Squeeze - Argy Bargy

In high school, I worked as a lifeguard for the municipal pool during the summer months. The managers were usually a few years older than the guard staff, so every year they would come back from college during summer break and tell us how awesome university was while tempting us with their driver’s licenses and breaking out some bullshit pool hierarchy whenever we underage drinkers asked for a hand in buying some booze.

One of the things that they did share with us was the occasional mix tape featuring “college music” and other tracks from what students supposedly listened to while they were away from home, their cabinets filled with plastic Chinet plates, Graffix bongs, and copious amounts of Everclear grain alcohol.

Their music taught me that my concept of college life was completely off. I mean, how can you explain one manager’s love of Phil Collins and Supertramp? There was obviously nothing remotely smokeable coming from that dude’s dorm room and nothing to indicate that he was actually putting that collegiate independence to good use.

But another manager did have a few challenging tapes that he would bring to the pool, some of which actually fell outside of the idea of “mainstream.”

One afternoon, he popped in a cassette in the pool’s primitive stereo system that pumped music over the weatherproof speakers and provided customers with the hourly routine pool checks, where we would force everyone out of the pool at the top of the hour and see if we missed any dead bodies sinking to the bottom of the pool.

Playing a personal cassette over the p.a. system was a big no no. We were under some vague instructions to leave the radio tuned to the local top 40 station as it was enjoyed by more customers. But hear me when I say that after an afternoon, twirling your whistle in 90-degree Iowa humidity, the last thing you wanted to hear was Michael Sembello‘s “Maniac” four times during your shift.

So it was a great relief to hear a foreign, yet familiar sound of a Beatlesque guitar coming from the tinny fidelity of the pool’s all-weather speaker. It was hard to make out the words, but the voice sounded similar to that of John Lennon’s, singing about “Squinting faces at the sky / A Harold Robbins paperback.”

The record—Squeeze‘s Argy Bargy—continues to serve as one of my own musical clarions to announce the summer solstice. It is the closest that the band got to their well-deserved Fab comparisons while managing to point to a direction that may have ultimately transcended those lazy associations.

The song I heard that day, “Pulling Mussels From The Shell,” and the track that kicked off side two, “If I Didn’t Love You,” are the two most recognized gems from Squeeze’s primary songwriters, Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrookn. They may have been college radio favorites at the time they were released, prompting my manager to tape a copy of Argy Bargy for his own collection, but the rest of the record was full of wonderfully smart pop songs that the manager agreed to let me tape with his dual cassette dubbing unit.

The source tape was his TDK SA90 cassette, which I used as well for my copy. It was a little more expensive than the cheap blank cassettes that I used, but I figured that the dude was in college, so he must know that chrome-oxide tapes sounded better than those normal bias ones.

The second-generation tape hiss wasn’t too bad, and I attributed it to the bitchin’ high-bias tape I bought and the treble-killing Dolby B noise reduction that I used during the high speed dubbing process. Upon playback, I noticed something weird during the awesome song “Vicki Verky,” a great slice of up-tempo acoustic Beatlemania towards the end of the album. In the middle of the song, the Squeeze composition suddenly dropped out and I could hear the familiar refrains of a Beatles song playing backwards for about 15 seconds. Always up for a game of Beatles trivia, I determined the vocal part of the chorus was none other than George Harrison and the song in question was “Love You To” from Revolver. How it ended up on my tape is unknown and why it plays the segment backwards is one of life’s mysteries.

But it gave my dub copy of Argy Bargy character and I kept that cassette even after I properly got my own copy on CD many years later.

What isn’t mysterious was how Argy Bargy managed to cross-generational boundaries. A few years later, I became one of the managers of that municipal pool, and one of my first acts as a big shot was to put in that tape of Argy Bargy, just like old times. Years later, one of the female lifeguards remembered that tape, and evidently inquired about it after I played it. She got the annunciation wrong, but I understood her perfectly when she asked if I could make her a copy of that “Argee Bargee” album that I used to play at the pool during the summer.

There was also my own father, who became a fan of Squeeze after allowing me the opportunity to play Argy Bargy in the car on our way to a short getaway one summer. To get through an entire album without my father advising, “Let’s listen to something else now,” was a rare event, but it was even rarer to have him request, “Put in that Squeeze tape!” when we ended up on the beach off a lake where my aunt and uncle lived in Illinois. Maybe the Fab melodies got to him, or maybe it was just the after effects of the lake that cooled the nuclear power plant nearby.

I think it’s the melodies; they’re as fresh today as they were thirty years ago. The melodies are the reason you’ll still catch a one of their most popular classics while shopping for groceries. In fact, “Pulling Mussels From A Shell” came up the other day while the iPod was on shuffle as I was cooking dinner.

“That’s where I’ve heard this song from!” my wife announced, explaining that the song would frequently play at her store’s music channel, causing her to break into a spontaneous, “And I feel like William Tell,” in front of her co-workers who weren’t as familiar with the work of Squeeze.

The truth is, everyone should be a bit familiar with them, and I hope with additional spins of Argy Bargy my wife won’t begin to think of her place of employment the next time she hears their songs.

Because Argy Bargy is great enough that it should be honored with worthy memories. In fact, the band themselves point that out during “If I Didn’t Love You” with a line that has pretty much served as the Cliff Notes of my own musical obsession: “Singles remind me of kisses / Albums remind me of plans.”

A lot of both were created with this frequently overlooked gem.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

James Gang - Rides Again

When you think about it, the James Gang was pretty much doomed from the beginning. They came of age when a pair of other power trios—the Jimi Hendrix Experience and Cream—had already run their course and who’d featured a pair of undeniable guitar legends. So what was the James Gang thinking releasing Yer Album, a debut record of unfocused jams, not-quite-ready originals, and a bunch of covers heavy on noodling and light on inspiration?

Keep in mind, this was an era when anything was possible. For crying out loud, a band as creatively limited as Iron Butterfly came across a nifty riff, repeated the damn thing for over a quarter of an hour, and suddenly became the biggest selling thing on Atlantic Records. So I’m sure that a few label execs at ABC records green-lighted Yer Album because they didn’t have a clue as to what may stick and what would fall.

Thankfully, the band reconvened for album number two with producer Bill Szymczyk and, essentially, reinterpreted Yer Album with all the best parts kept in and all the freshman aloofness. I don’t know if he was totally responsible for the structure that surrounds Rides Again (he also produced the debut) but I do know that he cut some of the song lengths in half and added a bunch of arrangements that would totally fool the average listener into thinking the band was nothing more than three regular dudes from Ohio: Joe Walsh on vocals and guitar, bassist Dale Peters, and Jim Fox on drums.

“Take A Look Around,” Walsh’s composition from the first album turns into a pot grower’s anthem “Tend My Garden” for the second. “Funk #48″ retains the same beat on Rides Again‘s “Funk #49,” but Walsh trims a second off the riff and it makes all the difference in its potency.

Side one mirror’s Yer Album lumbering rust-belt stomp, but it does it with the utmost efficiency. There’s a lifetime of riffs to practice and the tone of Walsh’s Gibson is something to envy. You may have heard the opener “Funk #49″ on classic rock stations and perhaps side one’s closer “The Bomber,” but to bookend the two in their proper place on side one is one hell of a first half.

Side 2 is all Walsh, who’s shown noticeable improvement as a lyricist in the year since the James Gang’s debut. They keep the second half a relatively acoustic affair, effortlessly going between elements of American folk, country-rock, and ending the side with the beautiful English folk tinge of “Ashes, The Rain And I.”

For all of the potential of trying to add too many musical elements and too much opportunity for self-absorbed performances, Szymczyk leaves everything at a concise half-hour total. Rides Again lends itself as an album that’s perfect for repeated listens while being just out of classic rock notoriety that it’s shamefully overlooked in many best-of lists that focus on that decade’s most worthy inductees. I’m on my third version of this album and set for a fourth: a definitive remastered edition that corrects some of MCA’s unconscionable editions over the past twenty years.

Walsh lasted for one more studio album and a worthwhile live effort, In Concert, that captured the line-up before Joe went on to a more successful solo career and in a retirement-building stint with the Eagles. None of his subsequent work came close to what he was able to achieve and the same is true of Fox and Peters, both of whom attempted to continue on with the James Gang moniker even after Walsh departed for a solo career.

At its core, Rides Again is a mulligan, a do-over, coming off the heels of a debut where neither artist or producer really had their shit in order to pull off a worthy release. Not only does Rides Again correct the errors of the first, it goes further. In fact, it exceeds beyond what the band probably should have been able to do in the first place. Rides Again is a testament to getting back in the saddle and seeing how far you can go with what should have been a one trick pony.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

Motorhead - No Sleep "Til Hammersmith

The title hints at the band’s drug of choice during this very prolific and influential period, Motorhead could frequently sound like a fabled British steam engine train, barreling out of control into your inner ear canal. And the dude shoveling coal into the mouth of this motherfucker? Lemmy Kilmister, the man with the locomotive wheel wrist that also serves as the only thing keeping this thing glued to the tracks.

Kilmister is-how should I put it-a homely fellow. And if you can’t picture him shoveling coal into a train’s steam engine, then maybe you can picture him as the miserable lout digging the ore itself from beneath the ground, his daily ordeal a literal deathtrap.

His only dream of breaking free of his hell on Earth? Like Mick Jagger said-probably a dude that Lemmy would like to sucker punch, just on general principle-what can a poor boy do, except to sing for a rock and roll band.

I believe Kilmister appreciates his life, and he probably knows better than anyone else how things could have easily turned out pretty shitty if this rock and roll thing didn’t work out.

Which is why Lemmy doesn’t change the sound of Motorhead. Ever. If it’s ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And Lemmy Kilmister is smart enough to know that there’s not a goddamn thing wrong with his band.

So confident of his abilities, he walks his bass guitar up to a huge pair of Marshall stacks that were actually designed for instruments with six strings. Lemmy views the bass like a guitar as his pick axe, so he intentionally places audience directly in the path of his occupational hazard by turning all of the tone knobs to “bark” and the volume knob to “pain.” In Lemmy’s mind, your hearing loss is Motorhead’s equivalent to black lung disease.

You will have those who declare Ace Of Spades as the pinnacle of Motorhead’s entire catalog, but the reality is that the live No Sleep ‘Til Hammersmith holds up better and is a more clearer portrait of this band’s influence.

It’s a recording of the band’s classic line-up-and let’s not mince words here: we would not be talking about Motorhead or even Lemmy Kilmister if not for the output of this line-up. As much as Lemmy must be afforded with the moniker and as impressive as Motorhead's current line-up is-particularly their longevity-it all begins with some timeless material created by Kilmister/Clarke/Taylor.

I'm sure Kilmister knows this, just as I'm sure he's tired of the whole discussion. But really, the discussion ends here, with the filling-rattling projection captured on No Sleep 'Til Hammersmith.  The lack of color in the production is irrelevant, because the entire point of Motorhead-particularly with this set-is that they only set out to capture the primary colors of rock and roll anyway. To Lemmy, rock music was the original generation of stars, the ones where Chuck Berry is the Alpha and the Omega, the Every Brothers his angels, and Little Richard his water-parting Moses.

The power of those early performers are the reason why Lemmy gets on stage and barks the power of rock and roll music in his very unique and groundbreaking way. Meanwhile, the other bands that Motorhead was pegged with during this time of their career had just begun the process of testing the market for bigger audiences.

By the time No Sleep Til Hammersmith was released, metal was fast becoming another commodity of the record labels who were beginning to do everything to tidy up the bands of the New Wave of British Heavy Metal for mass consumption.

While others pursued a nice, soft-focused version of the band members specifically created for the large amounts of female audience members that suddenly became interested in the young attractions, Motorhead stuck to their original blueprint.

No Sleep Til Hammersmith is Motorhead’s finest document of their own “fuck off” rebellion. It’s a collection of every one of their notable highpoints and, more importantly, recorded in the setting that is the essential environment to actually hear one of the most important heavy metal bands since the genre was first tagged.

“Fast” Eddie Clarke sounds like he’d be capable of more than what the confines of this power trio could provide him (which may explain why he formed Fastway shortly after this set was recorded), but he knows the gig too well and his blues-inspired solos are peppers with gnarly feedback, gritty tones, and a general attitude which serves the band flawlessly.

Phil Taylor, on the other hand, keeps things going at a breakneck speed, leaning heavy on the hit-hat, snare and bass drums for emphasis and occasionally slopping together a fill which frequently find him missing a beat before returning to the comforts of his aforementioned focus. It’s flawed, it speeds up, in other words-it’s perfect.

Then there’s the commander, Lemmy, who introduces nearly each song with a dedication and who is blessed with an everyman’s mantra of “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Blessed with a limited vocal range and an even more limited amount of good looks, he became the frontman that any sap working a factory floor could relate too.

But it was through his narrow musical vision where Lemmy tapped an oil well of creative inspiration, striking a blend of early rock rebellion with speed...literally...all wonderfully captured on No Sleep ‘Til Hammersmith.

Fiona Apple - The Idler Wheel

What makes The Idler Wheel work in ways that completely surpass Fiona Apple’s previous trio of releases is how the stark production perfectly blends against the album’s deep exorcisms. This is a heavy record, more so than the limited instrumentation would initially suggest, but within those moments of quiet space and avoidance of clutter, you can hear every ounce of inner turmoil in Apple’s words. And even if you’re not the lyrical type, you can clearly hear that aforementioned turmoil in her open-heart delivery.

The Idler Wheel neglects any attempt of pop accessibility, which is fine as the record’s weight would just topple over trying to polish up a record of such blatant malaise. Instead, Apple just occupies the space with little more than her piano and her nearly frightening vocals. It had to be this way. Fiona is now in her mid-30’s, and as she’s apparently hinting at with all of this is how she’s looking at having to tackle the pressures of life alone.

“How can I ask anyone to love me/When all I do is beg to be left alone” she asks, knowing all too well that her inner struggle may indeed be to blame for not being able to resolving that aforementioned struggle. In the course of the song’s nearly 5 minutes, you hear Apple wail, feel the words delivered against clinched teeth, until at the very end you can hear her voice trail off in a defeated whine. The only thing the listener can hope for is that the last 5 minutes have offered some kind of cathartic release to help push ahead some sort of resolution.

Besides voice and piano, The Idler Wheel is moved forward with nothing more than hand clapped rhythms, found items, and in the case of “Periphery,” footsteps marching on gravel and sand. Apple doesn’t stay still to wallow in her depression. Instead, she marches on. “Hot Knife,” the album’s closer and potential high-point, contradicts the rest of the album’s bittersweet journey with its nifty acapella vocals and cannibal drums.

Its placement is important as it leaves listeners with the impression that Apple will probably end up in this very same place again someday soon, because love tends to make you forget about all of those red flags that pop up along the way, on route to your next breakup. Make no mistake about it, The Idler Wheel is indeed a breakup album, perhaps one of the most intricate, passionate, and deeply personal ones ever committed to tape. It does so with utmost maturity, hitting hard at the creeps that have left her in a lurch as well as fully realizing that she’s no picnic either.

It’s a heavy album, for sure, but one where you can help but admire her unwavering vision for it and how it’s primary sound is pure emotion. “Nothing wrong when a song ends in a minor key” she tells us in “Werewolf,” and after several repeated listening to The Idler Wheel, you can’t help but agree. No one told us that life would be easy, but Apple has created a record that makes those low moments of dread into an intriguing collage of creativity that ends up being the artist’s first indisputable masterpiece.

Roxy Music - The Complete Studio Recordings

A few years ago, I named Bryan Ferry’s Olympia release as worthy enough to receive the Roxy Music moniker. The argument went that the Roxy personnel all took part in its creation (including Brian Eno) so why not just used the brand name?

I had a chance to review that brand recently, thanks to the newly issued Roxy Music box set, The Complete Studio Recordings 1972 – 1982. And while I still would have no trouble with calling Olympia a Roxy Music album, the new box set has provided me with a renewed appreciation of why Ferry decided to leave well enough alone, because what they accomplished during their 8 studio records is already better than “well enough.”

The Complete Studio Recordings 1972 – 1982 is a ten-disc collection of those eight records, with the additional two housing the band’s debut single (“Virginia Plain” may be worth the price of admission alone), their b-sides, and the endless mixes and remixes that were all of the Avalon singles.

Since we’ve already seen Roxy Music’s catalog reissued with the allure of re-mastered mixes, and since The Thrill Of It All had already served as a boxed compendium, why would anyone need to revisit the band in another career overview?

For me, it was a matter of simple mathematics. Having not gotten beyond a well worn, first generation cd of Avalon (that after a well-worn vinyl version from the friends at Columbia House) and some equally hissy copies of a few other titles, I knew that I’d eventually need to find a home for every single Roxy release. The new box set is priced low enough to hit everything at once.

That sticker price gets every release the full reproduction gatefold sleeves and, perhaps more importantly considering our trend on the loudness wars, a completely tinker-free mix of the recordings themselves.

This set represents the original mixes-for better or worse in some cases-with no hint of compression or eq’ing. That’s important when dealing with a band like Roxy Music, who seemed completely focused on their attention to detail..

“For worse” would be the awful mix that hindered the debut, to the point where Bryan Ferry himself wanted to redo the entire album for years after, because of the record’s unforgiving mix. They got better-as in remarkably better-on the follow-up For Your Pleasure, which finds Ferry exerting his dominance over Eno in the band’s arrangements.

In fact, For Your Pleasure not only shows the band to continue to grow without the aid of Eno’s input, it also finds them growing better as his role diminished. For Your Pleasure secures the band’s place in history even as their sophomore offering, and it’s just one of many discoveries that I found from The Complete Studio Recordings.

There’s two other must have releases, featured in their original and intended mixes that are, without question, deserving of everyone’s record collection: Siren and Avalon. Each effort shows the band in periods of enviable growth and brimming confidence. All three records taken in once again show a band perfectly adaptable at reinventing themselves, seemingly without sounding as if they were even setting out to do exactly that. They stumble into the career building moments with such ease that it makes the entire Eno departure feel like a necessary decision that allowed the band to become as great as they were.

But the real treat with The Complete Studio Recordings is re-examining Roxy Music’s other records, which pale only because that aforementioned trio of essential records shine so brightly.

I remembered being drawn to Country Life as a teenager, most assuredly for its risqué cover and confirmation of Bryan Ferry’s prowess as a ladies man. I am now drawn to it entirely from its content inside. It is a collection of consistent growth, finding the band very comfortable with their fashion and abilities as musicians. This is the sound of a band working hard at their craft, while donning a business casual clothing sense during the rehearsal time.

By Manifesto! the band is acting the part of royal statesmen while Flesh + Blood-a personal favorite that’s much maligned by others outside of the Roxy faithful-begins to show signs of a new subgenre, one whose name doesn’t even exist.

I understand the complaints of how Flesh + Blood is nothing more than a tepid return from a lengthy (by 1980 standards) hiatus, but for me it sounds like a victory lab before unleashing what would become the band’s signature opus, Avalon.

Avalon benefits the most from the 2012 mix as it leaves the record’s rich texture and subtle dynamics in tact, a rare feat during a time when most re-issues are met with a tradition of mixing records of some note to cater to the thin fidelity of today’s earbud generation.

The Complete Studio Recordings 1972 – 1982 hints at a much different era. It reflects a time when bands were given a wide birth in order to grow and develop. It also demonstrates how this freedom can actually lend itself to fostering an environment where a band can become great on its own, through natural selection and just plain old stubbornness.

It is a necessary document of the band’s legacy and consistency, one that’s needed not only out of the duty that’s created from their influence, but for the sheer enjoyment of listening to a band grow, develop, and become great.

What makes it such a requirement is how it shows that Roxy managed to do that not just once or twice, but for at least three of titles included with this collection. And to be able to achieve this in the span of a decade makes this box set not only complete, but completely essential.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

Def Leppard - Pyromania

The trick is to be able to convince those of you snickering right now that Def Leppard’s Pyromania is worthy of a 5-star review, even though the album has sold more than 10 million copies in the U.S. alone

.

But I get it, and I understand that sales don’t always translate into worthy records, but you’d be surprised at how often they really do.

To start with, I think it’s best to acknowledge that Def Leppard set out to make a commercially viable record, something that transcends the hard rock corner they had been placed in. Because Pyromania is an album that strategically tries to break out of that mold in order to get a larger audience, and if you’ve read about the band’s hometown of Sheffield, you understand why that was an important thing for them.

That blueprint, which probably wasn’t even discussed in much detail, is based on the band’s prior work with producer Robert “Mutt” Lange on High ‘n Dry, which is actually a record that I prefer over this one. Regardless, High ‘n Dry gave the band a chance to work with the same producer that worked on AC/DC’s last three records at the time. AC/DC was the band that they were always compared to in terms of riffs and content, so the match made sense.

It also made them rich. But because Mutt Lange is such a bitch of a guy to work with, it would have been easy for them to say “Fuck it!” and find someone else to man their follow up, someone with a more pleasant demeanor and a less strict work ethic.

They didn’t. And Lange took the opportunity to not only drill the band into an obedient bunch of rock and roll workers who took every ounce of criticism to heart, indulged in every bit of studio window dressing that he conjured up, and delivered on every take that was asked of them, prompting Lange to supplant a normal count-off with “Gunter glieben glauchen globen,” just to bring some levity to the insane number of takes he demanded.

But a producer can only be as good as the material that he’s asked to work with, and in that regard, Def Leppard provided him with 10 cuts that were strong enough to capture an audience, even in their most basic form.

They run the gamut of the obligatory rock anthem “Rock Rock (‘Til You Drop”), which gives teenagers a pass for being a bit naughty, because “Your mama don’t mind what your mama don’t see!”

We took those words to heart during the summer of 1983, where this album and Prince’s 1999 shared equal blockbuster billing, blaring out of every car window that cruised Main Street as some point on Friday and Saturday night.

It’d be easy to suggest that my high praise for Pyromania is only the result of soft focused nostalgia, and I’d be willing to give that criticism some validity. But then I’m reminded of the fact that we’re no longer speaking about bands like Autograph or Britny Fox today, and it rests upon the reality that both of those bands-and any other band that attempted to follow Def Leppard’s lead on pop rock appeal-simply did not have the same amount of really good songs to work with.

Even the ballads are better than they should be, with “Too Late For Love” being a prime example. There’s the riff, the stupid Mutt Lange sound effects, and then there’s the tale of a woman who gives it up too soon. Elliot brings no sympathy to her plight, declaring “When it comes to playing life/She always plays the fool,” giving thousands of teenage boys a reprieve for their complete lack of warmth in chasing after the ladies while giving those very same women a song that they can relate to in the slow tempo package.

On the cut “Rock Of Ages,” Elliot declares that “it’s better to burn out than fade away,” but after kicking guitarist Pete Willis out of the band just prior to the recording of Pyromania for excessive drinking, it’s hard to take that claim very seriously. This was a band that enjoyed the success that their previous album High ‘n Dry very much, and after seeing the bump in pay that Mutt Lange helped secure for them, they were very willing to sober up and tolerate the producer’s unhealthy attention to detail.

Except for Willis, of course, who’s termination provided an opportunity for Phil Collen to come into the fold, take off his shirt, and similarly enjoy the windfall of cash that was about to fall in his lap.

I’m still working from the original cd pressing, which is a step-up from the original music cassette that I originally had. It’s plagued with Lange’s now-dated production and I have no idea if the re-mastered version sounds any better, but I’d be surprised if it does. Amazingly, for an album that’s emotionally and sonically tied to the 80’s, Pyromania remains an enduring piece of heavy pop rock that satisfies both men and women tied to the decade it represents while finding a new audience for their offspring who are already going through the same dramas that this record agelessly documents.

Iggy Pop - The Idiot

If you’re planning on taking your own life tonight, may I suggest Iggy Pop’s The Idiot.

Too soon?

Yes, it was thirty-two years ago tonight where Ian sat down to a viewing of Werner Herzog’s Stroszek and a spin of Iggy Pop’s The Idiot.

Then he went to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat.

His wife found him the next morning, and I assumed put all of this together. It seems plausible. And The Idiot is a really good album.

It time to think so; can you remember the first time you heard it? If you haven’t yet, remember it, write it down. I’m curious to hear what Iggy novices think about it or, like me, familiar with his repertoire to the point where you can compare it to Idiot.

Truth is, I hated it. The Idiot was so unlike anything else in Pop’s catalog, never mind that it sounded like Iggy was just as loaded as he was during Kill City, it was just that he had Bowie funding the dope for him.

It’s confirmed with the fact that Bowie made RCA hold on to The Idiot for just a little while longer so that Dave could be the first to market with a Berlin trilogy, making it seem that he was the one who taught dum dum Jim Osterberg everything.

Actually, The Idiot is the record that truly confirmed Pop was a certified genius, briefly breaking away from that dumb Michigan shtick just long enough to see that, even if he’s not fully in charge of his capacities or the control board, Iggy Pop is capable of delivering a left-field hit of epic proportions.

The sound is as unexpected today as it must of have sounded back then, the claustrophobia is menacing and there’s a general unease throughout it. This is the part of the review where I tell you that I really like the record now, but I think it’s important to explain how this weird-sounding thing planted a fucking seed in my head telling me to keep coming back to it.

The Idiot is the equivalent of sharing an 8-ball of cocaine with your friend and you decide to start recording the room at 4:00 in the morning. It’s that time when your forehead feels tingly and the coke becomes more of a need than anything else.

Oh wait, someone left this rhythm machine behind…

The irony is that the most “normal” song on the record is the one that begins by naming off all the friends who have o.d.’d or died. “Dum Dum Boys” produces a sensible song structure and good rock groove, but then Iggy appears like he’s had a bottle of wine or three, singin’ “Dah Dah Dah Dah Dum Dum Day.”

Because there are times after work, driving home just trying to shake of the fact that you’re no longer at work, when I feel like singing through the marbles of “All aboard for fun times,” just dreaming for a chance to stay up late in a coke-fueled panic.

By “Tiny Girls,” the dawn is starting to creep through the curtains when suddenly Iggy brings in a smooth sax. It takes the edge off, particularly when Bowie fucks around with the echo.

“Mass Production” is probably the best song Neu! Ever wrote, mainly because Iggy Pop sings it. It’s the record’s forgotten treasure, a big-rock ending to an anti-rock concept album with Iggy politely mentioning, “By the way, I’m going for cigarettes” after David stops fucking around with a synthesizer.

By my count, I’d say it took at least a dozen spins for me to get comfortable with The Idiot’s art-damaged interior, to find the pleasure in its icy restraints and outta mind adventurism.

But once there, I was hooked

Get me a pack of Marlboro’s, Jim.

Donna Summer - Endless Summer

My Mom was mad at my Dad.

This would have been 1977 or ’78; a time when fashion was questionable and disco was the preferred music on the weekends, particularly at the many clubs around the Midwest that suddenly began to install lighted dance floors in their poolrooms just to take advantage of all the boogie oogie oogien that was going down.

My father was known to dance on occasion and my mom liked to cut a rug every now and then. The trouble was, my Dad was never at home much, and when he was, he was somewhere else. This would have been the around the time when he was working for the teacher’s union on top of his teaching duties. We’d have a lot of weird teachers come over unannounced and they’d go on the porch, drink beer, and discuss all the bullshit they thought the administration was doing to them.

This was back when people gave a shit about making sure everyone got a fair shake. The kind of thing that people today are too busy with themselves to fight for, and if they do they run the risk of being perceived as some lazy union fuck. Behind all the harsh words and perceptions is some 24-year-old girl at her first teaching gig just trying to make enough to pay rent, her student loans, and to have a $50 left over to go have a drink with her girlfriends a couple times a month.

With Dad’s union demands, he was away from home a lot After a while, my Mom starts to get pissed because Dad’s really wrapped up in himself, is spending no time with us, and is clearly not providing not enough attention to her.

The solution to all of this was to have my Mom sign her and Dad up for disco dance lessons.

Within days, an influx of disco records began cropping up around the house: Chic, A Taste of Honey, and Donna Summer.

I thought it was cool that the record, the aforementioned Live and More, featured three sides of live music and a fourth side called the “MacAuthur Park Suite,” essentially a seventeen-minute long version of the song with “Heaven Knows” thrown in the middle for no apparent reason.

But in good faith, I cannot recommend any full-length Donna Summer record-Bad Girls would be the exception, I guess-because most of them were just vehicles for her endless supplies of new hit singles wrapped around in extended filler whose purpose was to only make sure the total track time hovered around 16 minutes per side.

There is probably no other Donna Summer record you need other than Endless Summer. I’m sure by now there’s probably a dozen greatest hits compilations you can choose from, but let’s begin with the first, most comprehensive greatest hits collection that really needs no additional repackaging, Endless Summer.

Somehow-and perhaps this is a testament to her voice, a beautiful mezzo-soprano-she transcended her original label as the “Disco Queen” and even found herself on the nominating ballot for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame a few years ago.

I don’t think she belongs there, but that doesn’t diminish her overall body of work and importance in late twentieth century pop music. You simply could not get away from Donna Summer if you were anywhere near a radio between 1975 and 1980.

I found this out immediately upon the first listen of Endless Summer, 18 tracks of her best know songs, set chronological so you can hear the progression in her music throughout the years, a critical feature in making sure each year attempted to exceed the last..

Each song held some kind of brief memory from the 70’s: from the elaborate packaging of Live and More, to Summer awkwardly acting her way through Thank God It’s Friday to my Mom dragging my father on to the living room floor to work out a bit of dance fever to keep it fresh between practices.

Endless Summer bypasses all of the extended versions, club mixes, and other disco novelties by offering only the versions that we heard over the airwaves. The “hit it and quit it” approach makes the songs fly by, and suddenly you’ll find yourself into Donna’s Geffen years where the hits rather dried up. Then, “She Works Hard For The Money” shows up and you’re back on the cavalcade of hits once again.

The radio mix does put a damper on the awesome “I Feel Love,” probably the first Krautrock song in history to make the top 5 of the Billboard charts. You need to hear the trance-like state that tune can put you in with the right conditions, but it ain’t gonna happen at a radio-friendly 3:30.

I found it interesting that during these last years were spent quietly in the Florida Keys, painting and making occasional appearances. It was ironic to me that her location choice was relatively close to Miami, a city known to promote it’s love of dancing, a town that most certainly would recognize her as the Disco Queen.

Her reign was not just restricted to South Beach. Endless Summer provides the evidence that Ms.Summer’s reach was felt all the way into the land-locked states like Iowa, where her music was the catalyst of makeshift marriage counseling and the lighted floor industry.

It’s truly sad that she had to let go, but Endless Summer makes everything feel like sunny and in the mid 70’s once again.

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Dr. John - Locked Down

At 71 years of age, the good doctor would seem better suited for retirement than some late-career appreciation effort coordinated by a member of The Black Keys. But here he is, complete with Gris-Gris font and a hint of windowpane acid; Locked Down is a comeback album for a legend who really doesn’t need one.

I think Dr. John gets this, but Locked Down sounds like a sly wink to us under the idea that Dan Auerbach somehow conjured this awesome session from him. Here is a musician operating on such a level that this is music that he could make in his sleep. It was just Auerback’s balls in approaching him with the album’s vintage tint sound.

God bless him for it, because Locked Down’s look back is the stuff that people will be enjoying for years to come, potentially being the first exposure to Dr. John in the process and sending them on their merry way down the annals of his catalog.

Mac Rebennack’s confidence exudes throughout the album, in both vocal phrasing and his own performance. He adds on and lies off as needed, giving the rhythm section center-stage in some moments.

Those rhythms save him at times, like “Ice Age,” a cut with such rhythmic possibilities that Doc’s off-the-cuff societal observations sound like bits of brief genius. It all ends the moment you check the lyric sheet, but who has time to read when your ass is shakin’?

And when the worst song on the album prompts that kind of forgiveness, then you’re really holding a damn fine effort. Locked Down is a powerful reminder to people a half-century his junior of how the possibility of perfection can come at any moment.

The idea is to be ready for it and to be the open to the idea that it can happen. It has happened here, Auerback’s decision to put the rhythms out in front give Doc a chance to be a little ornery with his own place in the mix.

Locked Down would be a masterpiece on its own merits, but the fact that it comes so late in Dr. John’s career is what makes it extra noteworthy. He delivers it so effortlessly that it prompts listeners to get excited about examining of his past work, while shedding an incredible light on future possibilities. 

Alice Cooper - Love It To Death

Thanks to the recent induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, I pulled out my old vinyl copy of Alice Cooper’s Love It To Death and confirmed: it’s about fucking time.

I’m one of those “Alice Cooper is a band” supporters, the kind of fan who understands that theatrics is only half of the equation. The other half is a raw outfit of musicians who made those theatrics frightening.

But the scare-tactics were pretty badassed. On one occasion, I used the gatefold sleeve of Love It To Death in a “haunted house” me and my cousins made in my bedroom circa ’77. The picture was just close-up of Alice’s eyes in that spider leg mascara-but it gave the room a frightening feel along with my scientifically accurate plastic skull with removable skullcap.

We made a dollar in quarters that night at my parent’s house, so thank you Alice Cooper for making my amateur haunted house a financial success.

And thank you for making Love It To Death, the album that finally put the morbid spin on the entire Alice Cooper band after two records of uncomfortable weirdness. Alice’s third hones in on the aggression while a young Bob Ezrin places everything in its place within the mix, including instruments that weren’t prevalent on those previous records.

But even though there’s a piano in the back of it, “I’m Eighteen” is nothing but raw, irrational angst, you’ll swear you never heard a trace of them. So associated with those three syllabic power chord bursts of boy-into-man birthday, “I’m Eighteen” would become the first song you ever learned on a guitar, if “Smoke On The Water” had never been written.

Love It To Death is the reason I hate Kiss. The moment I learned of them, this record had been in my youthful heavy rotation long enough that I knew that Alice Cooper had started the entire heavy, theatrical rock thing a few years earlier. I also knew, at that young age, that Alice Cooper had done it much, much better.

And Ezrin-producer of Kiss’ Dynasty-did his best work with Alice Cooper too. The camaraderie began here, and it’s his efforts that help make the creep factor obvious, even without a visual guide. He brings the weird out during “The Ballad of Dwight Fry,” particularly when Alice promises to bring back all of the playthings to his little girl-the moment he gets out of the loony bin-“even the ones I stole!”

I also think Ezrin is responsible for the ironic Theremin on “Sun Arise,” a cheeky nod to “Good Vibrations.”

But the best one is “Black Juju,” where Ezrin directs Alice (the man) to damn-near stop the entire track to silence, before jamming a hot poker up his to make him scream “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” before the end reprise.

It was the most terrifying thing that this young boy had ever heard at the time, and it’s still creepy enough to give me a few more chills some four decades later.

And Love It To Death is still good enough to wonder why Alice Cooper hadn’t made it into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame a bit sooner.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

The Louvin Brothers - Satan Is Real

Walking to the vinyl section of the Record Collector, a strange cover caught my eye.

It was a picture of two men dressed in white, standing on fiery rocks with a very silly looking picture of the devil behind them. Without hesitation, the storeowner gave firm praise for what could be found within the sealed vinyl reissue of The Louvin Brothers Satan Is Real. From that recommendation-along with the sheer awesomeness of the cover you see pictured-I made an impulse purchase.

You don’t have to believe in God to appreciate The Louvin Brothers’ Satan Is Real, but you may find yourself in the midst of the Holy Spirit after listening to it. Ira and Charlie Louvin blend together their glorious harmonies with such beauty that you’ll be sure their gifts do indeed originate from a higher power.

The country arrangements behind them are barren and steady, giving a wide birth for the Louvin’s immaculate vocals to blend over everything on tape. The results are not only magnificent, they can be downright creepy at times.

The title track sets pace for the records’ twelve tracks, and it even includes a bit of Baptist fire and brimstone towards the end with a testimony advising all listeners that, if God is real, then Satan should be considered just as factual.

There is no doubt that Charlie and Ira believe every word they are singing, thanks to an upbringing in Southern Alabama that valued the gospel as much as a hard days work. It’s noted in the extensive liner notes that most of the Louvin clan had gifted voices, but while their younger sisters were married and pregnant by the age of eighteen, only Charlie and Ira took music seriously enough to make it into a career.

Satan Is Real contains “The Christian Life,” probably best known from The Byrds’ Sweetheart of the Rodeo album, so if you’re a fan of that record, here’s the indispensible original.

“There’s A Higher Power,” a Louvin brothers original, is also top notch, but the song that nearly brought me to tears is the last cut, “I’m Ready To Go Home.” Ira delivers such a gut-wrenching high harmony on it that you’d have to have a deal with the devil not to be impacted by the song’s beauty.

The story behind the iconic album cover is included, but what’s telling is what the cover implies. If you’ll notice, the cutout of Satan features him holding a pitchfork and the end of that pitchfork is pointed directly at Ira Louvin.

Throughout the years, the brothers were always on the road, to the point where Ira started to drink and become erratic. Charlie was much more stable about the stresses of the road, but could not take much more of his brother’s behavior. He finally agreed that parting was probably the best for both of them, and by the end of 1963 the two had parted ways.

In 1965, Ira-still touring, but with a new band-was killed in a horrific head-on collision on a county road in Missouri. There was an outstanding warrant on him for a drunk driving conviction that he failed to settle. The irony was that the person who caused the accident was also drunk, making the Louvin brothers song “Wreck On The Highway” just a tad too prophetic.

There’s more: the spur of the moment purchase of Satan Is Real comes almost a year to the day after Charlie’s passing from cancer last year.

Clearly, there was not only a knowledgeable record store owner at hand for making this recommendation, but also a higher power that pointed me in the direction of this essential recording.

God is indeed good.

Marty Robbins - Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs

Marty Robbins’ Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs was one of my purchases during 2011’s Record Store Day. I was concerned that this 50 year old piece of vinyl would surely show signs of wear and tear, but the thing looked like it did right out of the plastic wrap and, for ten measly bucks I couldn’t pass up this landmark country release. I could see the smile on my face in the grooves of the record as I was mesmerized by the old-school Columbia Records red label that listed the song titles.

Gunfighter Ballads is one of those records that transcended its genre when first released. Not only did it reach the upper eschelon of the country charts when it was released, it reached the top 10 pop charts, largely due to the success of its single, “El Paso.”

That cut, if you’re keeping score hit number 1 in both the country and pop charts.
They don’t make ‘em like that anymore, and the music found within Gunfighter Ballads is no exception either. The story goes that Robbins was residing in Nashville and became homesick for his Arizona roots. Recalling the old west and campfire songs of his youth, Marty began composing a series of ballads which later became the bulk of this album.

The album was recording in its entirety one afternoon and became the full length that he is probably best known for.

And for good reason, both the originals and the covers seem to be coming from the depth of the man’s soul. The sparce arrangement of Mr. Robbins’ trio is perfect for the material presented. It is a concept album before there was even a name for “concept album,” and the entire package has the uncanny ability to take you to a place you’ve only seen in western movies.

For me, I can close my eyes with Gunfighter Ballads playing an immediately become transported to an old west campfire, where hard-riding cowboys reach the end of the day with a bit of lonesome reflection on the trails that led them there.
Robbins’ voice is perfect, disregarding the vocal techniques of typical country singers and replacing it with a sensitive baritone that’s irreplaceable. Each song paints a story, but it’s Robbins’ immaculate voice that makes them come to life.

Gunfighter Ballads and Trail Songs is a vital piece of America’s music during the last century and deserves a place in every music lover’s collection. Even if you’ve never been west of the Mississippi or been a fan of old west memorabilia, the album is so genuine that it will take you directly to the feeling that Robbins perfectly creates within its grooves.

Death Row Greatest Hits

“I held a copy of Death Row Greatest Hits for you.” Brad told me bluntly over the phone. His tone suggested that I had ordered this from the record store he worked for in Iowa City.

The thing was, I hadn’t ordered Death Row Greatest Hits at all.

The record itself was already a few years old, and I had aligned myself with the “East Coast” faction of rap music, or as least as much as a middle-aged white guy from Iowa could.

Sure, I was entertained by many of Death Row’s hits, especially when you heard them played on a loud system in a club.

It was hard not to resist them.

But I wasn’t motivated enough to really seek out their output beyond The Chronic. Snoop seemed more of a character to me, the stoner trash talker who was more of his environment than a legitimate threat.

And Tupac too. With every bit of bravado, I was old enough to remember that he was in the Digital Underground at one point, thereby neutering any bit of gangsta shtick.

Then, things started getting weird within the Death Row camp, and you could watch the artists initiate their mass exodus from the label. You’d hear rumors about the label head, Suge Knight, and you’d chuckle over the visual of Vanilla Ice hanging out a window, ankles held by Death Row thugs until he signed over the rights to “Ice Ice Baby.”

Snoop got arrested for murder. He delivered “Murder Was The Case” on some awards show like he meant it. You could see his stoic demeanor change to a scared man as he pleaded “I’m innocent….I’m innocent” at the end of the song.

Tupac got shot.

And guess who was by his side when the bullets entered?

