VIA PRESS RELEASE | From New York out of Cleveland, the Dead Boys were the most incendiary of Manhattan’s first wave punk bands.

Louder than the Ramones, faster than Patti Smith, more feral than Television, and fronted by Stiv Bators, an unholy cross between Iggy Pop, David Johansen, and all the Sex Pistols put together, the Dead Boys were also responsible for one of the all-defining anthems of the CBGBs era, “Sonic Reducer.” Not to mention two full albums that remain untouchable in terms of punk’s finest. And if they were monstrous on record, they were almost brutal on stage.

Touring relentlessly, the Dead Boys were a seething, dizzying blur of dynamic action and brain-charring volume that left audiences wilting and music critics gaping, powering through a repertoire that simply dripped with future classics… “Caught with the Meat In Your Mouth,” “Flame Thrower Love,” “Down in Flames”—they even immortalized one of New York City’s most feared serial killers, the Son of Sam, even as his reign of terror unfolded.

All these and more (to paraphrase the title of yet another Dead Boys masterpiece) are included on Live in San Francisco, a raw, verité recording of the band’s legendary November 1977 appearance at that city’s historic Old Waldorf—a gig later immortalized as one of the crucial landmarks in local punk rock lore.

Approved by guitarist Cheetah Chrome, this is the first ever official release of this wild and thrilling recording, an unforgettable firestorm that captures every drop of sweat, fleck of spittle and burst of crazed energy that made Dead Boys the kings of American punk rock! And it wraps up with the Dead Boys’ signature slam through the Stooges’ “Search and Destroy,” a version that makes even the original sound tame.

VIA PRESS RELEASE | In C and Rainbow in Curved Air get all the ink (inc?), but its own somewhat subtle way, 1980’s Shri Camel, the last of the three brilliant albums Terry Riley recorded for CBS, is every bit as groundbreaking as its hallowed predecessors.

Not content to rest on his laurels as a minimalist master, Riley studied with Hindustani classical singer Pandit Pran Nath during the ‘70s; by blending that Eastern influence with his own experiments in just intonation (where tuning is dictated by equal mathematical intervals rather than the “tempered” tuning familiar to Western music), Riley made an album whose shimmering textures (played through a specially modified Yamaha organ) seem to change with one’s own breath or thought, like the reflection of rippling water on rock.

And while Shri Camel is far more demanding and ultimately rewarding than any “New Age” recording, one definitely gets the sense that its ever-evolving, ecstatically hypnotic rhythmic and harmonic patterns are massaging the brain’s neural circuitry, leaving one refreshed, relaxed, and, yes, maybe even a little smarter than before listening. First LP reissue and long overdue!

Celebrating Andy Partridge, born on this day in 1953. —Ed.

In their early days XTC released a copious amount of singles, with this output appropriately corralled onto a handful of compilations situating the band as one of the more interesting acts produced in the late-‘70s UK. Amongst these songs were the three cuts that comprise their debut, ‘77’s “3D EP.” Many consider it as a strong but minor first effort in a scenario of future greatness, but investigating them apart from the group’s initial prolific tide provided this writer with the key that unlocked XTC’s substantial value.

By the time I became acquainted with them in the mid-‘80s, XTC was essentially a critics’ fave and one that was largely functioning as an album band. This was the era of Skylarking, and while “Dear God,” the b-side of that LP’s first single “Grass,” kicked up quite a bit of dust via MTV and even replaced “Mermaid Smiled” on the US version of the disc, in the US it only managed to land on a now defunct barometer of radio play named the Billboard Album Rock Chart, where it found modest success.

And on their home turf it barely even entered the Singles Chart, peaking at the severe back end at #99. This really is no surprise, since “Dear God” is a truly eloquent dispatch of religious disbelief, a song that likely would’ve caused their countryman Bertrand Russell to stand up and cheer had he only lived to hear it.

“Dear God” was so cogent (while simultaneously manifesting a well-harnessed anger) that more than a few believers in my personal circle considered it a legitimate expression of doubt and questioning rather than quickly dismissing it as merely sacrilegious. The tune’s that good. But even though ‘86’s Skylarking and its follow up Oranges & Lemons were both strong sellers and the group was very popular on college radio, the rise of their singles during this period seemed mainly tied to video play.

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The prog people were right! Turns out the greatest songs, the legendary songs, aren’t the simplest ones—simplicity is for losers! The greatest songs, and if anybody knew this Rush knew it, are the ones with sections! Multiple moving parts! Just look at the evidence. “Stairway to Heaven,” epic! “Hotel California,” stupendous! “MacArthur Park,” godly! And the same goes for “Layla,” “Free Bird,” “Bohemian Rhapsody,” “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes,” and forget I said “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” It’s a nightmare.

