song that could have been lumped in on an album (in fact, it the single version never appeared as part of a proper Harrison album until a recent reissue of the Bangladesh concert).

3. When in doubt, I went with what sounded closest to the Beatles. Solid cuts like McCartney's "Too Many People" were left off because of Linda's presence; anything featuring Yoko as a co-vocalist was similarly excluded. A song like "Power to the People" was a hit in its own right, but left off in favor of some Imagine album cuts because they are more approximate to what the Beatles sounded like. To stretch the point, the same went for Starr's 1970 country album.

4. I wanted it to closely mirror the Beatles' albums in terms of "Beatle Influence." In the end, the album contains 1/3 Lennon & 1/3 McCartney (4 songs each), 1/4 Harrison (3 songs), & 1/12 Starr (1 song). Perfect.

5. Finally, I tried to approximate a Beatles running-order. It runs a little over 50 minutes, right on par with later works like Abbey Road & the first disc of "The White Album." I also tried to split things up as they may have been in a Beatles record—hence the George songs are spread out, Lennon songs are up top, etc. Finally, I tried to think in terms of the Beates' own albums & the material here. "Imagine" is one of those songs that simply has to be the lead-song; any other placement feels false. Likewise, "Isn't It A Pity" makes an epic album closer.

Because, when it comes down to it, the whole notion of this "1971" album comes down to the sentiment of those two songs: Imagine, & Isn't It a Pity.

Side 1

1. Imagine
[John Lennon, #1 UK/#3 US, from Imagine, 9/9/1971]

2. Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey
[Paul McCartney, #1 US, from Ram, 8/2/1971]

3. My Sweet Lord
[George Harrison, #1 UK/#1 US, from All Things Must Pass, 11/23/1970]

4. It Don't Come Easy
[Ringo Starr, #4 UK/#4 US, Non-Album Single 4/9/1971]

5. Jealous Guy
[John Lennon, from Imagine, 9/9/1971]

6. Maybe I'm Amazed
[Paul McCartney, from McCartney, 4/17/1970]

Side 2

1. Instant Karma!
[John Lennon, #5 UK/#3 US, Non-Album Single, 2/6/1970]

2. What Is Life
[George Harrison, #10 US, from All Must Pass, 11/23/1970]

3. Another Day
[Paul McCartney, #2 UK/#5 US, Non-Album Single, 2/19/1971]

4. Gimme Some Truth
[John Lennon, from Imagine, 9/9/1971]

5. The Back Seat of My Car
[Paul McCartney, #39 UK, from Ram, 8/2/1971]

6. Isn't It a Pity
[George Harrison, from All Things Must Pass, 11/23/1970]

So there, yer welcome. Go ahead & make yourself a "new" final Beatles album on yer iTunes.

& if you need a cover, use the one at the top of this article—taken from the Beatles' final photo shoot at John's house. No title on the cover needed (a la Abbey Road!).

But I like to call it: Imagine [A "1971" Beatles Album].

Monday, July 15, 2013

Paul McCartney: & In The End? (Nationals Stadium, Washington DC, 7/12/2013)


If I ever wanted to know the answer to the question "Who would bring a four-year-old to a Paul McCartney concert?" I would now know that the answer is the only person on earth who shares my DNA: My sister. Unusual no doubt, but my niece as a ridiculous attention span—she is literally the only person I can know (myself included) who can sit through The Sound of Music with no breaks to go to the bathroom or get a snack (although she will eat a sandwich when placed in front of her).

The same year that The Sound of Music won Best Picture, the Beatles released Rubber Soul, which best pictured the changing sound of music. I could go on about the Beatles embracing recreational drugs, the influence of Bob Dylan, the creative competition of the Rolling Stones, the Beach Boys, & the Byrds (among several hundred other factors), but at the end of the day, Rubber Soul is a great collection of great songs. I remember it being a favorite of my sister & I when I was around my niece's age & how sometimes she would put it on for us to hear when my parents weren't home. (I wasn't allowed to touch the stereo system. Go figure.) When "Drive My Car"—the opening song on the UK edition of Rubber Soul—came on the car radio on the way to the Paul McCartney concert a few nights ago, my niece knew all the words. The torch had been passed to a new generation.

My niece is a HUGE Beatles fan—"Paulie" is her favorite—& she kept telling me in the car that she knew more Beatles songs than I did. Now, I should probably just smile & shrug this off as an adult, but instead I remain stupidly competitive about it (turns out I'm the same way about pancakes; I once kicked her ass in an impromptu IHOP challenge). When she said she knew 100 Beatles' songs, I pointed out there were 217 in the official catalog (that's counting both "Love Me Do"s, both "Across the Universe"s, & the German versions of "I Want To Hold Your Hand" & "She Loves You"), to which she informed me that she knew even more than that. I considered for a moment that she could be including the songs that were on the BBC Sessions CDs &/or stray YouTube videos, & had to give her the benefit of the doubt. The Apple Records doesn't fall far from the tree.

