“All that glitters is gold/Only shootin’ stars break the mold” is a true jumblefuck of mixed metaphors that never sat well with me. That said, if you think “Disney soundtrack lightweights” when you think of Smash Mouth, you probably missed part of the picture.
Prior even to “Walkin’ On the Sun” beginning it’s stupefying 60-week chart stranglehold in July of ’97, I took a flyer on their debut album based on a review in Goldmine magazine.
Come to think of it, that’s also where I read about Barenaked Ladies’ debut Gordon album, and liked them way before it was…uh…
Anyway, “Walkin’ On the Sun ” was the only song from Fush Yu Mang to grace the American pop charts, although a cover of War’s “Why Can’t We Be Friends” did make a dent in the Alternative top 40. Within a year, the follow-up LP was out and there were no further efforts to cull singles from the debut. Not that there were any more hits, but there were, in my opinion, some very entertaining songs that deserved wider exposure.
I think.
The one necessary caveat is that the “Walkin’ On the Sun” isn’t representative of the album. Smash Mouth was a ska-punk band at this stage; the evolution to their signature catchy, farfisa-drenched retro pop sound was basically complete by the second album. But what we have with Fush Yu‘s album tracks is trashy hyperactive ska with sly, rapid-fire lyrics that are worth a replay if you don’t catch them on first listen.
“Pet Names” tells of a love affair gone stale through the lens of those cutesy love “handles”. “Padrino” takes a cheeky poke at the mob. “Disconnect the Dots” has riffs galore, and makes me wonder if someone put a bunch of pills in Herb Alpert’s espresso and invited him to play along.
It may be too late to revise your opinion of the band; or maybe you like the sound of “I’m a Believer” Smash Mouth better. That’s certainly valid. But I think it’s worth knowing that before they made that right turn onto Main Street, they careened breathlessly through some relatively interesting neighborhoods–places where Shrek definitely wouldn’t hang out.
Hans Rotenberry & Brad Jones: Mountain Jack (2010)
The original compact disc, as developed by engineers from Philips and Sony in a rare collaborative effort, was 74 minutes, 42 seconds in length. Why? Because Norio Ohga, the head of Sony and a former opera singer, insisted his company not produce a new format that could not play Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in its entirety.
But musically speaking it’s a long way down from Beethoven to the bottom-feeders. And the fact that we now have 70+ minutes’ capacity on an album, as opposed to the 45 or so the vinyl LP afforded, is too often taken as an invitation for modern artists to shovel additional music onto an album–music that wouldn’t have made the cut in the vinyl era.
That’s why it’s refreshing when an album like Mountain Jack comes along. Clocking in at under 33 well-paced, enjoyable and ballad-free minutes, it sounds like an edit I’d make myself from a longer album.
Hans Rotenberry is lead singer, guitarist and songwriter of Nashville power pop band the Shazam and Brad Jones is that band’s long-time producer. Outside of Tennessee the Shazam’s profile is pretty low; for these guys to release an album outside the band umbrella places it into even more obscure territory.
But this one’s well worth tracking down.
Mountain Jack is just a good old-fashioned guitar rock album, leaning toward the power pop sound in some places (“Back to Bristol” and the sunny, anthemic album closer “It Would Not Be Uncool”) and hewing closer to a rootsy Americana vibe in others (the Steve Earle-channeling “Ain’t Gonna Hurt Anyone” and the Wilburyesque shuffle “Next to You”). And “Greef” is the best new Rolling Stones song I’ve heard in years.
Rotenberry always knew how to deliver power pop with a little more backbone than most. His winning formula consists of plenty of bottom, some vocal grit and an extra helping of guitar riffage. And personally, I’m always trying to get more riffage in my diet.
Joey Eppard is quite simply a beast. As lead guitarist, lead vocalist and main songwriter of the band with the Google search-challenged moniker of 3, he’s the kind of talent TV shows like American Idol and The Voice are geared not to discover–which is probably a post for another day, but I’ll touch on it here anyway.
