Monthly Archives: September 2021

Born in Ottawa, Myriam Gendron moved around a lot in her youth (Gatineau in Quebec, Washington, DC, Paris), but at 16 years of age dropped anchor in Montreal, where she still lives, having recently completed her second album there. Available on CD and cassette October 1 through Feeding Tube, with 2LP vinyl expected late in the year or early in 2022, Ma Délire – Songs of Love Lost & Found reinforces her skills as a guitarist and singer of natural beauty and verve while incorporating her skills as an interpreter of folksong and as a writer of original material. Astutely conceived over seven years, its 15 tracks cohere into a statement of astonishing power, making it one of 2021’s finest releases.

In 2014, Myriam Gendron’s Not So Deep As a Well was released. The vinyl, now in its fourth pressing with copies still available, has been handled by Feeding Tube as the compact disc was issued by Mama Bird Recording Co. An absolute gem of a record, it featured nine poems, 11 on the CD, by the great writer Dorothy Parker set to Gendron’s guitar-based music.

It is the sort of record that, when discovered long beyond its initial release, can leave a listener momentarily scrambling to reevaluate notions they thought were largely solidified, in this case specifically about the musical highpoints of the year 2014. But hey, it’s best to not ruminate over jackhammered conclusions. Instead, it’s better to rate Not So Deep As a Well as one of the very finest debuts of the decade we’ve only just recently left behind.

After getting hip to the album back in 2018, I will confess to wondering how Gendron was going to follow it up. That is, not pondering if she could; along with its level of success, there is a quality of sustained confidence in Not So Deep As a Well that effectively eradicated assumptions that its brilliance was fleeting. One simply doesn’t attain its level of ambition and achievement by accident. But rather, my thoughts were focused on what Gendron would do next? More Parker-based works? Engaging with another author? Unveiling her own songs? Or maybe, shudder to think, nothing at all?

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VIA PRESS RELEASE | Released in October 1971, Frank Zappa’s 200 Motels was a miraculous feat, a cinematic collision of the venerated musician and composer’s kaleidoscopic musical and visual worlds that brought together Zappa and his band, The Mothers, Ringo Starr as Zappa—as “a large dwarf”—Keith Moon as a perverted nun, Pamela Des Barres in her acting debut, noted thespian Theodore Bikel, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, and an incredible assortment of characters (both on screen and off) for a “surrealistic documentary” about the bizarre life of a touring musician.

A heady, psychedelic stew of low and high brow art forms, the film, written by Zappa and co-directed by him and Tony Palmer, mixed together irreverent comedic skits, madcap satire, eye-popping animation and virtuosic on-screen musical performances from both The Mothers and the RPO for a fascinating and free-wheeling multimedia extravaganza. Shot in just 10 days with a budget of around $650,000 from distributor United Artists, 200 Motels was one of the first movies to be filmed entirely on videotape and Zappa and crew pushed the envelope of the burgeoning new medium’s possibilities, mostly notably through its use of spectacular—and at the time—state-of-the-art visual effects.

Described by Zappa as “at once a reportage of real events and an extrapolation of them… other elements include ‘conceptual by-products’ of the extrapolated ‘real event’ … In some ways the contents of the film are autobiographical,” 200 Motels was hailed by the Los Angeles Times as a “a stunning achievement” with “just the right touch of insanity,” and the “Zaniest piece of filmusical fantasy-comedy since The Beatles’ A Hard Day’s Night” by Daily Variety.

The music, and its corresponding soundtrack, was equally diverse, a wild pastiche of avant garde rock and orchestral compositions interspersed with dialog from the film. Up until that time, compositions like the finale piece, “Strictly Genteel,” were some of the most ambitious material ever written and recorded by Zappa.

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Celebrating Tim Bachman on his 70th birthday. —Ed.

I may or may not have once described that inimitable Bachman-Turner Overdrive sound as meat and potatoes rock, minus the meat. And I may or may not have once called them Bachman-Turner Overweight. But if I did so, I was joking. I love BTO. They remain, no doubt about it, Manitoba, Canada’s finest ever contribution to the un-fine arts. The music critic Robert Christgau, a fan as am I, once summoned up the band’s lead-footed lumberjack charm with the words, “Clomp on.”

