"The Sahara of Snow" is from the amazing drummer Bill Bruford's album "One of a Kind," a recording that I almost wore out in my car's old cassette deck (yeah, I drive a very old car, and I have very old recordings on cassettes, and I feel no guilt about this). This melody is quoted very nicely in a recording by a faux group named Stanley Snail on a Yes tribute album. Their cover of the Yes song "Siberian Khatru" is as good as the original, and in some ways...dare I say it...a little better. Check out the Bruford track first, then listen to the middle break in Khatru. You prog fans will be pleased, I think.
Bruford's group includes:
Bill Bruford - Drums and Percussion
Jeff Berlin - Bass and Vocals
Allan Holdsworth - Guitar
Dave Stewart - Keyboards and Synthesizers
Stanley Snail's lineup includes:
Nick D'Virgilio - Drums, High Vocals
Mike Keneally - Guitars, Mid Vocals
Kevin Gilbert - Keyboards, Low Vocals
Bryan Beller - Bass
Enjoy the rest of your Saturday, or whatever day you happen to find yourself inhabiting.
George Martin, legendaty producer who often was referred to as the "fifth Beatle" has died.
From the story at The Rundown:
George Martin, longtime producer for English rock band the Beatles, died peacefully at his home Tuesday, his manager confirmed in a statement.
Beatles drummer Ringo Starr was among the first to pay tribute on
Twitter. “Thank you for all your love and kindness George peace and
love,” he wrote. British Prime Minister David Cameron called Martin a
“giant of music.”
George Martin, longtime producer for English rock band the Beatles, died peacefully at his home Tuesday, his manager confirmed in a statement.
Beatles drummer Ringo Starr was among the first to pay tribute on
Twitter. “Thank you for all your love and kindness George peace and
love,” he wrote. British Prime Minister David Cameron called Martin a
“giant of music.”
I fell in love with Joni Mitchell's music the first time I heard her songs. Maybe it was her lyrics, those words that could be simple expressions, melancholy explorations, playful banter or somewhat cryptic metaphor as her style became more and more evocative and less direct.
Maybe it was her music. Mitchell was a folk musician in her early days, but as she grew musically, one style wasn't quite enough to help her say what she needed to say. A guitarist with a penchant for finding new ways to play, she is said to have become accomplished in more than 50 alternate tunings. And she was a musical explorer who found jazz...or jazz found her...and it was a good fit.
But I don't remember which of her songs was the one I heard first, the one that caught my attention all those years ago, because two always come to mind. It could have been "Both Sides Now," a beautiful, almost ethereal song that uses the imagery of clouds as a metaphor for how aspects of life become visible, then obscured, and how we never really get a clear view of life as long as these "clouds" drift in and out of view. Life seen as a series of transient moments, perhaps. Her most frequently covered song, one of the most enduring versions is performed by Judy Collins.
This was the first hit song written by Joni Mitchell, whose version appeared on her 1969 album Clouds. Mitchell recalled: "I was reading Saul Bellow's Henderson the Rain King on a plane and early in the book Henderson the Rain King is also up in a plane. He's on his way to Africa and he looks down and sees these clouds. I put down the book, looked out the window and saw clouds too, and I immediately started writing the song. I had no idea that the song would become as popular as it did."
Then again, it could have been "Big Yellow Taxi." The bouncy pop melody provides an almost ironic counterpoint to the wistful, somewhat sardonic lyric that ultimately takes a look at loss from more than one point of view. The phrase "...you don't know what you've got till it's gone" repeats throughout the song, and it begins to sound less like a lament and more like a warning.
Mitchell (from a 1996 interview with the Los Angeles Times): "I wrote 'Big Yellow Taxi' on my first trip to Hawaii. I took a taxi to the hotel and when I woke up the next morning, I threw back the curtains and saw these beautiful green mountains in the distance. Then, I looked down and there was a parking lot as far as the eye could see, and it broke my heart... this blight on paradise. That's when I sat down and wrote the song."
Joni Mitchell hasn't performed in a very long time. Years of smoking took her voice, a voice that slipped easily into a supple soprano in her youth, a voice that settled into a dusky, expressive alto in her middle years. A few years back, she began to suffer from a painful skin condition called Morgellons disease, which according to the Mayo Clinic is "...an uncommon, unexplained skin disorder characterized by sores, crawling sensations on and under the skin, and fiber-like filaments emerging from the sores. It's not certain what these strings are. Some say they are wisps of cotton thread, probably coming from clothing or bandages. Others say they result from an infectious process in the skin cells. Further study is needed." That disease led her to become a virtual hermit, venturing out from her Los Angeles home only occasionally for visits to her family in Canada.