In 1964 the Beatles essentially began re-formatting youth culture. It’s always kind of cute when a latter-day band is compared with them in any serious way (or when a band–Oasis, for example–has the stones to make the comparison themselves) because the fact is no band since the Beatles has come close to making the kind of impact they had on music and culture. We can talk about everything from haircuts to sitars here, but pertinent to the matter at hand is the fact that they helped make the rock foursome–lead, rhythm and bass guitars and a drummer–de rigueur.
There have been many exceptions, of course. To achieve a different purpose, a different–and usually larger–configuration is required. Jam bands who feature multiple soloists, for example; or ELO.
But for most of the past 50 years when most kids dreamed of making it in music, their dream usually included a few pals, three guitars and a drum kit.
And one more thing: original songs. The Beatles, in defining the new Pop Standard, included writing new pop standards. Elvis hadn’t needed to write his own songs to become an icon of the young in the 50’s. Country singers still don’t. But in the pop and rock music arenas in the last half-century there has been a premium on good original songwriting, and the artists performing their own compositions just have more credibility, in part because that’s the way the Beatles did it.
Slowly, though, that imprint seems to finally be giving ground to a new and, I would insist, a lesser, standard. In the era of the modern singing competition TV show genre, momentum is swinging toward a new de facto format: the solo artist with microphone. American Idol and its competitors are now funneling prefabricated “stars” into the recording studios and up the charts every year, most of whom share these common traits: no ability to play an instrument or to write songs.
Perhaps if there were a successful show with a focus on young rock bands, it would help bring us back around to an appreciation of that combination of instrumental virtuosity and writing talent that none of these shows is showcasing, and the playing field would tilt again toward talents other than voice.
In the absence of such a change, many talents like Joey Eppard are destined to exist in popular music’s margins, remaining undiscovered by the public at large, perhaps selling enough music to carry on year to year, and perhaps not.
The music of 3 straddles metal, prog and even emo. But essentially their forte is propulsive melodic rock which blends acoustic and electric textures to exhilarating effect, with lyrics which may have you scratching your head if you try to understand every line. But when it comes to any kind of metal, I always prefer head-scratching to mind-numbing. Eppard’s songs do have a degree of lyrical sophistication–this is no Mötley Crüe record.
These arrangements are polished, well-constructed, and filled with sonic detail. Eppard and Co. know how to build up to great moments within a song, such as the guitar solo, intercut with vocals, which reaches a climax at 2:27 in “The Better Half of Me”.
They also take the trouble to show originality even in the way they end a song. There are bands who rely heavily on formula here, ending most of their songs in the same way simply because it’s not a priority to “write” an ending. Then there’s the work of a great band like Fleetwood Mac, who often wrote a coda, unlike any other part of the song, as a conclusion. (Think of the “falling, falling, falling” ending to “Say You Love Me” or the “ooh, don’t you look back” that fades out on “Don’t Stop”) That, I suspect, is attributable to Christine McVie and Lindsay Buckingham’s dedication to pop craftsmanship. “Rabid Animals” and “Automobile” are, similarly, songs that have original, written endings and not just a lazy fadeout. These songs, and this band, seem to have a pure strain of 70’s-80’s classic rock running in their veins.
Revisions’ title is a reference to the fact that it is a collection of previously-recorded songs that the band saw fit to give new life to, since they’d refined their sound quite a bit over a 5-album span. Although it wasn’t universally well-received by the band’s established fans (who were eager for new material at the time) it is the ideal introduction to the band for the uninitiated.
If this is a “metal” band, as they’re usually categorized, they’re the best kind–much less concerned with showing off their shredding skills than filling their songs with great hooks.
I’ll turn this one over to an Amazon.com customer review who identifies himself as Lucius, with whose appraisal of Strawbs, one of my favorite three artists of all time, I heartily concur:
“…Strawbs are the best unknown “English Progressive” band of the seventies (aka, the Strawberry Hill Boys in the 1960’s). Of course, Strawbs never stood a chance, even in the wake of “progressive” bands such as Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Jethro Tull, and Yes (each of whom The New York Times despised back in the early ’70’s).