BTO were about as subtle as a blow to the head; imagine a Canadian Bad Company. They playfully entitled their 1974 LP Not Fragile as a retort Yes’ LP Fragile, because they felt their music could be “dropped and kicked” without suffering any damage. Hard rock doesn’t come any harder than this; when they call a song “Sledgehammer,” they’re not pussyfooting around like that English fop Peter Gabriel.

No, this is blue-collar rock, and to paraphrase Lynyrd Skynyrd, all you effete pencil pushers are advised to stay out of BTO’s way, especially when C. Fred Turner’s doing the singing. Compared to his gruff, no-nonsense vocals, Randy Bachman may as well be Mariah Carey.

It’s a pity that BTO is perhaps best remembered as the band that brought us “Takin’ Care of Business,” because while nobody in the band strikes me as a Mensa candidate, “Takin’ Care of Business” is too dumb for words. Me, I’d sooner remember them for such great songs as “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet,” “Roll on Down the Highway,” and “Let It Ride,” to name just a few of the band’s keepers.

Not Fragile’s title track is a midnight creeper, and could easily pass for a Spinal Tap song, and I mean that as a compliment. The only thing cooler than Turner’s singing, “Comin’ to you cross country/ Hoping boogie’s still allowed/ You ask do we play heavy music/ Well, are thunderheads just another cloud, And we do/ Not fragile, straight at you” is the way R. Bachman intones the words, “Not fragile” behind him. The guitar solo is pretty cool too.

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It’s not hyperbole to say that musician, songwriter, arranger and record producer Van Dyke Parks is a legendary or mythical creature in pop music folklore. Sure, you know how Brian Wilson recruited him to join his creative process on what was to be The Beach Boys’ penultimate masterpiece, Smile. But there’s so much more to his career: aside from his critically acclaimed solo albums, Parks has historically been involved in a number of notable musical projects, always searching to shed light on music and stories that are astutely sui generis.

During quarantine, Parks orchestrated four songs for Verónica Valerio, a singer, songwriter and harpist born in Veracruz, Mexico. The EP is titled, “Only in America, Solo En America.” While the lyrics are in Spanish, the mood and emotion of the project is evident no matter what language one speaks. Don’t forget to take a moment to study the album’s cover art: it was created by Klaus Voorman, The Beatles’ chum who created the ever-enduring album art for Revolver.

So, let VDP and me keep you company as we engage in a conversation that goes wherever it pleases. We discuss his connection with Valerio’s music and subject matter, calling Klaus Voorman on his cell phone, how this project compares to his work with Brian Wilson and so much more. You’ll find Van Dyke Parks affable, nimble-witted, and urbane; join me as I try to keep up!

Evan Toth is a songwriter, professional musician, educator, radio host, avid record collector, and hi-fi aficionado. Toth hosts and produces The Evan Toth Show and TVD Radar on WFDU, 89.1 FM. Follow him at the usual social media places and visit his website.

In his 1991 book Stairway to Hell: The 500 Best Heavy Metal Albums in the Universe, rock critic Chuck Eddy does a perverse and inexplicable thing—puts Ivory Queen of Soul Teen Marie’s 1986 LP Emerald City in the ninth spot. Bullshit, right?

I had the opportunity speak with Eddy by phone a while back and took the opportunity to tell him that putting Marie—who was to heavy metal as James Taylor is to gangsta rap—in the book’s top ten was an inspired prank certain to infuriate people who take their heavy metal very, very seriously. No, Eddy informed me, he was dead serious, and then proceeded in great detail to explain to why Emerald City merited its position. He also insisted it wasn’t his attention to provoke anyone. I listened politely, thinking he was full of shit. But I didn’t say as much, because I’m a timid guy and was afraid he’d punch me over the phone.

If Emerald City isn’t heavy metal, what manner of beastie is it? A genre-blending Frankenstein’s monster that combines elements of soul, funk, R&B, and jazz, with some rock tossed into the mix. And to Eddy’s credit Emerald City rocks harder than I expected—Teena Marie gives the guitarists (Nikki Sixx shows up, and Stevie Ray Vaughan plays on one track) free reign, and her vocals are tougher than non-fans would expect. But I would hardly call Emerald City a rock album; amongst its tracks you’ll find samba and slow jazz, and I hear a good bit of Madonna in there.