One of the very best, by which I mean it’s definitely in the top five in not the top three if not the very best, is Paul McCartney & Wings’ 1974 smasheroo “Band on the Run.” Why, it’s even better than Sir Paul’s “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey,” which stickler for detail that I am I refuse to include on my list because let’s face it, it’s two songs separated by a slash, as is“Venus & Mars/Rock Show” for that matter. And that’s cheating.

The number three is the number to remember when it comes to “Band on the Run.” The song has three parts. Only three musicians (Paul, Linda McCartney, and Dennie Laine) were involved in its making. “Band on the Run” was McCartney’s third chart-topping American single. On the other hand, the song only went to number three on the UK charts (what’s wrong with those people?).

The song’s creation coincided with (and was perhaps in part inspired by) the three non-Johns in the Beatles’ escape from manager Allen Klein. Only three people in the entire world think it’s not the greatest thing ever. And finally, I listen to it three times a day, every day, because it’s been proven to keep the bowels regular and improve mental health. Oh, and it will open your third eye, guaranteed.

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VIA PRESS RELEASE | A&M/UMe celebrates the upcoming holidays in a merry big way with the release of the Carpenters’ Christmas Once More, an all-new Christmas collection featuring 16 timeless Carpenters holiday classics personally curated by Richard Carpenter.

This newly remixed and remastered 16-track set includes perennial Carpenters holiday favorites such as “Sleigh Ride,” “(There’s No Place Like) Home For The Holidays,” Richard’s own “Merry Christmas, Darling” featuring the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, and many more. All 16 tracks, which have been culled from the Carpenters’ most cherished holiday albums, are available now in multiple formats, including CD, black vinyl, limited-edition gold vinyl, digital download, streaming, and ATMOS. Listen to or order Carpenters’ Christmas Once More HERE.

Building upon the grand traditions of Christmas songs and holiday-themed albums recorded by legendary artists like Enrico Caruso (“O Holy Night”), Bessie Smith (“At the Christmas Ball”), Bing Crosby (“White Christmas”), Perry Como (“Home for the Holidays”), and Frank Sinatra (Christmas Songs By Sinatra), Karen and Richard Carpenter set out to make their own first seasonal LP in 1978 titled Christmas Portrait. Richard had a unique idea for creating a near-continuous work that would mix hymns, pop tunes, vocals, and instrumentals into a more flowing, inventive medley style.

In effect, the Carpenters came up with a modernized sound tapestry in which old and new traditions followed one another in surprising and pleasing ways. Their concept of making Christmas albums artfully reflected the eclectic ways American audiences experienced the season and its joyful music in the years when the Carpenters’ generation was growing up.

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Celebrating Rickie Lee Jones on her 70th birthday. —Ed.

I’ve always had the same issue with Rickie Lee Jones as I do with Tom Waits; to wit, I can’t escape the sense that they’re beatniks escaped from a time capsule. There’s something atavistic about their sound; hearing it, it’s impossible to escape the eerie sensation that you’re sitting in a smoky and low-ceilinged Village club, the Kettle of Fish say, surrounded by beret-wearing hipsters in goatees, of the type who click their fingers instead of applaud.

That said, I’ve always preferred Jones, if only because she doesn’t have a patch of hair sprouting from her lower lip. No, the truth is I can’t really rationalize my life-long dislike of Waits; sure, he’s written lots of great songs, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him. I don’t have to like Jones either, but I do, from her groundbreaking debut to her latest release, 2012’s The Devil You Know, on which she sings like… well, like she just swallowed a shitload of ludes, which causes her to sing very slooowwwllly, which I like a lot. No more of the beatnik affectations. Her phrasing and sudden shifts in tone are idiosyncratic, to say the least, but she doesn’t sound as rebop as she does wasted, like she brought a quart of bourbon to the studio and drank it before she sang any of the songs on this album of noteworthy standards.

Jones’ career took off with the release of her 1979 self-titled debut, which featured dozens of top-notch LA sessions players—to say nothing of Dr. John on piano and Randy Newman on synthesizers—and included the great “Chuck E.’s in Love.” Buoyed by a highly touted performance on Saturday Night Live, she soon found herself on the cover of the Rolling Stone, and her beret quickly became more famous than Joni Mitchell’s beret, which no doubt pissed off Mitchell’s beret to no end.

And she would likely have become a superstar had she not drifted inexorably jazzwards, a move that she found creatively fulfilling but didn’t win her many pop fans. Henceforth she toiled in the jazz-pop wilderness, moving to Europe where she battled with writer’s block. But she continued to record, moving from more mainstream projects to more avant-garde efforts, none of them wildly successful but most of them critically praised.