And then, she suffered a brain aneurysm last spring. Reports suggest that her health has improved since, but information seems spotty at best, and we can only wonder and hope for the best.
But her days of performing are now behind her. It's time now to rest and heal.
In the end, it really doesn't really matter which of those wonderful tunes came first, since they both led me to the same wonderful source. Joni Mitchell's music has been a bit part of my life for many years, and I can't imagine a perfect world without her music being a part of it.
In a perfect world, King's X would be a multi-platinum band packing in sold-out crowds at the biggest auditoriums worldwide. They would be getting tons of airplay and the band would grace the covers of hundreds of publications. The late night talk shows would have them on speed-dial.
But King's X has never been that kind of band. That would have required them to compromise their vision and their musical integrity. These guys are road warriors who still work the club circuit, having garnered critical acclaim early in their careers as they continue to maintain their long-standing reputation as a "band's band." The general public may be unaware of them, but ask almost any musician if they know about King's X.
Few hard rock bands are as widely respected yet criminally overlooked as King's X. The trio (bassist/vocalist Doug Pinnick, guitarist/vocalist Ty Tabor, and drummer/vocalist Jerry Gaskill) seemed destined for the big time with their irresistible blend of melodic Beatlesque harmonies, metallic riffing, and prog rock detours, yet for reasons unknown, never truly broke through to a mainstream audience. Pinnick (b. September 3, 1950) first met Gaskill (b. December 27, 1957) when the duo was touring with the Christian rock outfit Petra, and soon after, met up-and-coming guitarist Tabor (b. September 17, 1961). The trio joined forces in 1980 with the Top 40 cover band the Edge and thoroughly played the Missouri bar scene. By 1983, the band had changed its name to Sneak Preview and was now completely focusing on original compositions -- resulting in an obscure and very hard to find self-titled debut album released around this time.
Sneak Preview were offered a recording contract in 1985 if they relocated to Houston, TX, which they did, but the deal failed to materialize. Undeterred, the trio continued on and perfected its sound and songwriting further, catching a break when ZZ Top video producer Sam Taylor took the group under his wing, helping it secure a recording contract with New York's Megaforce label in 1987, and suggesting that the band change its name to King's X (the name of a local outfit that Taylor was an admirer of back in his high-school days).
In 1988, King's X released their debut album, Out of the Silent Planet. Despite praise among critics, the public didn't know exactly what to make of the group's original and multiple genre-encompassing style, and the album sank without a trace. But with the band's sophomore release, 1989's classic Gretchen Goes to Nebraska, a buzz began to develop around King's X in the metal community...
I discovered the group in college. A classmate in one of my journalism classes and I were talking music in the newsroom one day, and he mentioned that, given my taste, I'd probably like this band called King's X.
"Who?"
"King's X."
"What style do they play?"
He thought for a moment. "It's kinda hard to explain. It's metal, but it's really melodic at the same time. I could bring in a cassette if you wanna hear 'em."
"Yeah, I do want to hear them. Bring it in."
The next day, he handed me a copy of the band's first album "Out of the Silent Planet."
Ty Tabor - guitar and vocals
"Here you go," he said. "I think you're gonna like this album."
"Well, they named their recording after a C.S. Lewis novel, so points for that."
He grinned. "Let me know what you think."
After classes, I took the recording back home to my apartment, cued up the stereo, and slipped the tape into my player.
Wow.
"In the New Age" was a killer lead-off track. A swirl of sound...random guitar notes processed through delays and echoes, along with bits and pieces of cymbal percussion, all of it building until it gives way to a power trio chugging out a decidedly-metallic groove.
Doug Pinnick - bass and vocals
xAnd then, the vocals. Guitarist Ty Tabor, bassist Doug (AKA dUg) Pinnick and drummer Jerry Gaskill blended together for some of tightest, sweetest harmonies this side of Crosby, Stills and Nash, with a similar feel. It was a vocal sound that shouldn't have worked in the aggressive musical context playing behind it. Yet it worked in fantastic ways.
I was blown away, I continued to be blown away with each song that followed. Tabor's guitar playing was nothing less than inspired...his chunky rhythm work would give way to his soaring solos that took each song to great places. And that voice. It was the voice of a choirboy that should have been out of place, yet it never was.
Pinnick's bass work was amazing. He had a tone unlike any bass sound I've ever heard, before or since. It was a metallic growl that held down the bottom end, yet provided enough definition to let everyone know where he was going. He was in charge. His voice was much more rock-and-roll to my ears, edgy and soulful. Years later, Deep Purple would ask him to become the band's lead vocalist. He declined and stayed with King's X.
