I catch Mat Osman on a Monday morning, but he’s in London, where it must be nearing teatime. He doesn’t sound as if he needs a pick-me-up; as soon as he picks up the phone we’re off to the races. “I spend all of my life talking,” he says, which is one of the reasons he loves making music but hates writing about it. “I love the way music is kind of an older language than anything… it can express emotions that you can’t express in words. I’m always dissatisfied when I write about music because I can’t capture it.”

But he does capture the exhilaration of that primal, pre-verbal communion between performer and audience. His enthusiasm is palpable and genuine. He gives the impression of someone who loves what he does and doesn’t take a bit of it for granted. In an era of untouchable superstars and aloof, too-cool-for-anything auteurs, it’s refreshing to hear from someone who is unapologetically passionate about their art, and how they make it. “One of the things I love about making music is I spend my days with friends I’ve known for thirty years,” he says. “It’s not from the five of us but from some chemical reaction between us.”

That alchemical magic made Suede famous when their first LP won the Mercury Music Prize in 1993 and became one of the fastest-selling UK debuts in a decade. But almost from the get-go, they had a longer reach. “We were quite big in places that didn’t speak English very quickly,” Osman explains. “I think that people understood that we were singing about ordinary lives. Scruffy, poor, quite extreme lives in big cities. It’s dressed up in the clothes of London because that’s where we’re from, but if we had grown up in Tokyo, we’d be a Tokyo band. I think people respond not to the specifics, but the motion of it. We’re quite a dramatic, theatrical, aggressive live act.”

He and his bandmates hope to bring the infectious adrenaline of vintage Suede to their first US tour in 25 years. They haven’t played the States since then except for an appearance at Coachella in 2011. “We have no idea what to expect,” he admits. “It’s going to be absolutely fascinating.” They’re sharing the marquee with the Manic Street Preachers, whom they toured with back in ’94. “If you asked people which two British bands were likely to crash and burn,” he says, “it would have been us and them. It’s quite interesting that we’re the two left standing from those times.”

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New Zealander Graeme Jefferies is noted for his work in the often terrific Cakekitchen, and his brother Peter has been rightfully praised for a handful of solo LPs, but in the early ’80s they were the main pillars in one of the finest if too seldom heard Kiwi outfits, the startlingly original This Kind of Punishment. To describe their self-titled 1983 debut and its ’84 follow-up A Beard of Bees as post-punk isn’t wrong, but it does feel more than a little reductive and in the global underground of that era, both albums’ contents rank high. 

I remain fond of classifying The Clean, The Chills, The Verlaines, and Tall Dwarfs as Flying Nun’s Big Four; this is in part due to persevering reputations, but it’s also because in the late ’80s, due to a licensing agreement between that crucial New Zealand label and Homestead Records, those acts were the easiest to hear in the US. And for a while, it wasn’t easy to hear much else, which only intensified the notion of the Flying Nun “sound” as melodic, catchy and guitar-based (with Tall Dwarfs only somewhat excepted, as that two-man unit, if psych-tinged and proto-lo-fi, also wielded a sharp pop sensibility).

However, time has reinforced that Flying Nun’s stylistic reach was much wider than many youthful Yanks once assumed. There was the moody post-punk of Pin Group, whose “Ambivalence” 45 was the label’s first release; there was the loud and heavy Gordons, who slowly morphed into Bailter Space; there was the artier pop-punk of Bill Direen and his group the Builders, whose Beatin Hearts was Flying Nun’s first LP; and of course, there was This Kind of Punishment.

Before Graeme and Peter emerged with TKP in 1983, they were part of Nocturnal Projections, a band formed in 1981 in the North Island municipality of Stratford. Today, their 7-inch and two 12-inch EPs go for major scratch, and even the out-of-print Nerve Ends in Power Lines comp CD from ’95 is rather pricey. This is a shame since the Joy Division-ish post-punk found in their grooves illuminates how the brothers Jefferies didn’t just conjure the excellence of TKP out of thin air.

