SURVIVOR:

How György Ligeti soundtracked 2001, inspired Radiohead and composed music like ‘a knife through Stalin’s heart’ (Gillian Moore,7/03/23, The Guardian)

With Ligeti, however, tragedy is never far away. In his Poème Symphonique (Symphonic Poem) from 1962, 100 mechanical metronomes are set out on the stage in the formation of a symphony orchestra, each one solemnly wound up and set in motion at different speeds by a performer wearing formal evening dress. Ligeti was inspired at the time by the Fluxus movement and it is often billed as a “fun” piece. When the metronomes are let loose, the aural effect of this weird, mechanical orchestra is like rain on a roof or swarms of loud insects. As they gradually wind down, intriguing patterns, rhythms and ticking melodies emerge. By the end, there are only three, then two and then just one solitary metronome – the survivor – ticking away on the stage until it too falls silent. I always find it devastating.

THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS QUALITY:

What are you Haydn? The hoaxers who fooled the classical music world (Phil Hebblethwaite, 5 Nov 2024, The Guardian)

In his article, Beckerman wrote: “Knowing that a work is by Haydn or Mozart allows us to see ‘inevitable’ connections. Take away the certainty of authorship, and it’s devilishly difficult to read the musical images within.” He noted, too, that it was the inauthenticity of the manuscript that had exposed Michel and not the fidelity of the music. And so, Beckerman dared to ask: “If someone can write pieces that can be mistaken for Haydn, what is so special about Haydn?”

MAN IS FALLEN:

Dolly Parton, Charley Pride, Willie Nelson: What I Learned About Happiness From Country Music (Timothy O’Malley, July 26, 2024, Church Life Journal)

The hobby has made me recognize a couple of things about country music: it is the kind of music that proposes something about the human condition. It means something. It has revealed something, to me, about happiness (and how perilous that condition of contentment is).

The first thing such music has unfolded for me is, in fact, that something is wrong with me. Something is wrong with you. Something about this world is wrong. It is a bit of a cliché at this point: dogs die, trucks break down, and relationships end. But listen for a moment to Miranda Lambert’s “Tinman.” Or Carly Pierce’s recent “Fault Line.” Or Willy Nelson’s “Can I Sleep in Your Arms.” Broken hearts rip you apart, such that you would be willing to trade it all to be made of heartless tinman. Love leads to suffering, the kind where once solid relationships become sources of violence. A red-headed stranger may be able to kill you at a moment’s notice, but what he longs for most is to spend the night in the arms of a woman: “Don’t know why, but the one I love left me / Left me lonely and cold and so weak / And I need someone’s arms to hold me / ’Til I’m strong enough to get back on my feet.”

The wrongness of the world is often tinted with the kind of violence more appropriate to a Flannery O’Connor short story than popular music. The murder ballad, “Knoxville Girl,” sung in the haunting blood harmony of the Louvin Brothers, narrates the senseless murder of a young woman. The tale is recounted by the murderer himself, who confesses the deed. There is never a reason described for the murder. He kills, and he pays the price, spending the rest of his life in jail.

Such violence is also addressed by singers who have a definite reason to kill. The erstwhile Dixie Chicks gleefully tell us why Earl must die. More recently, Ashley McBryde speaks to Martha Divine, her father’s mistress: “Honor thy father. Honor thy mother. But the Bible doesn’t say a damn thing about your daddy’s lover.” So, the singer kills Martha Divine—if she is caught, she willl say the devil made her do it. In his “Wait in the Truck,” Hardy describes a murder of an abused woman’s partner. The singer faces the consequences of his murder, spending the rest of his life in jail.

There is something like a gothic sensibility to country music. Violence is lauded not because it is a good, but because the reality is that in this broken world where dogs indeed die, where love does not last forever, there is also the violence of the human heart. There is a genuine tragedy defining the human condition. The only thing to do is to sing about it.

