Author Archives: Joseph Neff

Both separately and as a duo, multi-instrumentalist and guitar specialist Sarah Louise (who earlier in 2019 released her fourth full-length) and fiddler-banjoist Sally Anne Morgan (noted as a member of Black Twig Pickers and for collaborating with Steve Gunn and Daniel Bachman) are known for their skill as players and for the ability to transform their chosen root sources. Together again as House and Land with a sophomore effort in the racks, the adroitness and freshness remain. However, there are other aspects to consider, including the smart, subtle integration of psychedelia. Across the Field is out on primrose colored vinyl, CD, and digital June 14 through Thrill Jockey.

The psychedelia that informs the superb Across the Field can be considered a ‘60s-descended thing, but it’s ultimately nearer to Sandy Bull than Strawberry Alarm Clock. This is to say that House and Land have no tangible ties to rock or pop; if released in the ’60s, this record’s concise seven-song runtime could’ve fit onto the Vanguard label, or perhaps Takoma or Folkways.

Inching into the ‘70s, a few parts unfurl like they could’ve been one of the leftfield releases on The Youngblood’s custom Raccoon imprint, though other moments, such as closer “Ca the Yowes,” don’t sound like that at all. This emphasizes a beneficial stylistic range that when combined with the aforementioned succinctness and sharpness of execution, elevates Across the Field to the level of delightful.

Opener “Two Sisters” illuminates a persistent lack of intimidation regarding oft-recorded sources as this version differs markedly from the others I’ve heard. This is in part through the mingled beauty of Morgan’s banjo and Sarah Louise’s electric guitar, both in her patterns of repetition and in her soloing, which nicely introduces the psych atmosphere. I also like how the lyrics mention the pair’s choice of moniker as the blended voices are once again simply exquisite.

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Released in 1982 and featuring New Wave-era rock infused with legit elements of opera and an undisguised gay sensibility, the debut LP from German-born NYC-based singer Klaus Nomi was readymade for cult status. The record very much belonged to the fringe of its time but without being ahead of it; the man who made it endures today not as an oft-pilfered stylistic touchstone but rather as a beacon for individualistic expression. That’s cool, as is his penchant for adapting ’60s pop tunes. Klaus Nomi sees reissue June 14 on black and white cabaret smoke vinyl in an edition of 1,000 copies through Real Gone Music.

I was all of eight years old when Klaus Nomi, along with his friend Joey Arias, vocally backed-up and added performance zeal to David Bowie’s appearance on the December 15, 1979 episode of Saturday Night Live. Unsurprisingly, I missed it when aired, but have caught up with “TVC 15” and “The Man Who Sold the World” archived on the internet. Those songs blend nicely with the footage that did serve as my introduction to Nomi’s work, his entry in the 1982 various artist concert film Urgh! A Music War.

It was sometime in ’87 that I and a few friends popped the home video edition into the VCR and had a fine evening at the crossroads of punk, new wave, post-punk, and reggae. And while there’s no denying an immediate reaction of incredulousness to Nomi’s NYC club performance of “Total Eclipse,” by song’s end we’d all adjusted pretty well.

I bring up this anecdote to counteract the still occasionally extant viewpoint of Nomi as a sheer curiosity. Sure, after viewing a performance by the guy it’s unlikely he’ll be forgotten. For example, during that version of “TVC 15” on SNL he walks around the stage with an imitation pink poodle (with a TV monitor in its mouth), and yet he somehow doesn’t steal the show from Bowie. But his work, if eccentric by pop marketplace standards, holds substantial value, which means that Klaus Nomi is an album to own for reasons far beyond “Hey, get a load of this” territory.

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We’re not quite halfway through 2019, but Blue Note / UMe’s 2LP gatefold edition of Miles Davis’ The Complete Birth of the Cool is one of the sweeter reissues of the year, in part because it’s the first time the live recordings from 1948 and the renowned dozen studio tracks from ’49-’50 have been released together on vinyl. For some, this may seem a fact difficult to reconcile with the music’s masterpiece status, but rest assured it is true. The details unfold below. The record is in stores June 7.

To begin, the music on this truly gorgeous edition’s first LP, material recorded in January and April of 1949 and in March of the following year, was initially released under the group designation Miles Davis and His Orchestra as a series of four 78rpm discs across the same time period, issuing eight tracks and leaving four in the can. It’s more accurately a nonet, which is how the band has been often subsequently described; on this release’s second LP of live performances at the Royal Roost, radio announcer Symphony Sid calls the assemblage Miles Davis’ Organization.

