The guzheng was born in China over 2500 years ago. Originally made out of bamboo and silk strings, the instrument became very popular in the imperial court during the Qin period (221 to 206 BCE), and by the Tang Dynasty (618 CE to 907 CE), it was perhaps the most popular instrument in China. According to the San Francisco Guzheng Music Society, it remained popular through the late Qing dynasty (1644 A.D. – 1911 A.D.) and into the 20th century, when, in 1948, “the renowned musician Cao Zheng established the first university level guzheng program” in the country, and the “old silk strings were replaced with nylon strings, which are still being used today.”
In the estimation of most long-time Yes fans, Rick Wakeman would be considered part of the band’s “classic” lineup–the keyboard player they’d most like to see manning the Moog if they were to put money down to see the band live.
Wakeman’s contributions to pop also include the atmospheric Mellotron on David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” and the sublime piano on Cat Stevens’ “Morning Has Broken”.
But in addition to his musical contributions, he’s pretty well-known for leaving bands too. He bolted from Strawbs in 1971 when Chris Squire invited him to join Yes. And he left Yes on several occasions for various reasons.
In 1973 ambitious rock acts like Yes were enjoying a boom in terms of popularity–and income. Prog magazine writer Mike Barnes picks up the story:
But although Wakeman might have been a young musician who was, in his own words ‘riding a wave’ with no idea when it might break, in 1973 the money started to pour in. “Suddenly the band was earning enough money for someone to collect your suitcase in the morning,” he reminisces. “I thought: ‘Bloody hell, what’s going on?'”
Wakeman feels that this new-found wealth had adverse effects on Yes and contributed to the disaffection he felt with Tales from Topographic Oceans, which resulted in him leaving the group for the first time in 1974.
“That was a difficult time. Because if a band is earning so much money that it can do anything it wants, that power is really dangerous,” Wakeman admits. “We had an interesting situation with Topographic Oceans. From pre-orders we already knew we had a
Number One album (In England. The record peaked at number 6 in America). We had enough material for an album and a bit, so we could either reduce it or add to it and the vote went in favour of adding to it. But most of the additional material was made up in the studio–and it was a lot of padding.
“That annoyed me because I said: ‘Listen guys, there are some great melodies and sounds, what’s all this crap that’s going on there–a percussion thing”?’ It was a mixture of everyone’s banging drums, which went on for an eternity. I was going: ‘What the fuck’s all that about”‘ They were going: ‘That’s another six minutes, lads!’ And I’m going: ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no’. I ended up really hating the album because of that and because the more I said I hated it, the more said they loved it.
“Jon (Anderson) and I have discussed this numerous times at length and we both agree that if the CD had been available back then we wouldn’t have had the problem, because the album would have been 60 minutes long.”
Tales from Topographic Oceans was the most ambitious (slash pompous) release of the band’s career–possibly the most ambitious of any band’s career: it was comprised of four album-side length songs, which Wakeman disliked performing live because of the time it took away from playing their more popular material. It was after this tour that Wakeman departed from Yes.
He’d return for the albums Going for the One and Tormato, which has the following amusing story attached to it (quoting Wikipedia):
The original album title was to be Yes Tor, referring to a geological formation in southern England. The photographs taken by Hipgnosis for the album cover were seen as so unimpressive that Rick Wakeman, in frustration, threw a tomato at the pictures. The cover and title were adjusted accordingly.
Wakeman is correct in his assessment that Tales from Topographic Oceans contains some beautiful bits of music, which perhaps remain undiscovered by the band’s more casual fans due to being buried within non-radio friendly 18-to-20-minute pieces. The edits below extract two such highlights:
“The Ancient: Giants Under the Sun” (2:22 edit)
“The Revealing Science of God: Dance of the Dawn” (8:17 edit)
No sane person disputes the fact that in the 1960’s the Beatles ruled supreme in the world of pop music. And in the decade that followed their break-up no single act really dominated the landscape in the same way–or has to this day, for that matter.
But a topic of some fascination to me is this: who came closest? Which 70’s artists’ work showed that type of originality, musical genius and popular appeal in the greatest measure? I’d love to hear your comments on this subject. I originally intended to list a top three, or even a top five. But I feel it’s a sharp drop off after these two.
Let the argument begin!
1. Stevie Wonder
If you write “Tik Tok”, “Gangnam Style”, “Rockin’ in the Free World” or “The Safety Dance”, you might have a hit. So much can depend on factors such as marketing, an artist’s charisma in the performance of the song, a viral video, the prevailing political climate, or…the inexplicable. (Hence every Dave Matthews hit song)
If, on the other hand, you write “My Cherie Amour”, it depends on no such ephemera, and there’s nowhere for it to hide.