All of this seems to go against any sense of what constitutes naïve happiness (more appropriate to the bubble gum pop of the late nineties). That naïve sense is dreadful: the beginning of happiness is recognizing that you are broken. That you long for something more. Dolly Parton’s “The Grass Is Blue” reveals to anyone who listens to it the terrible irony of heartache. The world is so beautiful, so wonderful. But guess what, you are still going to cry. “The Tennessee Waltz” is beautiful and haunting at once: your sweetheart can be taken from you in a moment’s notice.

How can something so terrifying be sung in such a beautiful way? Rainbows and bunnies are not how country music thinks about reality. Even if the genre employs a stock series of archetypes (the adulterous spouse, the violent lover, the fragility of all relationships), it forces the listener to reckon with the truth that we all eventually figure out: something is wrong. And coming to terms with that wrongness is part of the beauty of human life.

WONDERED WHEN HE’D BRING US ANOTHER:

The Warriors review – Lin-Manuel Miranda and Eisa Davis come out to play with firecracker musical: This concept album based on Walter Hill’s 1979 film features megastar rappers, Hamilton alumni and styles from metalcore to salsa – it is pulled off with breathtaking brio (Chris Wiegand, 17 Oct 2024, The Guardian)

In their adaptation, a concept album that raises the tantalising prospect of a future staging, Lin-Manuel Miranda and Eisa Davis achieve something similar. The blistering, kaleidoscopic opener is presided over by dancehall dynamo Shenseea as a DJ introducing MCs for each borough. Amid punchy fanfares, they are deftly delineated: Chris Rivers as a raspy Bronx, Nas cranking up intrigue as Queens, Cam’ron smoothly humorous as Manhattan (“when you say New York, we’re actually what you mean”), Busta Rhymes’ explosively gruff Brooklyn and Wu-Tang Clan’s Ghostface Killah and RZA spinning ethereal suspense for Staten Island, repeating the detail of their arduous route to the Bronx, “taking a train to a boat to another train”. […]

Miranda and Davis deliver the same lurid pulp jolts as the movie, finding equivalents for Hill’s arsenal of whip pans, wipes and slo-mo violence, yet they also share the more sociological perspective of Sol Yurick’s original 1965 novel and in particular his interest in what gangs offer the alienated and alone. (Yurick drew on his experience working for the city’s welfare department.) A majestic-sounding Lauryn Hill’s solo as Cyrus, If You Can Count, uses several of the character’s rallying lines from the screenplay but builds them into something much more resonant. “Nobody’s wasting nobody” becomes a call not just for laying down arms but for recognising the collective potential of every member in this posited gang of gangs. […]

One of the album’s joys is its unexpected pairings, especially how musical theatre stars are matched with acts from other genres. Broadway’s Alex Boniello teams up with Australian metalcore artist Kim Dracula as the Rogues on a rat-a-tat-tat duet, Going Down, that manages to veer from monstrous destruction to soaring anthem and back again. Dracula channels the toddler rage of the film’s arch-villain Luther (original star David Patrick Kelly gets an album cameo as a cop), and as you’d expect his taunt “come out to play” becomes a thunderous hook.

THE BEST ADVICE AT ALL TIMES IS TO BE SQUARE:


When Heroin Hit Jazz: Fascination with a deadly drug ravaged a generation of great American musicians (Stephen Eide, City Journal)

Addiction, in any era, is attributed to many risk factors, one of which is having not much else going on in your life. “You become a narcotics addict because you do not have strong motivations in any other direction,” William S. Burroughs writes in Junkie (1953). That may describe the lives of many addicts in the contemporary American landscape. It did not characterize someone like Miles Davis in the late 1940s, who, before he got deeply into heroin, was in the artistic vanguard and knew it. Miles and his colleagues always had something to recover for. Weren’t they devoted to their art? Why did they jeopardize it?

The drug’s appeal came down to status. Using heroin was a way to prove that you belonged to an edgy set. The beboppers felt that desire especially keenly. Bebop (originally “modern jazz” ) is the jazz form most closely associated with heroin. Bebop combined both technical virtuosity and authenticity, qualities that stemmed from the late-night jam-session culture from which it arose. Bebop represented jazz’s high-modernist period, marking a great leap forward, eventually leading to the postmodernist abstractions of free jazz but without going all the way into tedium. Bebop did more than the swing and Dixieland sounds that it supplanted to give jazz its reputation as high culture. As appealing as big-band swing was (and still is), had jazz’s development stopped there, it is doubtful that its reputation as “America’s classical music” would be as secure as it is now.

