Celebrating Terry Jacks, born on this day in 1944. —Ed.

First, a plug. I’m reading 2001’s Bubblegum Music Is the Naked Truth, The Dark History of Prepubescent Pop, From The Banana Splits to Britney Spears. Edited by Kim Cooper and David Smay, the book is the Rosetta Gumball of preteen pop, including as it does essays on the machinations of record label svengalis like Don Kirshner, behind the scenes super-producers such as Kasenetz-Katz, here-and-gone-in-a-45rpm- flash record labels like Colgem Records, cartoon groups from Fat Albert and The Cosby Kids to The Beagles, and most importantly bands you’ve probably never heard of, like Salt Water Taffy, The Yummies, and Professor Morrison’s Lollipop.

Amidst such obscurities the group that most piqued my interest was The Poppy Family, because they weren’t really a bubblegum band at all. In fact they were an anti-bubblegum band. Their songs lacked bubblegum’s sunny sound and infectious choruses. Instead they were dark vignettes of existential despair which, strung from end to end, would make for a sturdy Juicy Fruit noose. What Kim Cooper’s essay on The Poppy Family, which was really just a front for husband and wife team Susan and Terry Jacks, is doing in this anthology is just as great a mystery as why if you licked The Archies flexi disc on a box of Honeycomb it tasted suspiciously like the Monkees flexi disc on a box of Raisin Bran.

I suspect it came down to the fact that Cooper co-edited the anthology and could do whatever the hell she wanted. More importantly, the band’s name perfectly encapsulated the bubblegum aesthetic; you blow bubbles and they pop, and wholesome family values still meant something to the preteens of that era. Not only could they stomach their parents, they even fantasized about starting bands with them. Just ask the Partridges.

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A plethora of recent books on The Beatles have been published lately. Here’s a look at some of the best.

Love and Let Die: James Bond, The Beatles and the British Psyche (Pegasus/Simon & Schuster) by John Higgs This may be one of the most imaginative ideas for a book on The Beatles. Higgs, who has written extensively on William Blake among other topics, neatly draws parallels between the history of The Beatles as a group and as solo artists and the literary and cinematic history of James Bond and how the two relate to British history and culture.

The book is heavy on analysis, but unlike some books on The Beatles, Higgs deftly and with a light touch draws parallels and distinctions of The Beatles and Bond. One could argue that in addition to William Shakespeare, the two entities featured in this book, rank among the most dominant figures of the history of Britain. Higgs comes up with fascinating ways that James Bond and The Beatles are inextricably linked and fans of either 007 or the Fab Four will find much here to make truly engrossing reading.

The McCartney Legacy: Volume 1, 1969-73 (Dey St./William Morrow) by Allan Kozinn and Adrian Sinclair This is the first volume of a trilogy on the life and career of Paul McCartney. The depth of knowledge and engaging writing of the two authors of this book makes clear that their trilogy will most likely become the most comprehensive and authoritative biography of McCartney. While this book is not an authorized biography, the myriad of those interviewed for the book essentially had McCartney’s blessing.

The beginning of the book carefully balances the end of The Beatles with McCartney emerging as a solo artist and how the two at times overlapped. One of the welcome aspects of this book is a more even-handed portrait of Linda McCartney, particularly her place in Wings. The formation of Wings and the group’s slow and sometimes fraught evolution to the breakout success of Band on the Run is vivid and detailed. The group’s time in Africa making Band On the Run and its hard-won success and feel of what many regard as McCartney’s best post-Beatles album, is a highlight. This book takes 720 pages to cover only four years. It will be interesting to see how the authors cover the next 50 years.

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Whether you appreciate Peter Case as a founding member of The Nerves and The Plimsouls, or you dig the man for his numerous solo recordings, there’s really no argument the guy’s career has been lengthy and fruitful. Doctor Moan is Case’s most recent album, his 16th solo release overall, and it captures him mostly at the piano with minimal accompaniment. It is a powerful set that finds his skills as a songwriter and his strength as a singer undiminished. It’s out on CD March 31 (with vinyl to come, date TBA) via Sunset Blvd Records.

Formed in 1974 and featuring Peter Case on bass, Jack Lee on guitar, and Paul Collins on drums, The Nerves didn’t last long but they left behind a fine batch of recordings, including the original version of “Hanging on the Telephone” (covered more famously by Blondie). Those songs have endured as a wellspring of inspiration for scores of younger listeners and groups smitten by the power-pop impulse.

Upon breakup, Case formed The Plimsouls, a slightly more refined affair, but still quite hooky, as the band dented the lower end of the album charts with their self-titled 1981 debut and ’83 follow-up Everywhere at Once. Lasting until 1985 (though there have been Plimsouls and Nerves reunions), Case began a solo career that found him aging into the singer-songwriter zone and with an attention to roots that presaged what’s now known as the Americana shebang.