As we stood in the parking garage waiting for the elevator, my niece asked, "Is Paul here?" "No, not just yet." She kept looking all around inquisitively as though she would prove us wrong—here, there, & everywhere, as it were. Can't blame her though. She had never seen a Beatle before.

* * *

Well, like my niece, I had never seen a Beatle live in concert before either. Paul McCartney had been on the top of my must list for quite some time; in my near three-decades of concert-going, I've been privileged enough to see Dylan (3x), Bruce (2x), the Stones, & Chuck Berry, but never the elusive Sir Paul. My sister offered to get me a ticket for his July 12th concert at the Nationals Baseball Stadium, which placed the archetypal stadium rocker (heck, even Don Draper took Sally to The Beatles at Shea in '65) in one of the newest teams' stadiums. Minus the running president heads.

Doors were to open at 6:00 (actually at 7:09) & the show was to begin at 8:00 (actually 8:37). I'd spent the previous week trying to catch up on lost time with his solo work, which is akin to trying to get blood from, like, a Rolling Stone. If it's rare for any solo act to match the magic of the group that made them famous, it's IMPOSSIBLE for any Beatle to do so. I mean, you're up against THE BEATLES, which was a band that for my money pretty much never released anything short of a masterpiece. &  most of their most important music—the long medley of Abbey Road, the concept of Sgt. Pepper, & the most covered song in the history of mankind ("Yesterday")—is the masterstroke of McCartney, but still, I had never really stacked up his Beatles work with his solo work & play them against each other.

It turns out that doing so makes his solo work completely suck. Still, I soldiered on with a mix CD of all his biggest solo chart hits I made, & it paid off when he dusted off chestnuts like "Junior's Farm" (his second song), "Listen to What the Man Said" (he apparently said, "Write me a boring song"), & "Hi Hi Hi" (my first-encore bathroom break—thanks to my mix, I knew it would be just long enough). I gave my sister the same mix CD but she didn't get nearly as far as I did. When McCartney began playing "Another Day," she said, "Oh, I know this one from the CD!" "Yeah," I said. "because it was the second song on it."

Can't blame her for not wanting to waste her time. With the exception of "Maybe I'm Amazed" (which for me is more of an extension of the contemporary Abbey Road & Let It Be than a solo song), the vast majority of his solo hits were the commercial breaks to the rest of the set's television programming. People sat down when the Wings songs came on, took a minute to take some pictures, hit the restroom, or text a friend so they could be recharged & dancing for the next Beatles classic (turns out many of McCartney's fans need recharging). With all of the memories & glory of the Beatles music, it honestly didn't hurt to have a bit of downtime to regather oneself & reflect.

"He's really smart," my mom told me of a Sir Paul show she caught a few years back. "He knows what he can do, & what he can't." When she listed the Beatles songs that he "could do," I pointed out that they were all his Beatle songs (i.e., no "I Am the Walrus"), which my mom hadn't considered. This time around, McCartney has gotten more liberal in his old age, throwing in a few "never-before-played-live" like "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!" (which was splendid) & "Day Tripper" (solid, though never one of my favs)—both which John sang lead on & was largely responsible for.

That said, you couldn't find John anywhere but in the music. As my sister shrewdly noted, he wasn't included in any of the photo montages (specifically the 30-minute one that preceded him taking the stage—it was sorta like the best wedding slideshow EVER); she's figuring that his estate didn't license it, which, given McCartney's terse relationship with Yoko over the years, sadly wouldn't be a complete shocker.

Paul did mention John a few times—most notably before doing a solo version of his John tribute "Here Today" (the one song of the night I didn't recognize)—& gave George a lovely tribute by bringing out a ukelele that George had given him & used it to play a plunka-plunka version of "Something," which then broke into the classic style (appropriately) at George's guitar solo. It also set up Paul's best quip of the night, which was that "Something" was "Frank Sinatra's favorite Lennon/McCartney song."

[Other Dead Friends Name-Checked By Paul Besides John, George, & Frank: Jimi & Linda; Non-Dead Friends: Eric [Clapton]; Not Mentioned Whatsoever: Ringo.]

Most of McCartney's asides were more cutesy-for-cutesy's-sake; one can understand why his peers either refuse to talk to the crowd (Dylan) or seem physically incapable of doing so (poor eternally-shellshocked Brian Wilson): You're generally going to sound, well, like a 70-something-year-old man. "I like how, at the end of the day, he's just kind of a bit of nerd," I told my sister after one of his little awkward but pleasant patters. "I don't know," my sister said. "I think he's pretty cool." Maybe, but does one picture John or George acting that way if they were in their 70s giving arena shows? But then again, perhaps the fact that Paul is the one still doing so makes his banter the symptom rather than the disease.