That was all in the future, though. In their day, the members of the bebop generation liked to be regarded as outsiders. “Bebop was invented by the cats who did get out of the army,” says the protagonist of the film Round Midnight (1986), played by Dexter Gordon and based on Bud Powell and Lester Young. Beboppers drew a sharper distinction between the modes of entertainer and artist than did predecessors like Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong.

Bebop musicians played at a fast tempo, often with wit and whimsy, but not much sentimentality. One appeal of bebop lies in its emotional restraint, which sets it against the romantic strains of certain varieties of nineteenth-century classical music and, certainly, saccharine pop songs. (The heroin addict nodding off, too, displays a limited emotional range.) But the main connection between playing bebop and taking heroin was that both were seen as the mark of an unconventional spirit. In critic Nat Hentoff’s view, “Heroin, in short, became the ‘in’ drug more because it was so defiantly anti-square than because of any relationship between the music as such and the effects of the drug.”

Jazz was city music, and all the cities associated with its rise—Kansas City, New Orleans, Chicago—had a reputation for being “wide open.” A working jazz musician maintained nighttime hours, traveled a lot, and was sporadically employed—all qualities associated with looser living. Long before heroin arrived on the jazz scene, alcoholism was rife and sent several jazz greats to an early grave. But boozing had far less status appeal than heroin.

One senses that white musicians experienced status concerns with particular acuteness. Insecurity seems evident on Evans’s face in almost every photograph of him. The Winick study reported that two-thirds of musicians who were “occasional or regular” heroin consumers were white. It was a white trumpeter, Red Rodney, who made the definitive statement about the drug’s status allure: “[Heroin] was our badge. It was the thing that made us different from the rest of the world. It was the thing that said, ‘We know, you don’t know.’ It was the thing that gave us membership in a unique club, and for this membership, we gave up everything else in the world. Every ambition. Every desire. Everything.”

One peer-pressure effect that crossed racial boundaries was the influence of alto saxophonist Charlie “Yardbird” or “Bird” Parker. Bird’s life offers strong evidence that such a thing as an “addictive personality” exists. Single-minded in his devotion to satisfying his various appetites, he was found to be psychopathic by at least one psychiatrist. What Bird’s family and colleagues saw as callous disregard for their well-being has been spun by some later commentators as reaction to racism’s trauma. Many also excused Parker because of his artistic abilities, the reputation of which has only grown over time. The combination in one man of Carnegie Hall and skid row created a potent attraction. The conventional wisdom, as quoted in Ross Russell’s biography Bird Lives! (1973), was: “To play like Bird, you have to do like Bird!”

CATHARSIS:

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds: Wild God review – this masterpiece will make you fall back in love with life
(Alexis Petridis, 22 Aug 2024, The Guardian)

Joy feels like Wild God’s mood in miniature. The album’s songs don’t stint on darkness – pain, suffering and death all feature, including the passing of Cave’s former collaborator and partner Anita Lane – but suggest that life can still provide transcendent euphoria despite it all. The song about Lane is called O Wow O Wow (How Wonderful She Is): it’s gorgeously melodic, decorated with abstract smears of vocoder and a telephone recording of Lane giggling as she recalls their dissolute past, and deals in reverie rather than mourning. On Frogs, Cave walks home from church, pausing to look at a frog in the gutter: “leaping to God, amazed of love, amazed of pain, amazed to be back in the water again.” Even if it doesn’t get far, the song seems to suggest, that’s not the point: the point is to keep leaping.