There was no album title for these studio tracks, they were just sides, and as said they didn’t sell well enough to see the entirety grooved into shellac. Still, a whole lot of people paid attention; as Ashley Khan points out in his excellent notes for this set (presented in a booklet secured inside the gatefold with striking full-page photographs), other than guest appearances and all-star affairs, every Davis studio session from this point forward was made as a leader.

Those 78s featured “Budo” and “Move,” “Jeru” and “Godchild,” “Boplicity” and “Israel,” and “Venus de Milo” and “Darn That Dream.” In 1952 and ’53, “Budo,” “Move,” and “Boplicity” were included on compilations, and in ’54, Capitol issued a vinyl 10-inch under Davis’ name in their Classics in Jazz series that included the unreleased tracks “Moon Dreams,” “Deception,” “Rocker,” and “Rouge” alongside “Jeru”, “Godchild,” “Israel,” and “Venus de Milo.”

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Of records, legendary Jamaican producer Lee “Scratch” Perry has released a ton; setting aside the singles and EPs, his non-compilation album total is hovering near 100, and for an artist outside the jazz realm, that’s a considerable achievement. Of course, the number of individuals who own a copy of every one of those full-lengths might fit comfortably into a four-door sedan, a possibility illuminating that Perry’s prolificacy doesn’t equate to his prime. But hey, in terms of comebacks (of which the man has already had a few) his latest is both listenable and notable for the input of Adrian Sherwood, who produced and released its nine tracks through his long-extant On-U Sound label. Rainford is in stores now.

When you make as many records as Lee Perry has, they can’t all be brilliant. Hell, the majority of them are unlikely to resonate with more than moderate levels of personal investment. I say unlikely because I’ll confess that haven’t listened to more than half of his output; Discogs lists 87 full-length albums and 97 comps, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion there are scads of releases that haven’t been logged, plus beaucoup stray singles and EPs (to say nothing of the dodgy gray-market stuff).

Succinctly, after hearing a fair portion of Perry’s later material I realized I should cease investigating those more recent progressions and just hang with the canonical stuff. If all this seems poised to besmirch the guy’s rep as a dub innovator-auteur, I will counter that fluctuating personal investment isn’t the same as lacking a recognizable stamp; if the majority of his post-’70s work is far from essential, I’ve never heard anything that faltered into anonymous hackery.

Lee Perry very much fits in with certain cineastes from the early days of auteurism. Specifically, like numerous directors who worked under studio contracts and would begin another film almost immediately after their last one was finished, Perry has created, if not incessantly, then at a clip that has insured a diminishment in his masterpiece percentage, a downward plummet to what some folks might consider journeyman levels had the man’s achievements not been integral to the growth and longevity of Jamaican music.

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Many folks place singer and guitarist Lee Moses in the ranks of the worthy one-and-done artists, as he only managed a solitary full-length release, Time and Place, for Maple Records in 1971. However, deep soul fans likely know that starting in the mid-’60s, Moses cut a handful of smoking if obscure 45s for a few small labels; How Much Longer Must I Wait? Singles & Rarities 1965–1972 rounds up those platters, adds three unreleased songs, and is a soul lovers’ delight. It’s out now via Future Days Records with a red and tan color version available through Light in the Attic.

Aside from the three unreleased tracks, the music on How Much Longer Must I Wait? has been reissued before, specifically by Castle Productions roughly 12 years ago, though that label’s expanded Time and Place, which dropped this material onto a second LP, has been selling for stupid money for a good long while. As Future Days has kept their wax reissue of Moses’ sole LP in print since reissuing it back in 2016, the inflated prices attached to the Castle edition should return (hypothetically, at least) to the realms of the sensible.

Lee Moses’ life has been described more than once as an enigma, but he’s far from a cipher. He was born in Atlanta and had a successful band there in the ’50s but moved to NYC in the middle of the following decade where he hooked up with producer Johnny Brantley and worked as a session musician. This included some material with Jimi Hendrix (released under Hendrix’s name as Moods).

The connection with Brantley helped Moses land his first single, “My Adorable One” (a Joe Simon tune) b/w “Diana (from N.Y.C.),” which came out on Lee John Records (the combined enterprise of Moses and Brantley, natch). According to some sources the record hit racks in 1967, though this LP says ’65; as Pat Thomas served as co-producer here, I’m going to assume this earlier date is correct.

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For a long time, the earliest records by Brooklyn’s expansive yet primal rock groove machine Endless Boogie were frustratingly expensive in physical form. Happily, this pricy circumstance is no longer a reality, as No Quarter is offering their first two releases as a 2LP set in a snappy gatefold sleeve. The limited color vinyl option has sold out as quickly as the originals did back in 2005, but the flat black edition is still available, as are 2CD sets (if that’s how you roll), but I somehow doubt they’ll be around forever; folks into raw bluesy psych-tinged rock with nods toward raga, Detroit, Germany, and a humid dive bar late on a Saturday night should grab Vol I, II without delay.