I caught McCartney on Colbert the other week & he said that in The Beatles, they all got a full veto over any song—as Stephen was sure to clarify, if Paul or John had written what they thought was the best song in the world but Ringo didn't like it, it was out. It seems obvious to say that the Beatles "had something magic" about them that made their music great. But, if we consider the competition they inspired in each other & their genius at providing the perfect support for their compositions, maybe there is some magic in there.

Because, even with "Band on the Run" (the one Wings song my sister really likes, for anyone keeping score) & "Live & Let Die" (with pyrotechnics worthy of a, well, Roger Moore James Bond film), it's the Beatles songs that bring the concert from a good-time arena rock party to a transcendental experience.

* * *

The thing that surprised me most about the show was that the most powerful songs were not the ballads—tearjerkers like "Let It Be," "Blackbird," & "Golden Slumbers," which are among the finest songs I've ever heard. Instead, it was the rockers, specifically "Lady Madonna," "Back in the USSR," & "Hey Jude"—all great songs to be sure, but not necessarily the first three you'd think of when given the Lennon/McCartney songbook.

"Lady Madonna" was done right after an odd take on "Your Mother Should Know," in which Paul played the strutting throwaway as Walker Evans-like photographs of Depression-era mothers & children were shown on the screen behind the stage. "That's depressing," my sister said, for good reason. "I think it's to be like, before your mother was born, songs that were played in 1930s," I offered, but I now realize that the parents of McCartney (& his baby-boomer demographic) were largely born before the 1930s, so who knows. Maybe McCartney was trying to remind us that even the most modern rock & roll arena concert, the ghosts of poverty's past are never far away; maybe he just really digs Walker Evans. At any rate, it was a bit stirring & surreal, like the weird transition between dreaming & waking life.

It all set the stage for "Lady Madonna," which also began with old photographs & footage of regal mothers—Queen Elizabeth, Lady Diana. But then, early on, things took a turn for the strange when a picture of Harriet Tubman (who did adopt a daughter), & then Amelia Earhart (who did not) cropped up. Before long, images of Marilyn Monroe began appearing up along side pictures of Billie Holiday, Anne Frank, & most weirdly, Joan "Mommie Dearest" Crawford (complete with her real-life "No more wire hangers" daughter)—women who did not have children, women who died before having children, women who were famously rotten to their children. & yet, he still threw in old shots like President Obama at the beach with his mother, to keep the thread running. (The one woman I waited for but didn't appear was Madonna, who perhaps was too obvious.)

McCartney's own mother was pictured at one point—Mother Mary from "Let It Be"—who, like Barack Obama's mother & Prince William's mother, died when he was relatively young. That Lennon too experienced a similar thing when his mother Julia died when he was young (the inspiration for "The White Album" song of the same name) was something that brought he & McCartney closer together.

"Lady Madonna" itself a barnstormer, written in a '50s tribute to Fats Domino, who brought things full-circle by doing his own version & getting his last Top 100 hit out of it (at #100). McCartney played it on a psychedelic-painted upright as the band crashed along. Interspersing the photographs of women were old film clips of women running, women dancing, women doing those weird choreographed moves in those old Busby Berkeley-style show-stoppers, as the song double-backed on itself. Here was a song conceived of in nostalgia that itself had become nostalgia. Seeing these once familiar & then archaic images & film reels go by made it feel like the song was an aural junk shop in which these were the riches.

Because when it comes down to it, "Lady Madonna" is about many things—it's about mothers & children, saints & whores, sacred riches & earthly poverty. It's a '60s song that sounds like a '50s song; it's an adult song that sounds like a kid's song; it has a singing part that sounds like trumpets. It is also an orphan, a song that was never released on a proper album, a stand-alone single that hit Number One in the UK (making it perhaps their least-iconic Number One, next to "The Ballad of John & Yoko" & "The Long & Boring Road"), & peaked at #4 in the US on March 23rd, 1968, one day after my own mother's 20th birthday.

"Back in the USSR" evoked history as well, but in a different way. This time during the song, new Soviet poster-style artwork flashed on the screen in bold black, red, & beige; fists & eyes, workers & industry, militant-looking women & men, all that stuff. But then, in the middle of everything—McCartney singing, the guitars blaring, the drums pounding, the people dancing, the lights flashing, the soundmen mixing—there appeared on the screen three words that cut through it all like a hot knife in butter, written in all-caps, military-stencil style lettering: FREE PUSSY RIOT.