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I don’t know when you first found out about the role of a session musician, but for me, it was associated with The Monkees. I remember not quite understanding how a band could make music, yet still not play all of the instruments on the record. Well, my youthful naïveté was obliterated when I learned that there exists a highly skilled, dedicated, professional group of elite musicians who slip in the studio to lay down tracks that uplift whatever the star performer may have created.

On keyboards, there’s one session musician who stands above many others: he’s played extensively with The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, and even The Beatles. Not only did he share that rarefied air with those heavyweight champs of classic rock, but his keyboard parts were sometimes integral to the artistic and commercial success of the song. You’ve heard the wild electric piano solo on The Beatles’ “Revolution,” you know that haltingly beautiful piano part in The Rolling Stones’ “She’s a Rainbow,” and you’re familiar with the majestic grandeur of the piano part that supports Joe Cocker’s “You Are So Beautiful.”

So when you learn about a musician such as Nicky Hopkins, who’s reputation may be a bit unsung, what are you to do? Well, if you’re a filmmaker like Mike Treen, you make a documentary about him. And you gather as many first hand witnesses to Nicky’s expertise as possible, including Peter Frampton, Dave Davies, and even Keith Richards and Mick Jagger.

Mike Treen joins me to talk about his film titled The Session Man. We explore how he pieced together different elements from Hopkins’s life and presented it in a cogent and easy to follow narrative that showcases the ups and downs of this special musician’s life.

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.

Riley Puckett became the poster child of weird old American country music when Nick Tosches plastered his face on the cover of his groundbreaking 1985 book, Country: The Twisted Roots of Rock’n’Roll. Puckett’s an odd-looking bird, to say the least, which must be the reason Tosches used his photo, because Puckett himself warrants only two passing references in the book.

Puckett was blind, but looks cross-eyed. He has a dimpled chin, jowls, no lips to speak of, and what with his high forehead his facial features seem to have retreated to the center of his face. The effect is hard to describe. Perhaps Tosches thought he best personified that “twisted.” And there’s no denying that his photograph could have come straight out of Michael Lesy’s Wisconsin Death Trip.

But twisted isn’t the word that comes to me. He looks inscrutable, sphinxlike. It’s true that his eyes, one seemingly entranced by his nose and the other buried in the shadow cast by his brow, give him an otherworldly look. It doesn’t help that the book cover paints him in lurid colors, his face a sickly lime green, his hair, shirt collar and tie a bright pink. Tosches did Puckett a disservice, to an extent; in a photo I’ve seen of a younger Puckett he looks dapper, his hair pomaded—he’s almost movie star handsome. This Puckett, an older Puckett obviously, just looks lost in some kind of Depression-era fever dream.

Riley Puckett was born in Georgia in 1894, and early on was dubbed the “Bald Mountain Caruso.” This stemmed from the fact that he had a good voice, and didn’t sound as hillbilly as many of his country contemporaries. He was also an influential guitarist. He recorded a lot of music during his relatively short life, but he’s primarily remembered for being the first country singer to stand up on his hind legs in a recording studio and yodel, first in April 1924 to the song “Rock All Our Babies to Sleep,” then to “Sleep Baby Sleep” in 1927.

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MONTREAL, CA | When Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band have played on past Halloweens, he’d sometimes start by emerging from a coffin. For the first big concert since he turned 75 weeks before, that spooky symbolism might have hit a little too close to home.

So he kicked off his Halloween show at the Bell Center in Montreal with something more goofy—a cover of “Ghostbusters.” The ever-professional, super-augmented E Street Band could acquit the Ray Parker Jr. oldie well, of course, and to their credit only did a couple of verses, before moving to the more bracing rocker of economic unrest, “Seeds.”

Known to wear the occasional Halloween getup over the years, Springsteen stuck to his recent stage uniform of a kind of hip maître d’ in white shirt, tie, black vest and rolled-up sleeves. The Montreal show was, like dozens of stops on his fraught 23-24 tour, a makeup date (that takes the tour into 2025). Originally scheduled for last November, it instead kicked off a seven-city fall Canadian tour.

Despite the ghostbusting, spirits of the past would repeatedly arise in the long set, from “Ghosts” and the title track from his 2020 Letter to You, a work inspired by the death of the last other member of his original Jersey band The Castiles, George Theiss, who died in 2018. Inheriting his friend’s guitar, books and records inspired songs on that album (intended as a message to him), as it did the E Street Band’s first tour since 2017, much delayed by the pandemic and other illnesses.

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