I remember flying back to Iowa from Arizona after he was murdered. I sat next to a white kid with a huge folder of cds (this was the 90’s), all of it rap music. His jaw opened when I told him that I had walked by the place where Tupac was shot just a few weeks before. It was obvious that this guy had more of an impact on our youth than just some simple ruffian.

This meant the same thing to them as the death of Lennon or Cobain did for me.

And then there was Dre himself, certainly the main contractor of Death Row’s sound, who just walked away from the nonsense completely, leaving the rumblings of Suge’s inner circle to cast him out in the only way they could. I imagined that Dre heard the static of “faggot” and “pussy,” and I also bet that he beefed up his security in preparation for something more than just words.

It’s hard to fathom now, but all of this shit was going down in clear view of everyone. You’d watch MTV News breaks on the hour about these kinds of shenanigans.

Suddenly it all fell apart.

“Meet the new boss,” Pete Townshend said, “Same as the old boss.” And this was true at Death Row.

Before long, Suge was in jail himself.

Other staff members too.

And then Death Row was overtaken by white guys.

Again.

Just like before.

Iowa City was about an hour-and-a-half from where I lived at the time. It was a place that I’d frequent maybe once a month to get the collegiate oddity. But my job had placed my travels from the southern most tip of the state to the southern half of the I-80 line, so it wasn’t unusual for me to visit the I.C. at least once a week. The time made perfect fodder for the “I’m gonna stop by a record store” kind, and since Brad’s place was close to the interstate, what the hell.

But I swear to God that I never ordered Death Row Greatest Hits even though he had assured me of its awesomeness. I never debated the statement either, because a legitimate greatest hits compilation of Death Row Record’s best singles would undoubtedly be awesome.

Without question.

So with that being said, Death Row Greatest Hits does contain every hit the label presented during the label’s incredible rags-to-riches-to-rags story and it is undoubtedly awesome.

Without question.

Yeah, some of the songs have been tinkered with a bit and a few songs repeat through the 2-disc set as a result, but you could simply hit play on disc one, let the seventeen tracks run through, reach the end and wonder how an hour-long jam like that could be any better.

Side two-although a bit weaker track by track-is still pretty close to perfect, which makes Death Row Greatest Hits a nearly flawless compilation that’s hard to stop once you hit play.

And I can’t think of another label compilation of similar composure that rates as consistently good, something where you can set it and forget it without worrying if a dud is going to affect your audio decorations.

“G Thang,” “Gin & Juice,” “Dear Mama,” it’s all in here. Even the hardcore shit-the kind when it wasn’t embarrassing to say “Ice Cube,” out loud. It’s in there too.

Back to the story: Even though I never asked him to hold a copy of Death Row Greatest Hits, he saved one for me anyway. For nearly a year, he had reminded me that D.R.G.H. had fallen out of print because of all the legal wrangling of the label’s C.E.O., Suge Knight.

I’d always assumed that the release would be a cornerstone to that label’s catalogue. But evidently, they had temporarily let this classic record fall out of print. There was no telling what whitey would end up doing to this label that had its credibility firmly on the streets that they promised to uphold, so yeah, it was entirely believable that this album could have been forgotten, especially if someone else was running its getaway car.

They would have chopped it up into box sets, setting categories for each disc (“No Vaseline” for Disc Beef while “Murder Was The Case” fell with Disc five-o).

They would have added bonus tracks or ‘recently found’ 2Pac rhymes.

They would have removed that awesome family portrait painting from the fold-out cover.

Although I’m sure that the record found its way back into print, thereby ending Brad’s theory of a rare commodity (who knows, comment if you know if this record is worth anything in its original state) while leaving me with an unequaled cornerstone, not just for Death Row, but for any self-respecting record collector looking for square one when it comes to West Coast Rap of the 1990’s.

It’s a bargain even at full price.

Neil Diamond - The Bang Years 1966-1968

Looking back on my youth, I remember my father getting all worked up about Neil Diamond’s Hot August Night album, declaring it to be one of the best live albums ever. I’ve yet to obtain a copy to see if his assessment was right, but I’ll agree that he was pretty spot on with a similar critique of Live At Leeds.

All of his talk about Neil Diamond heightened during the time when he tapped Robbie Robertson to man the controls for Beautiful Noise. My dad was certain that the pairing would turn out as legendary as it must have looked on paper.

After he played it, I had a chance to sample it for myself. During this time, Aerosmith was the shit, as was Humble Pie, Peter Frampton, Alice Cooper, and those legendary artists that dad turned me on to when I was first transfixed with the shitty turntable in my bedroom.

For me, Beautiful Noise was so tepid that I began to understand Diamond’s appeal was isolated to generations that were older than me-like my father. I didn’t question my father’s authority about what was good in music, but I had begun to establish my own grounds as to what I felt was good.

For me, the quality of good depended on one thing: a talkbox. Aerosmith used one on “Toys In The Attic.” Joe Walsh whipped one out for “Rocky Mountain Way.” And Peter Frampton used one to ask us if we felt like he did.

I don’t remember Diamond bringing out a talkbox, so maybe that was the problem.

At the same time, I don’t think there’s a person on earth who can resist Neil Diamond’s early pop landmarks. It was after all of that Brill Building assembly line work, when Diamond began to enjoy the spoils of his art and write songs about seagulls, immigration and alien Muppet characters with healing powers.

Can you blame me for completely dismissing Diamonds talents? And with a recent comeback attempt-a “comeback” from what I don’t clearly understand as he’s logged well over three decades of immensely popular tours with that aforementioned fan base-stuck in the mud thanks to some shortsighted label product that acts like a flesh-eating virus on your computer, I still could safely keep Neil Diamond’s output in the North Miami Beach Retirement Village’s record collection and not have to deal with him.

But the fucker goes out and finally gets the issues with his old label resolved just as the world is preparing to kiss the cd format goodbye forever. So yeah, The Bang Years is a last effort cash-in before the whole shithouse goes up in flames, lending what young Neil Diamond fans there are left to scrounge around for free bits on the internet, lending Diamond to continue his Hot August Night revivals well into his 70’s and under the assistance of a Rascal scooter.

Don’t misconstrue my cynicism as attack on the material presented on The Bang Years. This is easily a five-star collection that deserves a place in everyone’s home, even those smartass critics who were happy when the family cocker spaniel puked on the cover of Beautiful Noise causing their father to pitch the record in disgust.

My resentment comes from the amount of time it took in releasing this gem and is yet another example of how the chickens have certainly come home to roost in terms of record label greed and their moronic leadership who couldn’t get their shit together enough to lend a hand in getting a comprehensive compilation together for younger generations to examine.

Regardless, it’s a blessing that they have, presenting Diamond’s whirlwind two year tenure with Bang! Records in full monophonic glory that the songs will fart from your earbuds in much the same way they must have from shitty car speakers during their first proclamation.

In other words, as good as this music is, it ain’t the type to split hairs over fidelity and separation. Save that shit for the Jonathan Living Seagull MOR schlock that came after Uni and Columbia records noticed Diamond’s money-making services with the shuffleboard set and Martini & Rossi housewives.