His new record is his first in seven years and finds him at the piano almost entirely (he also plays harmonica, mellotron, and guitar), as Jonny Flaugher helps out on electric and acoustic bass and Chris Joyner adds Hammond B-3 organ. The additional instrumentation brightens and broadens the record, but the focus, with one exception, is on Case, who recorded the album with Ryan McCaffrey at The Sun Machine in Novato, California and played a restored 1905 Steinway piano.

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VIA PRESS RELEASE | Fourteen tracks from Stephen Still’s First US tour, previously unissued and recorded Live at The Berkeley Community Theater in 1971.

In 1971 Stephen Stills embarked on a US tour, opening each show with an intimate acoustic first set, and closing each night with a riveting electric set featuring the Memphis Horns. These historic, previously unreleased recordings took place over two nights at the Berkeley Community Theater, with David Crosby joining him on vocals and guitar for “You Don’t Have To Cry” and “The Lee Shore.” These recordings find Stills at peak performance in both vocal delivery and musicianship, effortlessly incorporating alternate instrumentation on his instantly recognizable tracks, including a seamless medley of “49 Bye Byes” and “For What It’s Worth” unexpectedly played on piano.

Hand-picked by Stills from his personal archives, this album captures timeless and era defining performances. Fans who were lucky enough to catch his historic debut trek, dubbed “The Memphis Horns Tour,” were treated to the balladeer, the raving troubadour, the acoustic bluesman, the soul driver, and by far the most passionate music maker.

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Celebrating Lady Gaga, born on this day in 1986. —Ed.

I’ll be the first to admit I sold Lady Gaga short when she detonated like a hyper-sexualized glitter bomb on the pop scene with her 2008 debut LP The Fame. Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta sounded like a brazen Madonna copycat to me, and if there’s one thing I can’t abide it’s a cheap Lower East Side Madonna knock-off. Ms. Ciccone and I go back too far.

Ah, but then her Gaganess sat down for an interview with Vanity Fair, and said an astounding and wonderful thing. Namely, “I have this weird thing that if I sleep with someone they’re going to take my creativity from me through my vagina.”

I mean, wow. Those words hit me like a diamond bullet smack in the third eye. Because NOBODY who says crazy shit like that can be written off as fake goods. No, I knew right then and there that Lady Gaga was a stone American original, and deserving of the kind of same degree of unwavering respect as the Dali Lama, Ruth Bader Ginsberg, and Kanye “This hat makes me feel like Superman!” West.

Why, I haven’t heard such naked honesty since Little Richard said, “The only thing I like better than a big penis is a bigger penis.” And with her refreshing candidness in mind I promptly sat down to listen to Lady Gaga with new ears.

My favorite and your favorite and the whole world’s favorite is “Poker Face,” Lady Gaga’s robotic anthem to both 7-card stud and studs in general. It’s both a great piece of stutter synth and a tribute to “The Song of the Vulga Boatmen,” and in muh muh muh opinion one of the most dance-floor friendly songs to come along since John Travolta invented the dance floor.

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La Monte Young and Marian Zazeela are absolute titans of the 20th century avant-garde, having broken considerable ground at the intersection of Minimalism and Drone Music during their 1960s heyday. However, the duo’s early work has been persistently difficult to hear. For example, Superior Viaduct’s release of 31 VII 69 10:26 – 10:49 PM / 23 VIII 64 2:50:45 – 3:11 AM The Volga Delta a.k.a. The Black Record is the first (legit) reissue of this legendary album since it first came out in 1969. Featuring two wildly differing side-long pieces, it is a masterwork of highly disciplined drone logic and experimental abstraction, available March 31 on clear vinyl (with a poster), black vinyl (sans poster) and compact disc.

Partners in art and life, La Monte Young and Marian Zazeela came to prominence (of a decidedly subterranean fashion) in New York City during the waning days of the classic Bohemian era, and that they both still walk among us is a reality to cherish. Young is the more well-known of the two, as Zazeela, a multimedia artist on her own, notably, has contributed to a small number of his recordings as a musician. But as photographer, album designer, performance lighter and producer in general, her impact is felt throughout his discography, as difficult as that body of work has been to hear.

The LP under review here, which for space considerations will be called The Black Record, was already half an archival release upon issue in 1969. Side two, “23 VIII 64 2:50:45 – 3:11 AM The Volga Delta,” was captured in the New York City studio of Young and Zazeela in 1964 (per the title), the recording a part of a longer composition, Studies in the Bowed Disc; for the piece, a gong is bowed (the instrument a gift to Young and Zazeela from sculptor Robert Morris), with the sound nearer to noise music than to the sustained resonances one might expect to result from a bowed gong.