Because rock critcs took as a given self-evident gospel truth that the wellspring of Rock and Roll was the Blues, choirboy music never stood a chance in America. And so Dave Cousins, folkie choirboy lover of orchestral rock and instrumental virtuosity, was just rendered irrelevant for one reason or another – too “intense”, too “conceptual”, too British? Too good, I’d say.
The only song of the Strawbs I remember on the radio was “Lay Down”, which hooked me; it was the best song being aired at the time (though I suspect I heard “Part of the Union” at some point prior to that). But with Disco and the Eagles and the New Wave/Punk thing just around the corner, where were the Strawbs going to find a place? Alas.
And just as Ian Anderson has been making incredible music for 30 plus years without a word of mainstream “critical” praise, just so Dave Cousins is anonymous here in the USofA. Go figure.”
By Lucius
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Any analysis of this band I attempt is bound to end in unabashed fanspeak; so it is with the things I love too much…
Bursting At The Seams is the ideal place to start in getting your ears around the Strawbs catalog. The fourth of their seven-LP output while on the A&M label, it marks a transitional period between the more pastoral/acoustic earlier work and the “proggier”, more electric later output.
But despite being plagued with the lineup changes that caused the stylistic musical shifts, Strawbs weren’t in the business of mediocrity and Bursting At The Seams is no mere “transitional album” in their catalog. Rather it is a high-water mark, along with Grave New World which preceded it and Hero And Heroine which followed–their period of greatest musical fertility and lyrical depth. New members Lambert, Hudson and Ford brought along material strong enough to stand beside–and even complement–the work of one of the most gifted writers in all of rock, David Cousins, himself at the peak of his powers. No one in all of British folk/rock or prog rock or whatever genre you place this genre-defying band had a greater gift for placing the introspective alongside the anthemic, the mystical in the company of the visceral. For a few years during this period, Strawbs (not THE Strawbs, as they are frequently misnamed) made music of a quality rarely seen before or since–a music that didn’t sacrifice beauty for power, or power for beauty.
Many, many times in the years when I was discovering this music I imagined I felt the same thing Dave Cousins experienced when he wrote the song “Stormy Down” (which appears on this album). He was “high on Stormy Down thinking of my friends below…but they had gone some other way, they did not want to know…” It would have been utterly futile explaining to my 14-year-old peers the unique beauty I found in this music. Even friends who were into progressive rock seldom scaled ecstatic heights such as these. For me it was–and is–to quote Cousins again, “a glimpse of heaven”. My friends at the time, for whom musical quality was measured quantitatively (by the number of decibels) had “gone some other way”.
But speaking for those of us who DID “want to know”, I’m thankful someone was true enough to himself to write music about the interior life, for those of us just uncool enough in our youth to care about such things. Thank goodness for songwriters like Mr. Cousins whose songs were built of such solid stuff that to this day and even in all-acoustic settings (as most Strawbs concerts now are) they bring more force and meaning to bear than so many artists of wider acclaim. And thank heavens for songwriters, Cousins being a prime example, who show us rock can be so much greater and more than butt-shaking, ear-shattering party soundtrack music.
I’ve always wondered about the tendency, when you discover an artist well into their career, to forever prefer the album that served as your introduction to that artist over the rest of their catalogue. Although it may be merely a sentimental, subjective attachment, there could also be valid reasons why this so often happens.
If that album was recommended by a fan of the artist it’s entirely appropriate that they should select that artist’s finest work in their attempt to evangelize you. And it just makes sense that, whether it’s word of mouth or a tendency for a music retailer (we used to call them “record stores”) to stock more copies of the better stuff, that a singer or band’s best work will be the most likely to blow through your transom at some point.
My introduction to Graham Parker was overlaid with all the symmetry of obsolete two-sided music media: a friend made me a cassette with the The Mona Lisa’s Sister on one side and Warren Zevon’s Sentimental Hygiene on the other. Each album has been described as a return to form by a long-established rocker, each served as my introduction to an artist, and each remains my favorite of the two artists’ respective catalogues.