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VIA PRESS RELEASE | Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells is one of the most iconic pieces of music ever created. Recorded when Oldfield was just 19 years old, the album was released on May 25, 1973, as the debut album from Virgin Records.

While initial sales were positive, the album became a worldwide phenomenon when the first track was used as part of the soundtrack for The Exorcist. Despite only being featured in a couple of scenes, Tubular Bells has become closely associated with the film, with many referring to it as “the theme of The Exorcist,” and the haunting sounds regularly earning a spot on horror playlists. In the fifty years since its release, the album’s popularity has not waned, racking up more than 17.5 million copies sold and 18 million streams.

Tubular Bells was also a staple of the 2012 Summer Olympics Opening Ceremony. Academy Award-winner Danny Boyle, director of the opening, stated that he wanted to make the music the “cornerstone” of a 20-minute sequence of the ceremony. Tubular Bells has regularly appeared in advertisements, television shows, movies, and has been incorporated into live performance by Tori Amos.

In celebration of the album’s 50th anniversary, a live concert performance was held over three days at London’s Royal Festival Hall. The music was accompanied by dance and acrobatic feats by the Circa Contemporary Circus to create a beautiful and memorable experience that truly brings this masterpiece to life. This once-in-a-lifetime performance was captured in 4K and will be coming to home video in both a 2-disc Blu-ray and 2-disc DVD set. Home audiences will be able to experience the unique performance while being treated to a feature-length documentary on the history of the Tubular Bells.

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There was a moment during the Woodstock Music Festival of ’69, when its founder, the 24-year-old Michael Lang, was confronted with a generation-defining decision. People had started to climb the fences surrounding the stage and audience parameters in an attempt to gain entry. Lang had to make a call. Rather than tightening a hold on admittance, he decided in the moment to make Woodstock the free festival it was ultimately meant to be. Nearly half a million people was the ultimate headcount. Lang’s decision was an example of the greater good of enlightened ideas surpassing monetary interest and potential gain, something the hippie counterculture of the 1960s was all about. It is a spiritual-success story in an instance. 

Then there is Jann Wenner, founder of Rolling Stone, the publication created in 1967 that gave voice to the youth culture, the hippies, and leant them a stake in the Real World. The magazine invented a pre-internet meeting place where rock ‘n’ roll was given the reverence that it deserved, in which once could connect with likeminded music-mad people. Last month Jann published his memoir Like a Rolling Stone, a weighty tome surpassing five hundred pages. It came somewhat on the heels of the well-received and somewhat character-damning Sticky Fingers by Joe Hagan, Wenner’s biographer who he eventually parted ways with mid-project.  Like a Rolling Stone is Wenner by Wenner, period.

One of the most immediately identifiable characteristics in his book is his huge ego. In many ways it’s deserved. He was present through the second half of the twentieth century, lived with eyes wide open through the 1960s, ’70s, ’80s, ’90s, and from a privileged seat and ideal point-of-view. But solely and uniquely, he saw the need to give voice to this collective perspective, that it was worth a try to build a seat of power, and to garner recognition for it from the straight world at large. Rebellion against The Establishment is fantastic, and valid, and provides ample opportunity for creating a new world order—but what better way to rebel than by meeting the enemy on his own ground and forcing him to recognize a worthy adversary.

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VIA PRESS RELEASE | The story behind this album, which marked Jack Kerouac’s debut as a recording artist, is almost as fascinating (but not quite) as the performances it contains. Kerouac had completely bombed in his first set during a 1957 engagement at the Village Vanguard when TV personality, comedian, and musician Steve Allen volunteered to accompany him on piano during the second.

The results were so impressive that legendary engineer Bob Thiele then brought the duo into the studio to record an album for Dot Records. In true, stream-of consciousness, Beat fashion, the entire album was cut in one session with one take for each track, Allen’s piano weaving in and out and occasionally commenting on Kerouac’s verbal riffs to great effect.

However, when Poetry for the Beat Generation was ready for release in March 1958, Randy Wood, the president of Dot Records, was appalled by the then-daring language and subject matter and canceled the release—but not before 100 promo copies got out. (And if you have one you’re set for life!)