More typically dronelike prolonged tones are heard via side one’s “31 VII 69 10:26 – 10:49 PM,” which was recorded in Munich in 1969 at the gallery belonging to arts impresario Heiner Friedrich. Released on vinyl by Friedrich on his Edition X imprint that very year, “31 VII 69 10:26 – 10:49 PM” is also part of a another longer composition, Map of 49’s Dream the Two Systems of Eleven Sets of Galactic Intervals Ornamental Lightyears Tracery; this segment features the voices of Young and Zazeela against a sine wave drone, with the stated influence of Hindustani singer Pandit Pran Nath easy to absorb.

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VIA PRESS RELEASE | Brooklyn’s Empire Rollerdrome opened its doors in 1941 and soon became the borough’s premier destination for recreational and competitive roller skating.

But it wasn’t until the late 1970s that the celebrated rink reached iconic status by replacing its organist with a live DJ, installing a state of the art sound and light system, and renaming itself after the nationwide dance craze it had helped to originate: the Empire Roller Disco was born. In 1980, the acclaimed street photographer Patrick D. Pagnano went on assignment to document the Empire and its legendary cast of partygoers. The resulting photographs, gathered in Empire Roller Disco for the first time, capture the vibrant spirits, extraordinary styles, and sheer joys of Brooklyn roller disco at its dizzying peak.

Called “one of the most versatile and adaptive street photographers in the genre’s history,” Patrick D. Pagnano moved to New York City from Chicago in 1974 and immersed himself in an art practice that would grow to include street work, portraiture, and documentary photography. His work is in the permanent collections of the Museum of Modern Art, the Brooklyn Museum, the Art Institute of Chicago, and numerous other institutions. He passed away in 2018.

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Celebrating Tony Banks on his 73rd birthday. —Ed.

Well, there goes another theory shot to shit. I always thought Genesis hit the aesthetic skids the moment Peter Gabriel split and drummer Phil “The Anti-Christ” Collins took over on lead vocals, but I’ve been listening to 1976’s Trick of the Tail, the first post-Gabriel LP, and I’m afraid I was sadly mistaken. Trick of the Tail is not a great album but it’s a very good one, packed with well-constructed tunes with lovely melodies that occasionally, but not too often, stray into the prog trap of technical virtuosity purely for virtuosity’s sake.

Peter Gabriel’s departure threw Genesis’ future into question. A Melody Maker writer went so far as to declare Genesis officially dead. But the band committed itself to proving it could make good music without Gabriel, and after a fruitless search for a new lead vocalist Collins, who wanted to turn Genesis into an instrumental act, reluctantly agreed to take on the vocal duties himself. Which in hindsight seems like a no-brainer, as Collins is a virtual vocal doppelganger for Gabriel and the obvious candidate as a replacement.

Album opener “Dance on a Volcano” has muscle and a fetching melody, to say nothing of some powerhouse drumming by Collins, whose exhortations (“Better start doing it right!”) sound convincing. There is some technical showing off for its own sake, especially at the end, but this one is more hard rock than prog, thanks to Steve Hackett’s guitar work and Tony Banks’ synthesizer. “Entangled” is a bit fey for my tastes, a quiet little pretty ditty, but it wins me over with its melody, which is simply lovely. There’s a beautiful synthesizer solo, which doesn’t attempt to mime classical tropes the way your more virulent and dangerous progmeisters would, and I like it for that.

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What is the gargoyle on the cover of R.E.M.’s 1981 EP “Chronic Town,” the band’s first extended communique to the world, thinking? Could he be wondering why he can’t understand a word Michael Stipe, in dire need of elocution lessons, is saying? Or how a record painted with a palette composed entirely of muted earth tones can be so joyful? We’ll never know, because gargoylese is even harder to understand than Stipe.

What we do know is that “Chronic Town” was one of the most mystifying, enigmatic, fascinating, and influential releases to emerge at the dawn of the 1980s, and that anyone who thought R.E.M. a flash in the pan couldn’t have been more wrong. “Chronic Town” marked the beginning of an empire, like the Mongol one but without the barbarism and cool helmets. Stipe would soon meet with a world-class mumblologist and become intelligible, which was a mixed blessing—his incomprehensible singing on “Chronic Town” constitutes a large part of its cryptic charm. Take “Gardening at Night.” Is Michael really saying “We emptied the garbage can but they were busy with his nose”? No, as it turns out, but you’ll need to consult a lyric sheet to be sure.

“Chronic Town” made such an impact on listeners for the simple reason that it sounded completely new, and unlike anything being produced at the time. It wasn’t punk or post-punk or post-anything for that matter. It had an aura of mystery about it intensified by the fact that Michael Stipe made it impossible to understand its message—sure you can make out phrases, but much of it is as indecipherable as Maya hieroglyphic script. Even the band’s Southern hometown of Athens, Georgia added to the band’s mystique. Its classical moniker posed as much of a mystery as the band at the time, and it was mainly R.E.M. who were responsible for putting the sleepy college town’s name on the musical map.

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