The sound and the concept captured on Endless Boogie’s Volume 1 and Volume 2, both released in the middle of last decade on their own Mound Duel label, the first in an edition of 500 and the second totaling 299, is essentially the same. Concept? Well, yeah. It is the documentation of an endeavor undertaken primarily for the enjoyment of those directly involved, and then released in finite amounts for others with a predilection for what’s been created, and of course the inside scoop that it exists.

Captured with two mics and a tape deck, Vol. I, II is decidedly lacking in commercial polish; some might even suggest it sounds like a practice tape. If so, I’ll add that it hits my ear like a practice that transformed into a late-afternoon jam, going down on a Saturday in the company of roughly a dozen friends. A quarter century later, they still reminisce about its impact. Yes, not quite 15 years have elapsed since these half-dozen selections emerged on wax, but there’s a timelessness to Endless Boogie’s approach that suggests perseverance over time.

The fact that the band has thrived while generally eschewing a careerist path only reinforces the possibility of continued longevity and relevance. These tracks, two each on sides one and three with the long jams on the flips, were memorialized shortly before guitarist Jesper “The Governor” Eklow, bassist Marc “Memories from Reno” Razo, drummer Chris “Grease Control” Gray, and guitarist-vocalist Paul “Top Dollar” Major departed for the UK to play All Tomorrow’s Parties in 2005. That may read like a big deal, and no doubt it was, but the festival was also curated by Slint.

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The Philadelphia-born drummer G. Calvin Weston is probably best-known for his work with James “Blood” Ulmer and as a member of Ornette Coleman’s Prime Time, though along with releasing numerous records as a leader he’s also played in the Lounge Lizards and with Marc Ribot. His latest and third for 577 Records pairs him with the Phoenix Orchestra, and it’s as jazzy-funky an affair as one might expect, but with some added treats, including dual violins (plus viola and cello), Weston blowing a little pocket trumpet, and even some vocals courtesy of Kayle Brecher. Vinyl lovers with a hankering for robust fusioneering have reason to rejoice; Dust and Ash is out on wax May 24.

Grant Calvin Weston’s connection to Ornette Coleman’s Prime Time is undeniably a major feather in the artist’s proverbial cap, though back in the day (i.e. the late ’80s) I’ll admit to being more struck with his work on James “Blood” Ulmer’s first two records, especially 1980’s classic Are You Glad To Be In America? This is partially because Coleman’s two earlier electric band outings, ’76’s Dancing in Your Head and ’78’s Body Meta, had already nailed me but good; the saxophonist’s ’80s albums featuring Weston weren’t just more of the same, but they can be evaluated as something of a refinement.

On the other hand, Ulmer’s second and third albums, both of which I’d heard before his ’78 debut for Artist House Tales of Captain Black (which featured Coleman and Weston’s Philly-based friend and future Prime Time cohort, bassist Jamaaladeen Tacuma), were upon introduction both striking affairs. Over time the impact hasn’t lessened by much.

Are You Glad To Be In America? offers the selection “Jazz is the Teacher (Funk is the Preacher)”; its title is a decent summation of Weston’s mode of operation across the decades. To expand a bit, he’s drummed with all three members of Medeski Martin & Wood, contributed to the work of techno artist Tricky, and along with Tacuma, taken it far outside in trio with the late Brit avant guitarist Derek Bailey. A fine recent example of his aptitude with improvisational fire and power groove would be his work in the Young Philadelphians alongside guitarist-leader Marc Ribot, Tacuma, and guitarist Mary Halvorson.

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Described by Anthology Recordings as “an exploration of North American 70s FM covering folk, soft rock, West Coast jangle, power pop and late night jams,” the 2LP compilation Sad About the Times is something of a revelation, going deep into the realms of obscure musical hopefuls while maintaining a higher level of listenability than a mind should reasonably expect. Assembled by Eddy Current Suppression Ring’s Mikey Young and Anthology’s founder and head of A&R Keith Abrahamsson, the set’s 21 cuts blend a melancholic, often singer-songwriter air, regularly touching upon the difficulties of human interaction and amour in particular, with sharp and occasionally excellent playing. It’s out now.

Although it emerged as an alternative, by the 1970s FM radio was pretty firmly ensconced as a rotator of popular music. However, as Anthology’s promotional writing for this release points out, playlists and format constraints were not yet rigid, which meant that songs by unfamiliar artists regularly hit the airwaves; if they stirred-up a strong response in listeners (or maybe just struck the fancy of a DJ) these tunes would likely get a few more spins (at least), but if the opposite proved true the vinyl was destined to be filed away and forgotten.

That is, until wax stack excavators (like Mikey Young and Keith Abrahamsson) put together a well-considered overview of their time spent. Sad About the Times is devoid of chart action but is all the better for it, because the hits of yesteryear aren’t difficult to soak up in the here and now. Much more interesting is this collection’s alternate history of popularity; Anthology’s claim that all these tracks could have been hits isn’t an overstatement, but even better, the results avoid the hackneyed moves or the outright obnoxiousness that can result when musicians are desperately striving for chart success.

The release’s presiding lyrical concerns, when combined with crucial stylistic range, surely assists in helping this stuff to go down so easy. The opening title track from the group West effectively drives home a downtrodden ambience, though the words never falter into the annoyingly sensitive, in part because the thoughts expressed get mingled with a blend of sunshine folk and budding soft rock introspection. Notably, the song is culled from a ’69 LP.

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Last September, a serving of ’70s material from the late pianist-harpist-composer Alice Coltrane came out on 2CD through Real Gone as Spiritual Eternal: The Complete Warner Bros. Studio Recordings. That was cool, but the vinyl rights went to another label, namely Superior Viaduct of San Francisco, and their editions of ’75’s Eternity and ’77’s Radha-Krsna Nama Sankirtana, and Transcendence are out now through the label’s ’60s-’70s reissue subsidiary Antarctica Starts Here. But the icing on that three-layer studio cake is the release of ’78’s Transfiguration, an excellent live performance return to the jazz zone and simultaneously (temporarily) her commercial swan song. It’s a wondrously searching gem.

Jump back 30 years and the prevailing opinion on jazz in the ’70s is that it was something of a desolate wasteland brought on by the intermingling of commercial desperation, self-indulgence, and an abandonment of the music’s roots; as the wadded-up pages of yearly calendars amassed in the waste basket, the traditionalists simply bided time until the cultural pendulum swung back toward the conservative.

And then for many, as the ’80s dawned, things were momentarily right in the world; hey, jazzmen (with a renewed emphasis on men) were again wearing suits (often, tuxedos) while appropriately paying their dues through worship at the bebop altar of Charlie Parker. Of course, as the last few decades have helped to clarify, the matter was never so simple; for starters, amid the sometimes-craven attempts to establish a crossover audience in the ’70s, there were pockets of major worthiness within the realms of Fusion (naturally so, as it was the locale of Miles Davis’ last great creative stretch).

Plus, the avant-garde/ free scene, long the bane of the jazz traditionalist, if still recouping from the loss of two key trailblazers (John Coltrane and Albert Ayler) and a growing disinterest on the part of major record labels and club owners, continued to explore the possibilities of collectivity across festival stages, in free spaces, in educational contexts, and notably, in lofts. On the recording front, there was a blossoming of small, often artist-run labels, as a considerable percentage of the players began expanding upon a long-extant aspect of the music; specifically, they were focusing on the spiritual.

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You may not know him by name, but as a producer on the crucial first-wave NYC punk albums Ramones, Blondie, & Suicide, Craig Leon’s impact on modern music has been incalculable. But hey, that’s old news; the new scoop is that his Anthology of Interplanetary Folk Music Vol. 2: The Canon is fresh out through the RVNG Intl. label, and it’s a terrific follow-up to the initial installment, which compiled, to Leon’s long-delayed satisfaction, his groundbreaking and underheard electronic proto-New Age records Nommos and Visiting, originally released in 1981 and ’83 respectively. ‘Twas one of 2014’s stronger reissues, but even more impressive is how this fresh volume unfurls with hardly a letdown.

I’m not generally in the habit of giving producers too much credit, particularly as a substantial chunk of music history is devoted to how creators have struggled and suffered at the hands of these often cocaine-addled corporate liaisons and supposed experts, but Craig Leon’s oversight connection with three defining, wildly different, and enduringly worthwhile punk documents is surely deserving of a modicum of praise.

Not to speculate too much into the reasons behind this triple crown of success (there are additional worthy pop-rock production credits in his background, plus a long, more recent career in the same capacity in the classical field), but, as the title and intro to this review make obvious, Leon is an artist himself. This reality surely didn’t guarantee that the man would be more understanding in regard to the desires and open to the core sounds of three groups making their debuts from inside an emerging rock subculture, but it couldn’t have hurt.

And I’m guessing that maybe by now Leon is tiring of how those production jobs, which occurred nearly a half-century ago, reliably serve as a lead-in when articles and reviews outline his own musical thing, and especially now that he and his partner, the vocalist Cassell Webb, are following-up the collected reissue of his first two LPs with new music. That the results here maintain such a high level of quality is certainly worth dwelling upon, particularly due to the significant passage of time.

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