Thiele then left the company over the dispute and got the master tape in the bargain, which he finally released on the Hanover label which he founded with Allen in June 1959. That release still stands as one of the most momentous spoken word albums not just of the ‘50s but of all time—and we at Real Gone Music are proud to bring it to you in a milky clear vinyl version in Jack Kerouac’s 100th birthday year!

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A beautiful eccentric residing in mid-20th century NYC, Louis Thomas Hardin aka Moondog also possessed extraordinary musical vision. An associate of Leonard Bernstein, Arturo Toscanini, and Charlie Parker, a collaborator with Julie Andrews and the Brooklyn Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra, a key influence on the minimalism of Philip Glass and Steve Reich, covered by Janis Joplin, Kronos Quartet, and Antony and the Johnsons; there was truly nobody else like him. After a handful of singles and EPs his long-playing debut arrived with 1956’s Moondog.

A simply fantastic photograph of Moondog is used for the jacket of the 2LP compilation The Viking of Sixth Avenue; it finds him on a ‘50s Gotham street corner standing in front of a lamppost and decked out in full regalia. He cuts quite an appealing figure, but what makes the snap such a kick is the older couple passing by on his left side.

For other than Dwight and Mamie, one would be hard-pressed to find a better, or perhaps I should say more stereotypical, representation of Eisenhower-era America. The contrast between Moondog and this strolling pair is so sharp that the cynic in me has occasionally suspected the pic was staged in an attempt to play-up the legendary composer’s unconventionality.

This is not to insinuate that Moondog’s image was some sort of con. To the contrary, the legit uniqueness of the man’s background rivals that of sui generis American boho-hobo Harry Partch. Born in 1916, Hardin lived in Kansas, Wyoming, Missouri, Iowa, Arkansas, and Tennessee, with exposure to Native American tribal ceremonies having a profound effect on his art. After moving to NYC in 1943 he lived as a street musician and sporadic recording artist until the early ‘70s.

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VIA PRESS RELEASE | Type O Negative The Origin Of The Feces (Not Live At Brighton Beach) 30th Anniversary 2LP is Run Out Groove’s new pre-order title.

Type O’s second studio album was recorded in a studio but recorded to sound “live” by adding crowd noises, banter with a fake audience, and even an abrupt song stop because the venue supposedly had received a bomb threat. This was done to mimic the controversy the band faced during the European portion of their Slow, Deep and Hard tour.

This album was also the first time Type O Negative started to include cover songs performed in their distinct sound. The album includes covers of Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid” and Billy Roberts’ “Hey Joe,” which has been re-titled “Hey Pete” in homage to singer, Peter Steele. The reprise of “Kill You Tonight” has a sample of the closing piano strike from The Beatles’ “A Day in the Life.”

For the first stand-alone vinyl release in North America, ROG is reissuing the band’s sophomore effort for its 30h Anniversary. The 140g deluxe 2LP set is pressed on color vinyl, features the original “censored” sphincter cover art with a scratch n’ sniff surprise, deluxe packaging, and an exclusive poster of the famous 1498 woodcut by Albrecht Dürer, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. An extremely limited quantity of a dark green color variant will be available exclusively Run Out Groove and Type O’s webstore while supplies last. We expect to start shipping this title by November 25, 2022.

VIA PRESS RELEASE | Pharoah Sanders’ classic 1969 album Karma will be pressed on 180-gram black vinyl as part of Verve/UMe’s acclaimed audiophile vinyl reissue series, Acoustic Sounds.

Due for release December 16th, the album is being mastered by Ryan K. Smith at Sterling Sound from the analog tapes and will come housed in a high-quality tip-on deluxe gatefold jacket. Like all Acoustic Sounds releases, production is being supervised by Chad Kassem, CEO of Acoustic Sounds, the world’s largest source for audiophile recordings, and will utilize the unsurpassed production craft of Quality Record Pressings. This reissue honors the late jazz legend who passed away in September at the age of 81 and concludes the series for 2022.