The music follows suit. Cave has reconvened the Bad Seeds – who seemed a little surplus to requirements among Ghosteen’s beatless drifts and who didn’t appear at all on Carnage, an album credited to Cave and Ellis alone. Wild God deftly melds the meditative, flowing sound of its immediate predecessors with the band’s trademark muscularity (one of the enduring mysteries of Cave’s career is how a band that’s seen something like 23 different musicians pass through its ranks over the years, always sounds like the Bad Seeds regardless). The result is a set of songs that feel simultaneously airy and teeming, not least with a preponderance of glowing melodies. They frequently surge into vast, ecstatic exhalations – there’s a fantastic moment near the end of Song of the Lake, where Thomas Wydler’s drums, which have previously moved things along at a stately, measured pace, suddenly burst into a series of gleeful, clattering rolls. Or the mood flips completely: Conversion initially sounds haunted and stark, before exploding into life midway through in a mass of voices singing and chanting, Cave’s extemporised vocal sounding increasingly rapturous over the top.

The title track, meanwhile, is similarly joyful, although lyrically oblique. One way you could read it is as a sardonic self-portrait, rock’s former Prince of Darkness in his late 60s (“It was rape and pillage in the retirement village”), grappling with the dramatic shift in perception that Cave has undergone over the last decade as it builds to an explosive, cathartic climax, bolstered by choir and orchestra. Said climax seems to reaffirm his faith in the transformative power of music and communality: “If you’re feeling lonely and if you’re feeling blue, and if you just don’t know what to do,” he cries, “bring your spirit down!”

AUDIO INTERVIEW: Nick Cave wrestles with a ‘Wild God’: The rock icon on why true art is always a struggle, why his music has always been religious and why his new album required the full power of The Bad Seeds. (Ann Powers, 8/20/24, NPR)

NEVERMIND (profanity alert):

Kinky Friedman, Charles Manson and Fruit of the Tune Records Are Dead (Chris King, July 1, 2024, Common Reader)

This is an obituary, not of Kinky Friedman, but of the record label that he and we shared with Charles Manson.

Fruit of the Tune Records is not robustly documented for posterity. I am assured I did not dream up the matter by two citations on the discography of Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys: Old Testaments and New Revelations (Fruit of the Tune, 1992) and From One Good American to Another (Fruit of the Tune, 1995). Those release dates align with the release date of the Enormous Richard record that Fruit of the Tune distributed, Warm Milk on the Porch, which was 1992. Obituaries tend to begin with the ending, and the end of Fruit of the Tune goes some way toward explaining why the label has left few traces for music historians.

I got a call one day from Bello, one of the two men (the other was Mango) who ran Fruit of the Tune in Montclair, New Jersey. Bello was calling with bad news—perhaps the worst news you can get from your record label. We no longer had a record label. It had ceased to exist. Bello, of the charming smartass type ubiquitous in the indie rock business, explained how after Nirvana exploded with Nevermind in the last quarter of 1991, every label like Fruit of the Tune snapped up a bunch of sketchy bands like Enormous Richard, thinking there was now major money in what had been classified as indie music. The market had since spoken in the form of an historic flood of returns— returns are records returned, unsold, to distributors and labels that had optimistically accounted them as sold. The unprecedented volume of returned product was driving indie distributors and labels out of business, and Fruit of the Tune had sunk in that torrent.

Bello explained to me that our records would be auctioned off at some point along with all of the label’s inventory left from their bankruptcy proceedings. An outlaw for real, Bello had broken into their now former warehouse and stolen some of our CDs—he felt sorry for us—that he said he would mail to us. As for himself, he had chosen the route of tax exile. He named a certain island and said that if I ever wanted to see him, I should go to that island, ask around for the biggest waves, and find a fish taco stand on the beach near the best surf. If he was not riding a wave, he would sell me a fish taco. For Bello was a surfer—yes, a surfer in New Jersey like the young Bruce Springsteen, though the young Bello had surfed in southern California with Dick Dale, when Dale was more or less singlehandedly creating the genre of surf rock.