What shouldn’t be lost in the arguments about genre is that Emerald City is a decent album. Too eclectic for its own good, for sure, but its four first tracks stand up against the work of Prince, Michael Jackson, and (yes) Madonna. The heavy on the electronics title track opens with an introduction by Bootsy Collins (nice touch, that), then funks its way into Michael Jackson territory. “Take a walk on the wild side,” sings Marie, echoing a certain somebody, and while the song has that 80s pop feel it’s anything but the same old thing.

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Much of the music we listen to today comes from different generations. It may be an old favorite like Led Zeppelin, or it might be a group that was under the radar for many years before finally having their hey day long after they’d ceased to exist as a group, like Big Star. Behind the contemporary music scenes, there is a full-blown industry involved in keeping popular records in print and releasing albums that deserve a second chance.

Meet Gordon Anderson who has spent much of his life doing both things. He was the founder of the ubiquitous Collector’s Choice label in the 1990s which—long before streaming—was the easiest and most sonically pleasing way to track down classics from the ’50s and ’60s. After leaving Collector’s Choice, Anderson and his business partner Gabby Castellana have created Real Gone Music, which is, as they describe it, “a reissue label dedicated to serving both the collector community and the casual music fan with a robust release schedule combining big-name artists with esoteric cult favorites.”

With nearly ten releases per month, Real Gone Music probably has something in their catalog that will appeal to everyone, in fact, it’s this populist, all-encompassing acceptance that gives the label its unique spin: if enough people want it, Real Gone Music will try to find a way to serve it up.

Anderson and I take a deep dive into the world of running a record label, the business of music reissues, and the vinyl comeback. We also question what’s going on with our old buddy the CD, and learn about the origins of Real Gone’s celebrated Black Jazz label reissues. It seems difficult to comprehend, but if it weren’t for guys like Gordon Anderson keeping vintage music catalogs alive, you might not even know that some of your favorite music ever existed.

Evan Toth is a songwriter, professional musician, educator, radio host, avid record collector, and hi-fi aficionado. Toth hosts and produces The Evan Toth Show and TVD Radar on WFDU, 89.1 FM. Follow him at the usual social media places and visit his website.

On their recent release From Dreams to Dust, The Felice Brothers commit apostasy by setting themselves apart from the Americana pack (a term I heartily loathe) and bravely join the modern age. Gone are washboard and fiddle; James Felice’s accordion stays mostly in the background. The band no longer records in a converted chicken coop in the Catskill Mountains in upstate New York, and singer/songwriter/frontman Felice is no longer looking over his shoulder at fellow Catskill legends The Band.

On Dreams to Dust he commits that greatest of Americana sins–he says to hell with the Dust Bowl and sings about Marcel Proust, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and Friedrich Hegel instead. Why, he even tosses in Jean-Claude Van Damme and AC/DC baseball caps.

The increasing sophistication of Felice’s subject matter corresponds to the band’s more contemporary sound, and will no doubt alienate purists who love the band for old-timey tunes like “Run Chicken Run” and “Frankie’s Gun.” Some of their new songs are streamlined and bottom heavy, and you won’t hear then being played on a honky tonk jukebox or your local folk festival. I can practically hear the same people who booed Bob Dylan at Newport screaming “Sell outs!”

LP opener “Jazz on the Autobahn” is the most blatant offender. A tale of the Apocalypse framed in a story about a sheriff on the run with a woman named Helen, the music owes no debt to Pete Seeger and his mighty axe. And Felice (the best poet working in music today) paints a vivid picture. “This is what the apocalypse will look like,” sings Helen, “a tornado with human eyes” marked by “a sundown of the human heart.” She tells the sheriff it:

“Won’t look like those old frescoes, man, I don’t think so
There will be no angels with swords, man, I don’t think so
No jubilant beings in the sky above, man, I don’t think so
And it won’t look like those old movies neither
There will be no drag racing through the bombed-out streets neither.”

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