To illustrate the point: this blog features a series of posts called “Songs You May Have Missed”. As part of the criteria for a song to be included here, it (generally) has to have missed the top 40. As much a point of pride as it is for me to seek out and give exposure to great, relatively unknown songs, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a “Song You May Have Missed” of the caliber of “You Are the Sunshine of my Life”. Classics don’t miss. And you don’t miss them.
Just as the Beatles wrote songs that were among their era’s closest thing to the Cole Porter/Jerome Kern/George and Ira Gershwin standards, Stevie Wonder wrote at least a handful that stand inarguably as classics. And like the Fab Four, Stevie created several albums (Fulfillingness’ First Finale, Innervisions, Songs in the Key of Life) that made relevant statements on topical social issues of the day, all while producing multiple hit singles and never sacrificing beautiful melody or the funk factor.
“My Cherie Amour”
“You Are the Sunshine of My Live”
Carole King deserves mention by this criteria and would perhaps merit inclusion on this list had she sustained the singular creative burst that was the incomparable Tapestry album. There’s no questioning the classic status of songs like “It’s Too Late” and “You’ve Got a Friend”.
2. Elton John
Read the following lyrics, which were presumably handed to Elton on a piece of paper by his lyricist Bernie Taupin:
When are you gonna come down? When are you going to land? I should have stayed on the farm I should have listened to my old man
You know you can’t hold me forever I didn’t sign up with you I’m not a present for your friends to open This boy’s too young to be singing the blues
Now, listen to them:
The magic of Elton John–at least in his heyday–was that he was the only man who could have coaxed that melody out of those eight fairly linear lyric lines, and sent it sailing into the stratosphere on the last word. Had any of the rest of us been given the job of setting those words to music, we could never have come up with something so gorgeous, imaginative and original.
Elton’s best songs didn’t feel like classic tin pan alley the way that Stevie Wonder’s (and Carole King’s) did. They felt like something fresh, modern and a little exotic, though by now most of us have heard them so many times it’s difficult to re-create the moment when they first blew our minds.
“Rocket Man”
3. Um, no one.
The rest of the top ten singles artists of the 70’s (Elton John is number one and Stevie Wonder number eight) include:
Paul McCartney
Bee Gees
Carpenters
Chicago
The Jackson 5
James Brown
Neil Diamond
Elvis Presley
It seems to me all can be disqualified for lacking one or more important trait the Beatles possessed–either “cultural” relevance, a diverse audience, or diversity of music. (And I disqualified Paul for being a former Beatle–seems like cheating).
My conclusion, obviously, is that no 70’s pop singer or band made nearly the impact–artistically, commercially or culturally–that the Beatles made in the 60’s. Even their seemingly short 8-year existence as recording artists (compared to the Beach Boys or the Rolling Stones’ run of 50 years or so) is actually much longer than the heyday of Elton John, whose years of true greatness extend, in my humble opinion, only from about 1971 through ’73. Stevie Wonder’s period of sustained excellence was about equal to the Beatles strictly in terms of years, though he can’t match them in terms of sheer number of songs that rate as “classic”, “beloved”, “influential” or whatever word you use to describe greatness.
Have I overlooked or snubbed anyone? What do you think?
The previous post collects the advice of 25 music icons (well, 24 “icons” and Courtney Love) to aspiring musicians. I thought it timely that English progressive rock band Big Big Train released this promo video today, as it seems to be the keynote address and simple summation of that post.
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Big Big Train were named Prog Magazine‘s Breakthrough Act of the Year for 2013 and are a favorite of this blog. Check out “Judas Unrepentant”, which I happen to think is one of the most brilliant prog songs of recent vintage:
If you do not believe in Captain Beefheart, I doubt the 1974 Old Grey Whistle Test appearance above will convert you. If you are a Beefheart believer, you know. And if you don’t know where you stand on Beefheart, get to know this wild-eyed rock and roll shaman, poet, bluesman, painter, and childhood friend of Frank Zappa. (Start with his fairly straightforward take on Delta blues and sixties garage rock, 1967′s Safe as Milk.)
Beefheart’s Magic Band, a shifting collection of musicians that initially included Ry Cooder (who served as something of a musical director) created some of the most warped music of the last few decades, much of it very recognizably blues-based and much of it (such as the freak outs on Beefheart’s Trout Mask Replica) occupying a space all its own—a space that only exists, really, in Captain Beefheart’s head and heart. While Beefheart acquired a reputation as an uncompromising, and singularly demanding, employer of musicians, speaking as a musician, there are few others that I wish I’d had the chance to play with in their heyday.
Despite his demonically inspired weirdness and storied difficulty, what attracted musicians to Beefheart was his ability to push concepts so far beyond the bounds of intelligibility so as to make insanity make perfect sense. Take, for example, his list of instructions, or rather “commandments,” issued to Moris Tepper when the guitarist joined Beefheart’s band in 1976. This is not an obnoxious practical joke—it is the technique of a Zen master, disorienting his student with nonsensical truths mixed in with some very practical advice. Which one is which is for the student to decide.