Suddenly the old & quaint disappeared & everything became suddenly all about the present. The USSR was no longer a distant memory that loomed like a half-forgotten bad dream, but rather an area of the world where freedom of expression & rock & roll music was something important, endangered, & immediate. It also was nice to remember that the Beatles themselves were often political—John got all the attention, but perhaps only because he did it in his John way: Loudly. Paul was always more quiet & whimsical—as he was earlier in the set when he introduced "Blackbird" as an attempt to instill hope in the Civil Rights movement (something that I had never heard before). It made the song glisten in a new way, but one that was in keeping with the stately, understated grace of the song itself. Take these broken wings & learn to fly.

"Back in the USSR" is the complete opposite. Written during a British "I'm Backing the UK" morale campaign, "Back in the USSR" took Chuck Berry's "Back in the USA" & crossbred it with a send-up of the Beach Boys' sound. It took the then-most dangerous part of the world & made it as harmless & catchy as a well-written novelty 45. When the USSR fell in 1989, the song's sudden outdatedness made it all the more relevant—in picturing a fun & stupid Russia two decades earlier, it had written history before it happened. In a Wayne's World sketch done soon after the Berlin Wall fell, Wayne & Garth lamented the loss of The Beatles song: "Now it's 'Back in the Commonwealth of Independent, back in the Commonwealth of Independent, back in the Commonwealth of Independent States'!"

But the words "FREE PUSSY RIOT" changed all that—if only for an instant, reminding us that democracy isn't a gift that's simply given, it's a skill that can only be earned by doing. It took the "Back" out of "Back in the USSR," but did so quickly & succinctly enough as to not disrupt the night or even the song. I think John would've approved.

"Hey Jude" came two songs later as the end of the main set. I like to think of "Hey Jude" as the greatest 3-minute song ever written followed by the worst 4-minute song ever written; I still hold that it would maintain all of its impact if only it ran for 2 minutes of "Nah-nah-nah"s instead of 4. But then, of course, it wouldn't be "Hey Jude." As The Beatles' biggest hit, it looms in popular memory in a way that is larger-than-life even for a Beatles song—really only "I Want To Hold Your Hand" & "Yesterday" can touch it.

But unlike so many other Lennon/McCartney songs, "Hey Jude" is virtually impossible to cover. Every version I've ever heard falls flat. Elvis's version is a strong candidate for the worst studio performance of his career (& this is a man who waxed things like "Yoga Is As Yoga Does" & "(There's) No Room To Rhumba in a Sports Car)," while Wilson Pickett's soul take is more clunky than funky. The only time I have seen it effectively used is in the opening of Wes Anderson's The Royal Tennenbaums, in which an instrumental "Hey Jude" plays over Alec Baldwin's perfect narration of the rise & fall of the Tennenbaum clan. In there, the song is played for its lilting nostalgia, & the track nails it.

Hearing McCartney do it was a perfect summary of the conundrum of seeing Paul McCartney live: It sounded completely solid, yet the importance of McCartney, the importance of the song, & the importance of knowing I was the closest I'd ever be to seeing the biggest band of all-time play their biggest song of all-time, proved inseparable from the listening experience. If Hamlet thinks when he should be acting, I think when I should be dancing.

Further framing the moment was the rumors that this may be McCartney's last major tour, & perhaps the last time I could witness this. There's an elusive closeness to it that is simultaneously fleeting; you can see McCartney sing the song for the thousandth time, you can hear his weird little stage-banter that carefully substitutes the word "Washington" into his otherwise interchangeable words to the audience; there is a feeling of ritual, of going through the motions, of taking part in this at once sacred & mundane performance.

& yet, there it is, alive & in front of you. Here is the man who left in the line he was initially apologizing for because of John Lennon's insistence: The movement you need is on your shoulder.

It is an ending, but with the impending encore—both in that night & beyond—it was a false one.

* * *

By the time that McCartney had begun "Hey Jude," my niece was fading fast. She may know more than 217 Beatles songs, but you'd never know it when she's at a show that begins after 9:00 PM & goes close to midnight. By the time McCartney did his final encore of "The End," I expected I'd be all chocked-up but wasn't even close.

And in the end, Paul sang. The love you take—is equal to the love...you make.

I looked over to my niece.

It was a sentimental moment, to be sure, but not one to get misty-eyed over—it was more like a changing of the guards, a proud nod of fact that sometimes, when art is at its finest, we don't experience it as much as it describes our own experience.

There is beauty in such moments, & a simple truth that transcends emotion.

& then, 17 seconds after it ended & the houselights were coming back on, I broke into an a capella rendition of "Her Majesty." I tried to get my niece to join in, but she was still too shellshocked from the "Live & Let Die" pyrotechnics to help me out.

Either that, or we can officially bring her count down to 216.