Jerry Gaskill - drums and vocals
Gaskill's drumming was spot-on, laser-focused and full of dynamics, since the band's style was nothing if not a wonderful exhibition of dynamics. He could be aggressive when the song called for it, then shift on a dime to something much more laid-back (yet still in the pocket), all the while providing a third voice to round out the harmonies.
With one album and one afternoon, I became a huge fan of a band I'd only heard about a day earlier. Their style was always a bit hard to figure...I've heard it described as an amalgam of progressive metal, funk and soul, with vocals that combine elements of 1960s-era British invasion, blues and gospel...their earliest recorded songs actually did have a sort of spiritual feel, whether intentional or not.
These days I have almost everything they've recorded, and they are still one of the most consistently excellent and fascinating groups that I've had the pleasure to hear.
Today's track comes from the album "Ear Candy," the band's sixth album.
Editor's note: Here's one of those promised sporadic appearances of. ...in a perfect world. Enjoy.
Standing on the highway My pants around my knees I'd write her name out on the road But I can't piss Denise
With a lyric like that, you might expect a novelty song romp. You'd be wrong. Very wrong. "Grim" lives up to the image that title invokes. This is a dark song that reflects a lot of pain and hurt expressed by a man struggling to understand how he lost his true love to Jesus.
Not that they didn't have their novelty song moments. The Ass Ponys song ":Little Bastard" fits that bill, and it was the infectiously catchy hit single that elevated them to mainstream status. But the Ponys were a much smarter band than one single might imply. Frontman Chuck Cleaver's songs were vignettes depicting folks on the fringes, misfits who didn't quite fit in, who didn't really want to fit in. And his wordplay was/is wonderfully evocative as the band shifts effortlessly from an acoustic, alt-country-style vibe into jarring rock clamour.
The Ass Ponys made their return in November to play their first shows in over a decade at the Woodward Theater in Cincinnati.
Mark David Stewart and Bryan Pfahl grew up in Hanna, Alberta, a farm-and-oil town of less than 3,000 people that is not without a certain musical pedigree. “There’s a famous Canadian rock band from there,” Stewart explains. “We don’t want to give them any press, but they start with an ‘N,’ end with a ‘K,’ and have ‘ICKELBAC’ in the middle.”
An indie singer-songwriter himself, Stewart tends toward more refined fare than the music of his fellow former prairie-dwellers, who are often cited as the world’s most hated band (go ahead, just Google “Nickelback” and “hate”). His heroes include John Prine, Nick Cave, Richard Thompson, and Cincinnati’s own Chuck Cleaver. A friend played Stewart Ass Ponys’ breakthrough third album, Electric Rock Music, soon after it came out on A&M Records in 1994, and Cleaver’s songs and worldview struck a chord.
Which is why, on the first weekend of November, Stewart and Pfahl travelled from Calgary to Cincinnati to see Ass Ponys play two sold-out nights at the Woodward Theater in Over-the-Rhine: the band’s first shows in over a decade.
The pilgrimage was not unnoticed by the band. “Y’all are motherfuckers,” Cleaver said from the stage on Night One. “Man, you came from everywhere to see us.” Pause. “I wouldn’t come!”
It was a hero’s welcome straight from Cleaver’s irascible, profane heart. Drummer David Morrison snapped a phone picture from behind his kit before the band had even played a note, and the crowd instantly revved into call-and-response mode for the set opener, “Hey Swifty,” the first song on the band’s first album, 1990’s Mr. Superlove. It was also a far cry from the band’s denouement, when they were quietly gigging around town, several years removed from their last record (2001’s Lohio), until they simply stopped booking shows and Cleaver turned his attentions elsewhere. The four aren’t even 100 percent certain when and where they played for the last time. “I have a piss poor memory for which shows and where but the other guys think it was some shitty club down on Main Street,” says Cleaver. “I do remember that there was hardly anyone there.”
But that’s how band reunions go. You play your last show terribly and/or with little fanfare, then return years later to find pent-up demand, rekindled sparks, and an upgraded, upsized venue filled with people of a certain age out past their bedtime, some of them trying not to spill that rare third beer onto their tucked-in shirts or blazer, others with fingers pointing and fists in the air like at a Springsteen or Guided By Voices show. “For a bunch of introverts, this is the weirdest thing in the world,” Cleaver said at one point from up on stage, before adding: “You’re probably introverts too.”
Bruford's group includes:
