Monthly Archives: October 2013

“Every time I consider writing a song or a letter I say to myself, ‘Where do I start?’ Well, the first thought is always ‘from the beginning and from the heart.’ So, I will begin with the fact I don’t actually own a record player and the beginning starts here and now.”

“I have always been fascinated by how a record is made in the first place. I mean how was the idea even conceived and how did it work? ‘A needle runs along a groove in a piece of vinyl’… errr what?! It still fascinates me now even though I’ve read so much about it.

Having said that, I look like a huge fraud for not owning a record player and this is simply down to the fact I knew that once I owned some records I would then become addicted and would never have the space or money for it (and also the fact that CDs and downloads are so much more accessible and I’m a lazy sod.) I held off this ‘musical drug’ for so long until now. Now I am exposed to it more than ever and this is mainly due to my job.

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Los Angeles punk mainstays Fear will be forever defined by the anti-social expressions of their 1982 album The Record. Many thousands cherish that disc, while others evaluate it as the locus of obnoxious fakery. But those who completely dismiss them shouldn’t do so without hearing their 1978 single “I Love Livin’ in the City” b/w “Now Your Dead,” for both musically and in terms of attitude it paints a distinct portrait of the group’s early development.

The general consensus on The Record finds it ranking very high in the punk rock pantheon, but after going back again to recheck, I must admit that I’ve never felt it’s all that great. Actually, I’d rate it as only moderately good, at best. Yes, the LP is loaded to the gills with historical importance and does have enough moments that I’ve kept a copy around, but the only time the thing’s gotten play in this house over the last few decades is when I would periodically feel the need to reassess my evaluation in the face of other’s rampant enthusiasm.

This happened more than just once or twice, and on a few occasions my viewpoint was met with something other than just disagreement. Instead I received stares of deep incomprehension, like I’d just called Michael Jordan an okay shooting-guard or Shakespeare a middling playwright. It was enough to instill some personal doubts. Perhaps it wasn’t The Record; maybe the problem was with me. But each time I pulled it out the same conclusion was drawn, and until just recently it has spent roughly a dozen years tucked away on the shelf.

However, I will agree that a significant part of my reaction does come down to personal considerations. Specifically, I didn’t get to hear it until around 1987 or so. If I’d been a late teenager when The Record kicked up its first clouds of dust, it might’ve been a gripping experience. But in 1982 I was just peaking into the doorway of adolescence, with my musical heroes the predictable suburban standbys Zeppelin and Sabbath. If someone had played The Record for me then, my reaction would’ve naturally held some measure of, well, fear, but it surely would’ve been overtaken by a much greater sense of bafflement.

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Characterized by his poetic lyrics and instantly recognizable voice, Lou Reed has become a key figure in rock music history through his work with influential psych-rockers The Velvet Underground, as well as his solo career.

Reed’s rise to rock stardom is chronicled in a new book, Transformer, to be released this month through Genesis Publications. Collaborating with photographer Mick Rock, Transformer showcases a number of Reed’s album covers, beginning with the album from which the book takes its name. It contains images both famous and never-before-seen, featuring the likes of Andy Warhol, Mick Jagger, Iggy Pop, and David Bowie.

In celebration of the book’s release, we’re giving away a limited edition 7” with two Lou Reed classics, “Walk on The Wild Side” on side A, and “Coney Island Baby” on side B.

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“When I was four years old, my dad bought me a Playskool record player. I used to listen to his records when I was at his house—Kiss, Sex Pistols, The Clash, etc. There’s a great picture of me listening to some of those records in my ‘Red Doors’ video.”

My dad’s collection was heavy with rock and punk, but my mom was spinning Stevie Wonder’s Songs In The Key Of Life, Quincy Jones’ That’s The Dude, Tina Turner, Patti Labelle, etc.

“Of all my favorite records, I’d say that the 45 of “Pass The Dutchie” by Musical Youth was the one I wore the needle down on the most.

She loved soul music and R&B, but she also had a soft spot for great song writers, and after she’d danced me ragged listening to Stevie, she’d put on Cat Steven’s Tea For The Tillerman, or Paul Simon’s One Trick Pony and we’d sit together looking at the cover of the record making up addendum’s for the stories of the characters in the songs.

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Though I’m aware of no conclusive surveys on the matter, it’s safe to say that current record store racks aren’t exactly overflowing with prime ‘70s Franco-prog. If mentioning this puts you in a funk, then perhaps alerting your consciousness to Superior Viaduct’s fresh reissue of Heldon’s ’77 LP Interface will deliver you to a much happier place. It’s got the excellent guitar playing of Richard Pinhas, Moog synths out the wazoo, loads of burning trio interplay, an overall sensibility that’s detectably punkish, and even a stylin’ cover photo to boot. Interface can be described without hesitation as a true experimental gem, and its reappearance on vinyl is just dandy.

In the encapsulated version of the music’s lore, progressive rock was effectively dead by 1977, encumbered by the loftiness of its own excesses and then pounced upon and rendered lifeless by the great stylistic cleansing that was punk rock. And naturally the reality is far from that simple, with this historical falsehood bandied about by folks that in other situations are quick to define punk as at best a briefly necessary convulsion and at worst a disruptive failure, with this last perspective assessing it as merely a poorly behaved guest at a posh dinner party.

And yet it seems that dishevelment and general surliness are faux pas more forgivable than perceived showboating and self-indulgence, because ‘70’s prog-rock has for the most part been denied substantial revisionist vindication. Punk, disco, fusion, hard rock, Countrypolitan, Adult Contemporary singer-songwriters, and even soft rock have all undergone varying levels of retrospective reassessment, but prog still seems to make a lot of people fidgety and the label is often wielded like a dirty word.

This is partly because much of the prog rock playing field gets conveniently splintered off into other areas, the biggest one being the massive fount of ‘70s German bands that fall under the descriptor of Krautrock. And similar circumstances are presented by the Soft Machine-instigated Canterbury scene and the late-‘70s Rock in Opposition movement. Furthermore, heavily jazz-oriented rock like Mahavishnu Orchestra gets branded, along with significantly rock-informed jazz ala early Weather Report, Tony Williams’ Lifetime, and of course electric Miles, as fusion.

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