songs for broken hearts, no. 60

Do you remember when they used to sell LPs in department stores? When I was a kid, places like Gimbels on 86th and Lexington, Bloomingdale’s on 60th and Lexington, and Alexander’s on 59th and Lexington, all had record departments. You could also buy records at places like Lampston’s, Caldor, Korvettes, and Two Guys. Which reminds me: In fourth or fifth grade, the big joke within my circle of friends was, ‘Hey, I heard they named a store after your parents – Two Guys!’ Just an aside...

One of the advantages to getting records at a place like Gimbels was that you could shoplift them fairly easily. I only had the balls to do this a few times (I’ve always feared the law and authority), but I knew kids whose entire record collections were comprised of purloined LPs. And these were kids from well-to-do families, living on Park Avenue, Fifth Avenue, and Central Park West. Lifting the records had little to do with privation and everything to do with the thrill of being bad. With that said, though, my parents were relatively tight with my weekly allowance. I think they gave me 2 or 3 bucks a week when I was 11, and it’s hard to get by on that kind of scratch when there’s hundreds of records you want and they all cost either $5.99 for a single LP ($6.47 with tax) or $9.99 for a double LP ($10.87 with tax). The rare and imposing triple LP – e.g. Emerson Lake and Palmer Live and George Harrison’s All Things Must Pass – was completely prohibitive...

Limited funds left me with several options, one of which was to simply do the Beaver Cleaver thing and save up. But saving was for chumps and, more to the point, it would never adequately satisfy my fierce commodity fetishism and even fiercer need for instant gratification. The second possibility was to steal money from my mom’s purse, which I did regularly. …And then there was the nuclear option, shoplifting the records from department stores where you could put the LP in your jacket, blend in nondescriptly with the yentas shopping for girdles, and get out the door with no problem. While not as safe as stealing from mom, the high-risk, high-reward exhilaration of stealing from a store provided so much more in the way of thrills and respect amongst your peers. Some kids would ratchet up the thrill factor and take the merch out of the store without even putting it in their jackets, sometimes lifting 2 or 3 LPs at once and even returning to the store multiple times in one day for additional hauls. My biggest score was the Who’s Quadrophenia, an intimidating album to lift because it was an enormous double LP gatefold with a thick booklet inside. But I got it out the door from Gimbels and scurried home giddily, barely able to contain my excitement over the rock ‘n roll bliss that awaited me…

Quadrophenia is absolutely a work of rock, not pop, and for about three or four years it was my bible, an album of such outrageous conceptual overindulgence that you might think it issued forth from the mind of a nerdy 12-year-old. But no, Quadrophenia’s huge ambitiousness is actually the product of Pete Towshend’s (quite likely drug and drink fueled) sense of himself as a brilliantly deep artist. I think Townshend now concedes the album’s ridiculousness and has a sense of humor about it, though it should be said that the music is quite good in parts, particularly if you like your rock loud, bloated, and as subtle as a B-12 bomber. The story the music tells, such as it is, involves a Mod in 60s Brighton who has a four-way split personality, with each member of the Who representing one of the personalities. (!) Hence, quadrophenia, I guess. I could tell you more, but it’s too convoluted for me to try...

In spite of Quadrophenia’s big aggressive sound, there are scattered moments of lovely tenderness and vulnerability that go a long way towards excusing the more grandiose pretensions. Tonight’s song is a perfect example, probably my favorite track on the album. I love the way Roger Daltrey harmonizes with himself, particularly when he sings, ‘but I just can’t explain/ why that uncertain feeling is still here in my brain.’ It’s also always a treat when Daltrey and Townshend share the lead vocals on a song. I’ve always loved the expressiveness and frailty in Townshend’s voice and wish it had been used more in the Who’s music. …

Nowadays Quadrophenia is, for me, interesting primarily on an analytical level, as an artifact of the early postmodern era. The album’s form and content don’t really talk to each other. While the story is set in England’s Mod scene of the 1960s, the music is undeniably 70s-sounding. You’d never hear Quadrophenia and mistake it for something recorded in the 60s, I don’t think. The disconnect creates a confusing historical pastiche, even though the history the music attempts to reconstruct is a mere eight or so years removed from when Quadrophenia came out in 1973. …But what does any of this really matter when Pete Townshend smashes his guitar?