FALLING FOREVER (profanity alert):

Dua Lipa, like Pope Benedict, Strives to Give Eros Dignity (Mark Judge, 6/03/24, Chronicles)

The Guardian agreed: “Lipa’s refusal to engage with the more soul-bearing aspects of 21st-century celebrity has made her the kind of pop star one suspects Andy Warhol might have had a lot of time for: a slightly remote, visually arresting space into which fans can project whatever they want.” The Los Angeles Times lamented that Radical Optimism lacks “the kind of detailed celebrity meta-narrative that’s come to define—and to propel—the superstar pop LP in music’s parasocial age.”

Instead of focusing on fame, Lipa had taken on something much grander—the search for authentic love in the modern world. The album opens with “End of an Era,” a song that marks the transition girls make from clubbing to becoming wives.

The sweetest pleasure
I feel like we’re gonna be together
This could be the end of an era
Who knows, baby? This could be forever and ever

In the clouds, there she goes, butterflies let them flow (end of an era)
Another girl falls in love, another girl leaves the club
Send a big kiss goodbye to all of the pretty eyes (end of an era)
Another girl falls in love, another girl leaves the club.

This is lovely poetry, rich with meaning. Critics complain because Lipa does not spend her time bitching about fame and her public image, but perhaps she is better off leaving that kind of thing to Taylor Swift. Love is still the greatest human challenge and the greatest adventure. In Deus Caritas Est, Pope Benedict explores “that love between man and woman which is neither planned nor willed, but somehow imposes itself upon human beings, [which] was called eros by the ancient Greeks.”

FORGIVENESS (profanity alert):

On the Music of John Prine (Erich J. Prince, 06/02/2024, Merion West)

For me, though, there is one Prine song I find the most philosophical, though many of his songs do indeed have that bent. (Being born in the 1990s, I often—and I’m told this is to my great detriment—think of artists in terms of their songs rather than their albums, but maybe this will one day change.) The song is “Fish and Whistle,” the first track on his 1978 album Bruised Orange:

“Father forgive us
For what we must do
You forgive us
We’ll forgive you
We’ll forgive each other
Till we both turn blue
Then we’ll whistle and go fishing
In heaven.”


Along with Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne,” “Dona, Dona,” and Simon & Garfunkel’s “America,” I consider “Fish and Whistle” to be among the most lyrically profound songs of the second half of the 20th century, as stiff of competition as there might be. Prine, the amateur theologian of the Heartland, wonders aloud: Our faith tells us we must constantly ask God for forgiveness, including often for our peccadilloes, but might He apologize to us for the cancer that takes a child, the car accident that destroys a family, or the wars that bring continents to their knees?

ALIVE?:

‘My songs spread like herpes’: why did satirical genius Tom Lehrer swap worldwide fame for obscurity?: In the 1950s and 60s, his songs stunned and delighted listeners with their irreverence, wit and nihilism. Then he gave it all up to teach mathematics. Lehrer is still alive at 96 – so I went in search of answers (Francis Beckett, 22 May 2024, The Guardian)

I didn’t know then that Lehrer had started out, six years earlier, by paying to have his own record cut because the record companies were shocked by his songs, and selling the LP to fellow students at Harvard. This early samizdat recording was the underground success of the decade with almost no publicity effort from Lehrer – “My songs spread slowly, like herpes, rather than Ebola,” he later recalled.

At that time, Lehrer’s principal accomplishment was that he was a mathematics prodigy who had entered Harvard aged 15, in 1943, taken a first class degree aged 18 and a master’s a year later. Born into a New York Jewish family in 1928, Lehrer had, he has said, every advantage: piano lessons, an expensive school that could get him into Harvard, and “the Broadway of Danny Kaye and Cole Porter”.

In the next year or two, Ed Monaghan introduced me to other comedians who were turning the complacent world of American comedy on its head: Mort Sahl, Shelley Berman, Dick Gregory, Lenny Bruce. “What these so-called ‘sickniks’ dispense,” wrote Time magazine in July 1959, “is partly social criticism liberally laced with cyanide, partly a Charles Addams kind of jolly ghoulishness, and partly a personal and highly disturbing hostility toward all the world.”

But in 1960, the year after I discovered him, Lehrer stopped writing and performing, although he briefly re-emerged in 1965 to write new songs for the US version of the satirical British show That Was the Week That Was.