Released in May of 1969, Karma was the tenor saxophonist’s third Impulse! Records album and is now seen as a milestone of the Spiritual Jazz movement. A natural progression in the sonic exploration that Sanders, along with John Coltrane and Alice Coltrane, had spearheaded over the previous five years, the album features two tracks “The Creator Has A Master Plan,” and “Colors.” Filling the entire A-Side of the LP, “Creator” is as close as Spiritual Jazz comes to having its own anthem. Meanwhile, the lone B-side track, “Colors,” is no less transfixing.

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Remembering Helen Reddy, born on this day in 1941. —Ed.

Friends, Romans, Vinyl District readers; I come to praise Helen Reddy, not to bury her in the insulting verbiage many use to unfairly deride her formidable talents. Many have nothing but snide things to say about her, but I do not count myself amongst them; her multitude of AM radio hits—they didn’t call Reddy the “Queen of ‘70s Pop” for nothing—brought me too much happiness in my youth, from the altogether uncanny “Angie Baby” to her landmark feminist anthem “I Am Woman.”

Australia’s Helen Maxine Lamond Reddy has been unfairly consigned to the easy-listening dustbin of history. There’s no denying Reddy generally stuck to the middle of the road. But to steal a phrase from Dylan Thomas, she sang in her chains like the sea. And a careful look at her discography reveals she brought a host of weirdly subversive bunch of songs to the party while she was at it. Lucky for us, they’re all to be found on 1990’s Helen Reddy’s Greatest Hits (And More).

Why buy this comp and not another? I’m glad you asked. First, it includes the funky electric piano-dominated version of “Angie Baby” I grew up listening to on the radio, and not the alternative version to be found on her other best of packages. Second, it includes the dance-floor friendly “I Can’t Hear You No More,” which you won’t find on most of her greatest hits albums. And the same goes for “Happy Girls,” her moving lament to “the lonely girls of the world.”

“Happy Girls” joins a triumvirate of empathetic portraits of woman who are, depending on your point of view, either mad or society’s outcasts. The countrified and gospel-inflected “Delta Dawn” tells the story of a Brownsville woman who wanders the streets wearing “a faded rose from days gone by” looking for a “mysterious brown-haired man” who is going to take her to his “mansion in the sky.” The touched protagonist of the funky and horn-fueled “Leave Me Alone (Ruby Red Dress)” also wanders the town, talking to herself and telling everybody who approaches her to, well, leave her alone.

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It’s swell when a new jazz reissue label’s choices are inspired rather than predictable. Such is the case with New Land of the UK, which has an expanded 2LP edition of A Modern Jazz Symposium of Music and Poetry with Charlie Mingus coming out October 28. It follows three albums released back in August: Howard McGhee’s Dusty Blue, Gerry Mulligan’s Night Lights, and a self-titled effort by Blue Mitchell. All four are reviewed below, with extra emphasis on the upcoming Mingus set.

It’s just an assumption, and quite possibly wrong, that the New Land label takes its name from Lee Morgan’s masterwork of 1964, Search for the New Land. The reasoning is that Morgan’s album, which sat on the shelf for two years as Blue Note tried to squeeze out a follow-up to Morgan’s 1964 instrumental hit “The Sidewinder.”

Featuring a unimpeachable sextet (trumpeter-composer Morgan, tenor saxophonist Wayne Shorter, pianist Herbie Hancock, guitarist Grant Green, bassist Reggie Workman, and drummer Billy Higgins, Search for the New Land is a highwater mark in modern jazz, but more to the point, it was a record that came into existence without the expectations of a masterpiece attached, as its reputation has grown over the years.

It’s easy to speculate that the four records reissued by New Land benefitted from a similar lack of pressure in their making, even as Dusty Blue, originally issued by Bethlehem in 1961, was something of a comeback for the crucial Bop-era trumpeter Howard McGhee, whose return to the recording studio after a decade struggling with drug addiction found him in top-notch company: Tommy Flanagan on piano, Roland Alexander on tenor sax and flute, Pepper Adams on baritone sax, Bennie Green on trombone, Ron Carter on bass, and Walter Bolden on drums.

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