I’m just gonna tell it like it is: as much as music critics rave about Howlin’ Wind and Squeezing Out Sparks–Parker’s early work from the late 70’s–to my ears The Mona Lisa’s Sister is his most satisfying record. But of course I must add the disclaimer that it was the one I heard first, so I may be biased.
This album features more acoustic guitar than on Parker’s previous work. As he described it, the desire to make a record that focused on the singer, the song and acoustic guitar in the era of blown-up Phil Collins, George Michael and Whitney Houston productions got him kicked off his record label. Sticking to his intentions to not sound like everyone else’s music, he signed on with RCA and proceeded to make an album “stripped of superfluous information, devoid of artifice, and free from the stamp of a ‘producer'”.
Cutting his vocals live as opposed to overdubbing, adding bass, keys and lead guitar only as spare enhancements, Parker made an album that still sounds good today, while much 80’s pop and rock sounds like it was buried under an avalanche of synths. Graham himself relates:
“Funnily enough, I bumped into two engineer/producers not long after the album had been released and they seemed confused by its popularity and good reviews. One thought it sounded ‘unfinished’ and the other one decided that there was something just plain wrong with it! I knew then that I had attained Success.”
While I agree it was indeed a success (or, as Graham might say, “SUCK-sess”) in the interest of equal time I’ll reprint Allmusic Guide‘s brief and particularly unflattering review:
Graham Parker moves to his fourth record label (actually, his fifth, if you count Atlantic, which dumped him before releasing an album) for one of his less inspired efforts. When he sings “Get Started, Start A Fire,” he seems to be talking to himself, and when he resorts to covering the old Sam Cooke hit “Cupid,” he seems to be grasping for material.
Of course, I couldn’t disagree more strongly but, as a recent post on this site asserted, the appreciation of music is a very subjective thing, and one man’s “great” is another man’s “meh”. So listen and decide for yourself…
Various Artists: Listen to What the Man Said–Popular Artists Pay Tribute to the Music of Paul McCartney (2001)
Various Artists: Coming Up–Independent Artists Pay Tribute to the Music of Paul McCartney (2001)
These were the tribute albums that, more than any other, changed my mind about tribute albums. My thinking as a music consumer had been: if you really love an artist, why would you waste time listening to other artists cover that artist? And other than those made for a charitable cause, why would such albums be worth the money? Aren’t they just a poor man’s version of the original? I mean, the Beatles never recorded trib– oh wait. They kinda did. What were “A Taste of Honey”, “Anna”, “Twist and Shout”, or Lennon’s Rock and Roll album but tributes to artists they admired?
Anyway, I’ve come around about enjoying a reverent–or even an imaginatively different–version of a song I love. But basically it took an extraordinary tribute album–actually a pair of them–to begin that change for me.
Listen to What the Man Said is supposedly “popular” artists’ musical tributes to McCartney. It’s actually a mix of household names (Matthew Sweet, The Finn Brothers) and lesser-knowns (Owsley, The Merrymakers).
Coming Up, described as “independent” artists, is where it gets truly indie, with Kyf Brewer, Cliff Hillis, Phil Keaggy and others, most of whom I’d never heard of before owning this CD. If you’d assume the volume featuring the “popular” artists would be the only one worth having, you’d be wrong. Matthew Sweet and company do a fine job, but the indies are mostly unsung power pop heroes, and imitating the Beatles is what they do. Their hearts are in the project, and they turn in some great performances.
Best example: Cliff Hillis’ take on “This One”, a Flowers in the Dirt album track that, frankly, McCartney didn’t maximize the potential of. It’s rare to hear anyone improve on a Beatle’s version of his own song, but Hillis does so here. In other cases, it’s a fresh energy (Michael Carpenter’s “Getting Closer”) or added harmony layers (Linus of Hollywood’s “Warm and Beautiful”) or meatier guitars (“Maybe I’m Amazed” by Virgos Merlot) or a female lead vocal (“With a Little Luck” by The Masticators) that enable you to hear McCartney’s greatness with fresh ears.
These two CDs are out of print, but still to be found. If you’re a real fan of McCartney’s work, this is music worth owning.
Every Moment Has A Song 