This is tight, concise pop music, composed with purpose and drive (Diamond had a newborn to support at the time) delivered with a sense of urgency that made it hard to resist. The added focus worked as Diamond finally began to chart some of his own success with these songs when other artists didn’t cover them to their own advantage.
One of the immediate things you’ll notice is Diamond’s impeccable use of rhythm, from the double-time acoustic rhythms that serve as high-hats to the rhythmic handclaps (like on “Cherry Cherry”) that immediately serve as hip-shaking stimuli. It’s a glorious urban day throughout this material, and the course of his two sole long-players for Bang Are over quickly, giving you the added pleasure of starting over to recapture the joy that was inexcusably gone for far too long

The Bang Years will change your mind about Neil Diamond, or at least tolerate the adult contemporary schmaltz that came after his brief tenure at the label. Will it make you sing along with drunk strangers during the eighth inning at Fenway, tolerate even the most gaudy of sequined jacket he dons, or find you agreeing to the declaration of “I Am…I Said?”

Maybe not. But you’ll understand every bit of adulation and find yourself on the right side of history when it comes time to chart this man’s impressive tenure.

Father does knows best as it turned out. He just didn’t have enough sense to start me out on the very same place that Diamond began with: the two-and-a-half minute pop song.

Fleetwood Mac - Rumors

I can’t listen to Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors objectively and you can blame my parents for this.

There was a period between 1976 and 1979 where my parents probably listened to only a half-dozen albums and Rumors would most certainly be at the top of that list.

I enjoyed the album at the time of its release, and I enjoyed the pleasure that it brought my parents as they played their vinyl version to death, even after our dog puked on the cover, leaving a stain on its beige cover forever after.

But there became a point where the optimism of “Don’t Stop” leads me to consider affirmatively to the band’s coos of “don’tcha look back.”

I would indeed, never look back on this overplayed relic of my youth, and it most certainly contributed to fueling my own musical independence, in which I would spin some of the most parent-hated music I could find.

Years later, I began a process of trying to reclaim some of the albums that I had purposefully banished, and Rumors was indeed, one of those records.

And while I tolerated it, especially when my live-in girlfriend at the time became drawn to it with a “Wow, this is a really good record!” type of enthusiasm, undoubtedly free from the record burn that yours truly experienced.

I let it go. Figuratively and literally. I let the album to play again in my apartment with her, and I let her take it with her when she moved out.

Forward on to a few years ago when Warner Brothers records could see that nobody was buying cds anymore and they began repackaging some of their most popular titles as “deluxe” editions, complete with demos, alternate takes, you know, the shit that geeks like me love to obsess over.

I noticed that they had done this treatment to Rumors and knowing that Lindsey Buckingham is a frigging genius and friggin’ geniuses are perfect fodder for “deluxe” editions, I once again put this album on my radar.

Joy of joys when I received some kind of discount for the only record store left in our town (Best Buy), to which I happily walked into that shitty, big box world to spend my fake money on a cd.

I considered Rumors for a moment, that is, until I saw what price tag our normally low-priced big box store had on the deluxe edition of this classic album. The price tag came to around thirty bucks, a price that I felt was too exorbitant to pay on an album that I had already bought previously and one who’s only difference was that it included the shit that they worked on to make it a near-perfect pop album masterpiece.

That’s right, in terms of this review: Rumors is a fucking masterpiece, go out and buy it for fucks sake if you haven’t already. We’ve gotten beyond that acknowledgement, regardless of the cue-burn that my family instilled on the album’s legacy for me.

Long story short, I didn’t feel like paying Warner Brothers an extra $30 for demos, outtakes, and all of the behind-the-scenes stuff that led to the album being a no-brainer.

And yet ends another tale of why record companies are stupid douchebags who burned the bridges of their most loyal customers so much that I’m encouraging anyone who hasn’t illegally downloaded their own copy of Fleetwood Mac’s deluxe edition of Rumors to do so immediately.

It’s a fan’s wet dream, maybe not worthy of the $30 price tag, but definitely half-of that if you’re looking to acquire it legitimately. Even with pictures, liner notes, or any of the physical detail that I would have loved to spend time with, the magic is within the music and you can see just how awesome Buckingham is even when he’s working on the skeleton arrangements of what would become one of the most successful pop albums of all time.

The beginning acoustic structures of “Never Going Back Again” show how underrated of a guitarist Lindsey is, while the final mix demonstrates his knack at arrangements.

The outtake of “Songbird” shows that, perhaps, every take they got through on the day of recording was probably just as good as the released version, and the same is true with some of the demo recordings too.

Hell, even when Fleetwood Mac was farting around, like they were with the basic blue rehearsal titled “For Duster,” they were a better band than most could claim to have even after a few years of rehearsing.

Which is exactly why Rumors is so great. Even in the face of personal adversity and improper excesses, the band was good enough when it counted to keep it together and focus long enough to create one of the undisputable masterpieces of pop music.

Just keep it away from my parents.

Fleet Foxes - Helplessness Blues

Make no mistake; the hype that you’ve been hearing about this record is fleeting.

This is a record that will outlive its hype, and all the pretention and petty name-calling will fall by the wayside, while future music fans will merely pick up Helplessness Blues based on its merits alone, seeking the same beauty they’ve heard from samples, other’s collections, and perhaps from reviews like this.

To be honest, I could care less if this review prompts you to check out the material. The Fleet Foxes' second album is so unassumingly wonderful that to scream its tactful brilliance would counteract what makes it so good. This is music you stroll into, and by cozying up to it in such a shy fashion, you begin to hear how perfectly the vocals and harmonies are. You hear how intricate the baroque arrangements and acoustic guitars are. There’s a few other instruments at times, and steady timbres of what sound like basic percussion instruments.

It all fits together perfectly.

Helplessness Blues will end up becoming one of those generational touchstones, an acoustic Nevermind for the kids who fight back with hollowbodys instead of Big Muffs. The same feelings, uncertainties and newfound realizations are happening, but leader Robin Peckhold isn’t screaming back with the years of family neglect and broken homes. In fact, he’s cool with the both of them, considering the years of coddling that both of them probably provided.

“I was raised up believin’/I was somehow unique,” he explains on the title track, “And now after some thinkin’/I’d say I’d rather be/A functioning cog in some great machinery/Serving something beyond me.”

Do you know how long it took me to realize that for myself? And I’m betting that I’ve got well over a decade on this dude!

“How could I dream of such a selfless and true love?/Could I wash my hands of just looking out for me?” Peckhold asks on “Montezuma.” He understands that-up until now-all of this, including the grandeur of the record he’s just created, means very little when you stack it against the joy and hardship of starting a family, building a human relationship, and connecting with another person in a world that’s wired to do the exact opposite.

I think they call someone who’s young, but is able to handle such perspective an “old soul.” Peckhold certainly seems like a good candidate for that designation, but for me he’s demonstrated that-despite the defeated record title presented with Helplessness Blues, the kids are better than alright.