A Day Without Me

I've got another piece up at SonicDiary—this one a review of Neil McCormick's memoir Killing Bono.

Traffic Stop

Jim Capaldi, dead at sixty.

You know, this week I’ve been listening to a two-disc War compilation, and I’ve been thinking a lot about Traffic. Part of it is a hangover from that silly meme-quiz, I suppose, but most of it is a shared sonic quality—a similarity I’d never noticed before.

And why should I? After all, 1970s East L.A. is worlds away, experientially, from bucolic Cotswold-on-the-Maypole, or wherever it was that Jim and the boys forged their sound. Both groups drew on jazz, of course, but on separate, distinct strains of the idiom. There would seem to be a vast qualitative difference between War’s soul-funk (Afro-American, urban, gritty) and Traffic’s folk-psychedelia (Anglo-European, pastoral, whimsical).

But on a purely musical level—quantitatively—we hear some common elements: predominant keyboards, gang vocals, and kitchen-sink percussion bubbling through a deep, layered stereo mix. (To be fair, Traffic came upon this approach largely via producer Jimmy Miller, who had used it to great effect with the Spencer Davis Group.) The same tools were being deployed to greatly different ends.

The histories run parallel, as well. Both came together as backing bands for the solo debut of singers leaving popular British blues-rock groups (the first Traffic sessions were supposed to be for a Winwood solo record), winding down in personnel changes as the 70s wore on, losing saxophonists along the way, re-emerging in the mid-90s but never quite regaining their former stature.

War was arguably the better singles band—but listening to these songs all in a row exposes their limitations. They fell too often into a samey, mid-tempo Latin groove, the lyrics (for all the band’s vaunted “social consciousness”) rarely distinguish themselves in the handling of their Big Themes, and the emphasis on collective singing starts to sound like a crutch. If Traffic has aged better, it’s because they had what War lacked—instantly-identifiable lead vocals and a distinctive lyrical sensibility. (Ironically, of course, War had both in their early days, backing Eric Burdon.)

Jim Capaldi was that lyrical voice. It was a strange voice—phantasmagoric, mystical, sometimes flaky or pompous or both—but its strangeness was authentic. In contrast to Dave Mason, whose flights of fancy seemed plodding and forced, imagined from outside, one always got the feeling that Capaldi had the kind of mind that really could look around corners.

And for Jim Capaldi as for his creation Mr. Fantasy: If it was straight mind he had, we wouldn’t have known him all those years.

Stuck On You

It’s been cold here in the Flower City—eight below zero, this morning—and I’ve taken to wearing my fleece pullover most days. I was just up in a cluster of workmates, near the telephone, and the Lab Manager gestured and made a little smirk. “Nice sticker,” she said.

I looked down, and stuck to the fleece, just below my heart, was little oblong of cellophane—clear, with a pink-and-yellow giftbox printed on it. I smiled. “Yeah, that’s about as high as Sam can reach right now,” I said. We laughed. But I didn’t take it off.

That’s how you know.

Did I Think I Would Live to See the Day...

...when Warren Ellis, the Hard Man of Sequential Literature, would acknowledge Garrison Keillor as an influence?

No.
I did not.
But there it is.

UPDATE: And there it is again.

Fried in Maggoty Butter

Check it! Somebody found my blog using this search criterion. Now, because the search was formatted oddly (they screwed the pooch with that opening smart-quote), they got some vague, random hits—but man, I totally know that song!

Well, the first verse and chorus anyway:

I’se the b’y that builds the boat, and I’se the b’y that sails her
I’se the b’y that catches the fish and brings ‘em home to Liza!

Hip your partner, Sally Tibbs! Hip your partner, Sally Brown!
(something something ya-ta-ta) Harbour, all around the circle!

The missing words are place names—in Newfoundland, I think. I know the tune (which I learned from the singing of John Langstaff) off by heart, but I’m a wee bit hazy on the geography references.

I could Google it, I suppose. But somehow that seems to miss the point, don’cha think?

...

Oh, all right.

It’s a Boy, Mrs. Walker

I’ve got a brief piece up on SonicDiary right now, about Tommy, the mechanics of vinyl double albums, and an imaginative child’s experience of narrative music. The whole site is well worth your time.

(With many thanks to Bee and E.)

Stranger To Himself

Okay, this is kinda cool. There's about a dozen bands I could do this with, but this is the first that sprang to mind...

Describe yourself using one band and song titles from that band
Created by naw5689 and taken 4633 times on bzoink!
Choose a band/artist and answer only in song TITLES by that band:	Traffic
Are you male or female:	Every Mother's Son
Describe yourself:	No Face, No Name, No Number
How do some people feel about you:	Light Up Or Leave Me Alone
How do you feel about yourself:	Feelin' Alright
Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend:	Tragic Magic
Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend:	Vagabond Virgin
Describe where you want to be:	Hope I Never Find Me There
Describe what you want to be:	Rainmaker
Describe how you live:	Shoot Out At The Fantasy Factory
Describe how you love:	Medicated Goo
Share a few words of wisdom	Heaven Is In Your Mind
Create a Survey | Search Surveys | Go to bzoink!

I must admit, before settling on a more philosophical answer for Where You Want To Be, I was fighting a strong urge to say “Roamin’ through the Gloamin’ with Forty Thousand Headmen” ... or possibly “Shanghai Noodle Factory.”

For Those Who Missed The Memo

Okay, we’re all familiar with the first two. But what are Rules Three through Ten of Fight Club?

No!

This story is especially for Elizabeth (who’s half of the crackin’ new musicblog SonicDiary, by the bye).

(via New York London Paris Munich)

Don’t Worry

There’s a guy works in my building who is, I swear, the spit and image of a young Meher Baba. The wild locks, the big, beneficent ‘tache. I’ve seen this man in the halls (it’s a large building) but have never spoken to him: But somehow it makes me glad to know he’s here—glad that his presence makes me think, even fleetingly, about the Avatar, and about Reality and the immanence of God.

Once, many years ago, I attended a Coptic Orthodox Mass, and what got to me was the way that even the tiny details are prescribed—like how you hold your hand when you make the Sign of the Cross: ring and pinky fingers tucked into the palm—two fingers representing Jesus's dual nature, fully human and fully divine—middle, index, and thumb touching at the tips to represent the Holy Trinity.

A small thing. But it has stayed with me, and it's how I make the Sign of the Cross today. And every time I throw this shape with my hand, every time I make this gesture, it prompts in me a conscious mini-meditation—lasting no more than a second—on the nature of the Christ and the Trinity.

That’s mindfulness, basically. And it’s not a huge, exalted thing available only to Ascended Masters. It's a humble, everyday sort of spiritual tool. And one, I think, with immense value.

Pete Townshend, who is or was a follower of Meher Baba, has long contended that his most misunderstood song is, on the surface, one of his simplest: “Let My Love Open the Door” (which Pete himself calls a “ditty”) is best understood, he says, not as a boy-meets-girl love song but as a song of God’s dogged, unshakable, all-giving love for Humanity. And, y’know, I read that in the interview, and I knew it intellectually.

But I never felt it in my guts until I heard the slow, spacey remix of the song on the soundtrack to the film Grosse Pointe Blank. A remix is a small thing: strip away the drums and guitars, strip away the hooks, leave the voice keening across a bed of synthesized arpeggios, somehow soothing in their perpetual motion.

A small thing. And in my listening something broke inside me and in a very visceral way I got it. Now whenever I hear it I can’t stop crying. That’s what it feels like.

Be happy.