Captain Beefheart’s “Ten Commandments of Guitar Playing”
1. Listen to the birds
That’s where all the music comes from. Birds know everything about how it should sound and where that sound should come from. And watch hummingbirds. They fly really fast, but a lot of times they aren’t going anywhere.
2. Your guitar is not really a guitar.
Your guitar is a divining rod. Use it to find spirits in the other world and bring them over. A guitar is also a fishing rod. If you’re good, you’ll land a big one.
3. Practice in front of a bush.
Wait until the moon is out, then go outside, eat a multi-grained bread and play your guitar to a bush. If the bush doesn’t shake, eat another piece of bread.
4. Walk with the devil.
Old Delta blues players referred to guitar amplifiers as the “devil box.” And they were right. You have to be an equal opportunity employer in terms of who you’re brining over from the other side. Electricity attracts devils and demons. Other instruments attract other spirits. An acoustic guitar attracts Casper. A mandolin attracts Wendy. But an electric guitar attracts Beelzebub.
5. If you’re guilty of thinking, you’re out.
If your brain is part of the process, you’re missing it. You should play like a drowning man, struggling to reach shore. If you can trap that feeling, then you have something that is fur bearing.
6. Never point your guitar at anyone.
Your instrument has more clout than lightning. Just hit a big chord then run outside to hear it. But make sure you are not standing in an open field.
7. Always carry a church key.
That’s your key-man clause. Like One String Sam. He’s one. He was a Detroit street musician who played in the fifties on a homemade instrument. His song “I Need a Hundred Dollars” is warm pie. Another key to the church is Hubert Sumlin, Howlin’ Wolf’s guitar player. He just stands there like the Statue of Liberty — making you want to look up her dress the whole time to see how he’s doing it.
8. Don’t wipe the sweat off your instrument.
You need that stink on there. Then you have to get that stink onto your music.
9. Keep your guitar in a dark place.
When you’re not playing your guitar, cover it and keep it in a dark place. If you don’t play your guitar for more than a day, be sure you put a saucer of water in with it.
10. You gotta have a hood for your engine.
Keep that hat on. A hat is a pressure cooker. If you have a roof on your house, the hot air can’t escape. Even a lima bean has to have a piece of wet paper around it to make it grow.
Singer/songwriter Warren Zevon died of lung cancer ten years ago tomorrow. I remember the day of his passing well, but at the time I was a little baffled by the enormous number of tributes to the musician, who I vaguely thought of (stupidly) as a novelty songwriter vaguely associated with the L.A. soft rock scene. How wrong I was. I arrived at the Zevon party late, but I finally showed up, and came to understand why almost every musician from the seventies and eighties that I admire deeply admires Warren Zevon and his hardbitten, witty, and unsentimental narrative style. There’s so much Zevon in so many troubadours I love: Joe Jackson, Tom Waits, Springsteen. Always on the cusp of stardom but never quite a star like peers and former roommates Lindsey Buckingham, Stevie Nicks, and Jackson Browne, Zevon was nevertheless one of the most well-regarded writers of the L.A. rock scene. Whether it was his misanthropic commitment to his cynicism—as Allmusic describes his personality—that sidelined him or his struggles with acute alcoholism isn’t entirely clear, but he always had his champions among critics and peers alike.
In addition to the aforementioned luminaries, Zevon’s career was boosted by members of R.E.M., with whom he recorded under the name Hindu Love Gods, and—most visibly and consistently—by David Letterman, who had a twenty year relationship with Zevon as his guest and sometime substitute band leader. At the top of the post, you can see Zevon’s final appearance on Letterman’s show. The two attempt light banter but lapse occasionally into awkward pauses as they discuss Zevon’s diagnosis. The talk is frank and filled with mordant wit, as was Zevon’s way, and Letterman confesses he’s astounded at his longtime friend’s ability to keep his sense of humor. When Letterman asks Zevon if he’s learned something Dave doesn’t know about life and death, Zevon responds with the endlessly quotable line, “not unless I know how much you’re supposed to enjoy every sandwich.” In the clip above, watch one of Zevon’s final performances on the same show. He plays the powerful ballad “Mutineer,” a song with a fitting epitaph for Zevon’s life: “ain’t no room on board for the insincere.”
And in the clip above, see Zevon’s first appearance on Letterman in 1982, playing “Excitable Boy” and “The Overdraft.” Watching these early and late performances, I’m baffled again—this time by why Warren Zevon wasn’t a major star. But it doesn’t matter. Those who know his work, including nearly every major singer/songwriter of the last forty years, know how amazing he was. For more of Zevon’s amazingness, check out this full 1982 concert film from an appearance in Passaic, New Jersey. And please, remember to enjoy every sandwich.
Every Moment Has A Song 