Author Archives: Joseph Neff

Like any visionary artistic movement, the late-‘70s explosion known as No Wave was both ahead of its time and intrinsically related to its era. This is no more apparent than in the work of James Chance. As leader of the Contortions he debuted on the ’78 Brian Eno-produced compilation that essentially provided No Wave with its name, but Chance and his crew’s long-playing shining moment remains Buy. Initially released in ’79 on the ZE label, a 180gm gatefold edition with bonus cuts is currently available from Futurismo.

AAs the decades have piled up, the whole No Wave shebang has grown in stature from a dissonant and divisive intersection of punk and art into one of the 20th century’s more striking outbursts of indigenous creativity. It couldn’t have occurred anywhere other than the old, cheap, dangerous New York City, its geographical location but one of the factors causing many to disregard its emissions; hey, it’s just a bunch of arrogant Gothamites peddling pretentiousness.

For those less sensitive to matters of attitude in presentation, No Wave’s haughty stridency is inherent to its appeal. Amongst the scene’s most surly was James Chance; as detailed in his notes for Futurismo’s reissue, he left his hometown of Milwaukee after three years of conservatory study, saxophone in hand with an intention to play jazz. Sensibly he landed in NYC, but things didn’t go as planned.

It became clear that Chance, who’d gained experience playing the music of the Stooges and the Velvet Underground back in Wisconsin, was an ill fit for the burg’s loft-jazz milieu; in turn he gravitated toward CBGBs/Max’s Kansas City. Of course, he wasn’t quick to find belonging there either, and Chance and his pocket of cohorts shaped an alternative to creeping commercialism.

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Marvin Gaye is rightly evaluated as a crucial chapter in the story of Motown, but the relationship’s peaks weren’t immediate. Marvin had his goals while Barry Gordy and company had theirs, and across his first batch of releases the results only fitfully align with the vocalist’s popular image. The seven 180gm LPs contained in USM’s Marvin Gaye Volume One: 1961-1965 are still very much of interest however, offering a portrait of the soon to be great artist as a confident young man profoundly concerned with classicist pop objectives.

A recurring theme in the history of 20th century Pop finds record labels big small and in between striving purely in the name of profits to mold and modify a developing talent into a contemporary setting. In the process these actions frequently limited, damaged, or even downright quashed creative promise. In such instances the label’s miscalculations were reliably due to the reactive nature of the whole endeavor, the attempts seeking to capitalize on trends in place of shaping organic wrinkles in musical progress.

The seven albums included here complicate the above scenario considerably, detailing Motown as determined to travel a fertile trail as the young and undeniably skilled Gaye sought not to set trends but instead to examine a Pop/Jazz zone a la Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra just as this tradition was on the wane.

Rather trying to strong-arm him into a mode he didn’t wish to inhabit, Motown displayed a tremendous amount of patience with the singer’s ambitions, though this might not be as commendable as it sounds; Gaye was fully capable of pulling-off (if not truly excelling at) the crooner role, making commercial success in this capacity a possibility. Had that transpired, Motown surely would’ve primed the pump until it gushed. On the other hand, none of the non-R&B focused LPs assembled in 1961-1965 charted, and Motown was unambiguously in the business of hits.

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There has been no shortage of single and various artist Soul anthologizes over the years, but most came encoded on compact disc and ranged in worth from outstanding to moderate to shoddy. Vinyl sets became few and far between, but recently that circumstance has begun to change. Behold A Crate Diggers’ Collection of Rare Soul, a compilation of three 180gm LPs assembled by Rhino Custom in an edition of 1,000 copies and currently available only through Popmarket.

The purported scarcity of the originals corralled here, everything initially issued on 45s from ’64-’75 either by Atlantic and its subsidiaries Atco and Cotillion or Warner Brothers and its sub-label Loma, offers a fine angle of presentation. However, the secret to any various-artist comp, and especially one devoted to a genre so deeply tied to the emotional, is not rarity but listenablity, though the opportunity to hear these selections on vinyl is an unequivocal plus.

A Crate Diggers’ Collection of Rare Soul smartly drafts a smattering of ringers and immediately taps into a cornerstone of the style. Otis Redding’s “Hard to Handle” was issued posthumously by Atco in ’68 both as a single and on The Immortal Otis Redding. Oft covered and sampled as it features the confidence, precision, and verve of Otis, Booker T & the MGs, and the Memphis Horns, there’s simply no substitute for the original.

Another stone beast is ’66’s deep and slow groover “You Put Something on Me” by Don Covay & the Goodtimers. A somewhat slept-on soul figure both at the time and hence, akin to the majority of the artists on this set Covay was recorded by Atlantic, but like “Sookie Sookie” before and “Somebody’s Got to Love You” after it, “You Put Something on Me” failed to chart, which is difficult to fathom since it pairs with “Hard to Handle” as the best track on this set’s first side.

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Part three of the TVD Record Store Club’s look at the new and reissued releases—and more—in shops for Record Store Day this Saturday, April 13, 2019. Part one is here and part two is here.

NEW RELEASE PICKS: Tellavision, Add Land (Bureau B) There are lots of things to like about this release, the fourth full-length (and my intro to her work) from this one-woman Berlin-based artist. I like how I wasn’t able to easily discover her birth name. I like how the thrust of the work here, which is electronic and song-based, resists easily encapsulation as electronic-pop, while pop is an integral component (there’s also techno and Krautrock to consider). I like her voice, stated in the press release as foregrounded more here than on prior releases, and how it possesses a soulfulness that makes clear that she could really belt it out (and there are plenty of spots where she gets close). Lastly, I like that on an album concerned with positivity and love, Tellavision’s music is powerful and multifaceted. A-

Fox Millions Duo, Biting Through (Thrill Jockey) In terms of percussion worthiness, Greg Fox and Kid Millions (a.k.a. John Colpitts) are two of the most impressive figures on the contempo scene. They are, as Gorilla Monsoon used to say, forces to be reckoned with. Having attained this stature individually, one might worry that creating together might somehow neutralize or undermine each other’s strengths (in the manner of so many past supergroups), but their prior record Lost Time was a killer and so is this follow-up, which has a lot more going for it than just hi-energy drumming. Like synths for instance, these devices run through a modular setup with contact mics so they can be played live. Which brings us back to high-energy, as parts of this remind me of a four-armed Rashied Ali going full-tilt with Merzbow. A-

REISSUE/ARCHIVAL PICKS: Dream Syndicate, Days of Wine and Roses (Fire) I consider this a perfect record. Furthermore, it’s pretty much the apex of the Paisley Underground and darker and heavier than their cohorts in that scene. It was also the end of what many consider to be the “classic” Dream Syndicate lineup of lead vocalist-guitarist Steve Wynn, lead guitarist Karl Precoda, bassist Kendra Smith, and drummer Dennis Duck. Steve Wynn soldiered on through the ’80s, but while all the subsequent records all have their moments (the band has also reunited, with a new LP out next month), this one remains the best. Fire’s edition of 500 includes their S/T four-song EP and a repress of the 45 by Wynn’s earlier band 15 Minutes featuring a significantly different version of “That’s What You Always Say.” A+

Alice Clark, S/T (Wewantsounds) Here’s an absolute must for soul fans, unless of course you already own a clean-playing copy of this ’72 release on Bob Shad’s Mainstream label. Originals now exchange hands for hundreds of dollars, and listening makes it easy to understand why, as Clark was an exceptional singer comparable in style to Aretha Franklin and notably confident on her only LP (there was a pair of prior singles, both also highly sought after). The band, which shares some members with Franklin’s backing bands of the time, was impeccably assembled by Shad as he and arranger Ernie Wilkins produced a knockout in just two days at the Record Plant in NYC. Steeped in that lush but robust early ‘70s soul feel, this should’ve been a major hit. Another fine reissue from this class label. A

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Louis Thomas Hardin, better known to the world as Moondog, was one of last century’s most unique composers. This means that interpreting the man’s music is tricky business, at least in terms of results that are satisfying to those not directly involved with the endeavor. On Snaketime: The Music of Moondog, out now on vinyl as a co-release through Feeding Tube and Astral Spirits, Chicago saxophonist Dustin Laurenzi and his octet have overcome without a hitch the difficulties in paying tribute through translation, successfully transforming the source material in a jazz context while remaining true to Moondog’s vision. Released in an edition of 500, curious vinyl lovers shouldn’t procrastinate.

Dustin Laurenzi’s highest profile gig is as a touring member of Justin Vernon’s Bon Iver, though the main thrust of his musical activity finds him improvising; he’s a member of the trio Twin Talk and the leader of the group Natural Language and has additionally played in a variety of ensembles including Snaarj, the Marquis Hill Blacktet, Katie Ernst’s Little Words (featured on a 2015 CD inspired by the writings of Dorothy Parker), and the Dave Lisik Jazz Orchestra.

The baseline reason for Snaketime’s worthiness is probably the passage of years, indeed roughly a decade, between Laurenzi’s introduction to Moondog’s music while studying at Indiana University’s Jacobs School of Music and the making of this album, recorded live at Chicago’s Hungry Brain in January of 2018, through a group put together specifically for the purpose.

A first encounter with the works of Moondog, when absorbed together with his biography and his undeniably striking mode of self-expression, what Laurenzi calls the “lore surrounding him,” could easily prove seductive enough to inspire haste in creation. But not only did the saxophonist take a measured approach, he didn’t even have plans to release this recording, at least until it was played back. Upon listening, he discovered how exceptional it was.

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All this week we’re celebrating the 2019 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Inductees. —Ed.

With three enduring hit singles, the last of which derives from a classic album that’s as redolent of its era as any, The Zombies aren’t accurately classified as underrated, but it’s also right to say that the potential of much of their catalog went unfulfilled while they were extant. Since their breakup, subsequent generations have dug into that body of work, which has aged rather well, and right now nearly all of it can be found in Varèse Sarabande’s The Complete Studio Recordings, a 5LP collection released in celebration of the band’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. For anyone cultivating a shelf of ’60s pop-rock vinyl, this collection is a smart acquisition.

The Zombies began cohering as a band around 1961-’62 in St Albans, Hertfordshire UK. By the time they debuted on record in ’64 the lineup had solidified, featuring lead vocalist-guitarist Colin Blunstone, keyboardist Rod Argent, guitarist Paul Atkinson, bassist Chris White, and drummer Hugh Grundy. That’s how it would remain until their breakup in December of ’67. Rightly considered part of the mid-’60s British Invasion, The Zombies’ stature in the context of this explosion basically rests on the success of two singles, both far more popular in the US than in the band’s home country.

Those hits, “She’s Not There” and “Tell Her No,” each made the Billboard Top 10 (the former all the way to No. 2) and respectively open sides one and two of the US version of their first album, a move suggesting confidence on the part of their label Parrot that, as the needle worked its way inward, listeners wouldn’t become dismayed or bored by a drop-off in quality.

That assurance was well-founded. While “She’s Not There” is an utter pop gem, thriving on perfectly-judged instrumental construction (in its original, superior mono version with Grundy’s added drum input) and emotional breadth that’s found it long-eclipsing mere oldies nostalgia, and “Tell Her No” a more relaxed yet crisp follow-up, their talents were established beyond those two songs, even if nothing else on The Zombies quite rises to the same heights of quality.

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We remember Scott Walker who passed away Monday, March 25, with a look back from our archives. —Ed.

From his beginnings as a pop idol working in the mode of The Righteous Brothers to his period as a smooth student of Jacques Brel to his unprecedented re-flowering as a restless, challenging avant-garde artist, there is no doubt that Scott Walker’s career has been a long and fascinatingly strange trip. And Bish Bosch, his latest record for 4AD, continues that progression, being his most extreme and often baffling statement to date. Opinions will most certainly be divided, but one thing is certain; there’s nothing else like it.

My introduction to the name Scott Walker occurred shortly before the release of his 1995 release Tilt, but I’d already been exposed to him for years without knowing it due to his membership in The Walker Brothers. That duo’s “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore” hit #1 in the UK and #13 in the US in 1966, and it’s a beautiful song that remains on the radar to this very day in large part through consistent rotation on oldies radio. That’s where I first heard it as a youngster, but from within that context it was just one fine song amongst many, and my memory is quite foggy regarding exactly when and how I connected the dots between Walker’s early pop stardom and his slowly realized total about-face as an enigmatic experimental musician.

Walker’s unusual career path has been described by some as being completely his own. And essentially that’s true. Sure, there are numerous examples of creators from across the artistic spectrum who successfully emerged from the realms of the conventional, only to end up in the deep weeds of uncompromising experimentalism; film director Nicholas Ray and writer James Joyce both spring to mind. But nobody seems able to come up with an instance of a pop icon so completely abandoning their commercial sensibility for an environment of success so blatantly the opposite.

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Once upon a time, I owned the soundtrack to Velvet Goldmine on compact disc, but somebody stole it. Or maybe in an addled state, I let somebody borrow it, and they never gave it back. It’s possible I might’ve left it at a friend’s house or in their car. Somehow, I doubt it. Whatever the reason, it’s long gone, though this fact saddens me no more, because on April 5 MVD Audio is bringing out a fresh edition on double blue and orange vinyl. As it remains one of the few song-based (as opposed to score-driven) soundtracks that didn’t have me giving the CD player skip button a workout, I’m pretty stoked. A few fresh spins had that tone arm gliding steady.

Having enjoyed Todd Haynes’ first two features, I watched Velvet Goldmine, his third from 1998, and liked it, too. I considered digging into it again in service for this review, but ultimately didn’t, which is of no consequence, as the record stands on its own merits. Not only pleasing from start to finish, it’s also unusually multifaceted for a soundtrack, with its handful of genre-appropriate ’70s tracks cohering well with a larger helping of thematically-focused ’90s material.

First, the old stuff. The film Velvet Goldmine is tersely described as loosely based on the lives and artistic trajectories of David Bowie, Iggy Pop, and Lou Reed, but especially Bowie. However, Haynes apparently wasn’t able to license any of Bowie’s stuff, a roadblock that became a benefit, as the soundtrack (and the film, as I remember) dually functions as a lengthy trip down one of the main highways of ’70s Glam.

That would be the glam rock-as-Art-as-lifestyle liberation-auteur route on the map, which means a decided deemphasis on bubblegum or hard rock (Gary Glitter and Slade are heard in the film, though). However, the selections grabbed from the era do an adequate job of portraying glam rock’s creative ambition even without access to Ziggy Stardust-era Bowie.

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Today we remember Scott Walker who passed away yesterday, March 25, with a look back from our archives. —Ed.

The first five key albums by Scott Walker have just been compiled into a CD/LP box set, and in corralling this very important and vastly enjoyable work from a true existential dreamboat, the executives at Universal Music Group have done music lovers the world over a massive service. Scott Walker: The Collection 1967-1970 includes Scott, Scott 2, Scott 3, Scott 4, and maybe most enticingly ‘Til the Band Comes In, and if not flawless, the collection does paint a truly captivating portrait of this singular artist as a young, ambitious and enduringly relevant man.

Had Scott Walker’s recording career been somehow curtailed before the release of his 1967 solo-debut Scott, he’d still be remembered as one-third of the sneakily non-sibling trio The Walker Brothers, an American group that flipped the script to become a UK teen-pop sensation right in the midst of the British Invasion. They even scored a pair of US hits in the process.

The Walker Brothers’ enshrinement in the Pop Hall of Fame sorta rests upon the enduring pleasures of the Bacharach & David-penned “Make it Easy on Yourself” and “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore,” both songs climbing to the apex of the British singles charts. They also landed securely in the US Top Twenty to stand as their biggest homeland success, though the reaction of American girls to the trio’s suave image (and young Scott’s, in particular) fell quite a bit short of the mouth-agape and eyes-agog manner of those Swingin’ lasses across the pond.

During their fairly brief initial run (they did reunite in ’75 to produce three further LPs, essentially setting the stage for the second phase of Scott’s career) The Walker Brothers possessed a considerable diversity, with their discography holding a fair amount of uptempo material, including covers of Motown (“Dancing in the Street”), Chris Kenner’s R&B warhorse “Land of a Thousand Dances,” and even Dylan (“Love Minus Zero”). It’s this stuff that gets them mentioned as partial conspirators in the whole UK Beat scene, and while quite likeable in doses, it also lends an air of unevenness to their output.

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Drummer Federico Ughi is no stranger to this column. A Rome-native who splits time between his home country and Brooklyn, he’s drummed on a few dozen records since emerging on disc in the late ’90s, many of them, like this one, on the label he founded, 577 Records. Included in that number are LPs reviewed here by multi-instrumentalist Daniel Carter and the electronic-jazz collective New York United. With Transoceanico, Ughi celebrates the 20th anniversary of his first album with a striking free-jazz trio session featuring British tenor saxophonist Rachel Musson and bassist Adam Lane. It’s a searching, raw-toned delight for avant-jazz fans, out now on vinyl and digital.

The opening moments of Transoceanico’s opener “So Far So Good” sparked quick thoughts of ’60s ensembles like The New York Art Quartet and the New York Contemporary Five, outfits that were in the thick of the jazz New Thing (as it was then sometimes called) in the years prior to Fire Music really taking hold. This is a sometimes-underrated period in the history of avant-jazz, but it remains quite important in the documentation of how individuals and groups extended the innovations of Ornette Coleman shortly after his emergence on the scene

As Coleman is cited as a major influence on Ughi’s music as well as a mentor, the multifaceted connection here isn’t a surprise. Furthermore, as Transoceanico’s intense but digestible 43 minutes unwinds, a major point of comparison would be Coleman’s classic ’60s trio, the one that was the core of the pretty good Town Hall, 1962 for ESP-Disk and both volumes of the absolutely essential At the “Golden Circle” Stockholm.

And it’s not like there’s any anxiety on the part of Ughi over Coleman’s influence, as one of the tracks here is titled “Sky Ramblin’,” which I’m assuming is a nod to the opening cut from Ornette’s 1960 classic Change of the Century. Additionally, the reference to the sky wraps up nicely with the drummer’s choice of album title and cover art as the record explores the theme of home and how it has grown in his experience to encompass Rome, NYC, and London (where he lived in the late ’90s and where his first release was made), and by extension travel (between Italy and New York obviously, but also touring).

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