songs for broken hearts, no. 57

I really appreciate bands and artists that continued to make pop records after the dominant paradigm had shifted from pop to rock. I hate putting things in such grad studenty language, but I don’t know how else to get at the technological and social changes that made music heavier after the Summer of Love. The boundary where pop ends and rock begins is admittedly subjective. So much of the distinction is about feel and vibe, things you can’t categorize and identify so easily. I’m just gonna have to trust that you know what I’m talking about even though the concepts can’t be defined with much precision. There’s also quite a bit of grey area, records that are pop and rock at the same time. The Who, Pink Floyd, the Move, and the Small Faces all made records that straddle the divide. And so did the Beatles. Sgt Pepper’s is a blend of the two, but by the time you get to the white album most of what the Beatles are doing is rock, though to the very end even the hardest rocking Beatles songs feature strong elements of pop. In fact, Ticket to Ride, which appeared in mid 1965, is probably the earliest pop song to give a hint of the coming transition, and Rubber Soul and Revolver both feature nascent rock songs. In so many ways - some good, others not so good - the Beatles were ahead of the curve. But right now I’m more interested in artists that didn’t and/or couldn’t make the transition. There are many examples but none is more satisfying than the Zombies’ Odessey and Oracle. The album didn’t chart well when it came out in 1968 perhaps because the material is light and nimble and no longer seemed appropriate given the increasing heaviness of the social and cultural landscape. But while Odessey and Oracle is undeniably a work of pop, the record’s use of jazzy chords and complicated time signatures, as well as weighty themes touched on in songs like Butcher’s Tale, indicate a level of self-importance and self-consciousness that I associate with rock, not pop. For me the album represents a kind of tipping point, but it never quite gives in, much to its credit. I think this sense of the album as the apotheosis of pop is what lends it its special brand of English sophistication. When I’m in the mood for music that’s decidedly cool without losing its joyfulness, complex but still accessible, and urbane but never pretentious, Odessey and Oracle is the one I reach for. It’s a masterpiece of pop art and one of the five or six greatest records to come out of Britain in the 60s…

songs for broken hearts, no. 55

Tonight's selection has one foot in Mod Freakbeat and the other in psychedelia. It's one of those magical records that give expression to the dizzying pace of change in music during the late-mid 60s. There's so much going on. At first, the song will sound like a big mess of noise. You need to play it a few times to let everything sink in. Eventually the subtle melody and the dreamy harmonies will penetrate into your consciousness and you'll become hooked. Check out the generous helpings of mellotron and the atonal guitar solo, both of which point to the psychedelic roots of progressive rock. ...The best records, as I've said before, are the ones that require a little bit of work and attention before they provide gratification. Tonight's song is a perfect example of this. Put in the effort, and be prepared for a huge payoff...

songs for broken hearts, no. 53

In my previous blog, I exhausted almost everything I have to say about David Bowie. Almost. One Bowie album that’s grown on me quite a bit since I wrote all that turgid prose a few years ago is Space Oddity. It’s an interesting transitional record, featuring the last gasp of Bowie’s largely failed attempt to carve out a place for himself in the world of 60s Mod pop, as well as initial elements of the muscular folk metal that would dominate The Man Who Sold the World, another album I’ve reassessed favorably. Space Oddity also offers a first hint of the glammy thing for which Bowie soon became famous. Tonight’s song, for instance, sounds like an outtake from Ziggy Stardust. A lot of the great Bowie techniques are already used as if they were second nature, especially in the chorus where he harmonizes wildly with himself and shakes some groovy tambourine for added emphasis. What makes Space Oddity compelling to me now is that you can really hear Bowie searching for an identity. And judging by the continual shifting of his persona over the following years, maybe he concluded that stable identity is overrated. You can twist your mind into knots if you think about this shit for too long, but I can’t help myself. So here's some food for thought: If Bowie's self titled first album is where Davy Jones becomes David Bowie, then Space Oddity is where David Bowie becomes David Bowie. It's the point at which he assumes a purposefully deconstructed identity, one that paradoxically becomes one of the very few sources of continuity for him in subsequent years…

songs for broken hearts, no. 51

I’m not a big ELO guy, which might seem strange since Jeff Lynne is so good at making melodic pop. Sure, I can still play ELO’s Greatest Hits on my iPod and enjoy songs like Do Ya, Living Thing, Telephone Line, Mr. Blue Sky, and even the disco stylings of Turn to Stone. I used to get really excited when I was eight and Living Thing would come on the radio. The song’s amazing strings and vocals give it a lush, dreamy sound that would really send my imagination soaring. But somehow ELO never made it into my personal pantheon of greatness. Part of it might be that they seemed so wimpy and I became aware of them at a time when I wanted my music to have muscle. There was a period of my life when I preferred rock to pop, the opposite of the way I feel today most of the time, and in spite of the occasional crunchy guitar riff you get in this or that ELO song, they will never be mistaken for a rock band in anything more than the most generic understanding of the term. The other thing is that I have this vague suspicion that Jeff Lynne is your stereotypically dumb brummie, a kind of idiot savant who just so happens to have a great talent for infectious pop. I don’t know why that bothers me because I love the Beach Boys and nobody will ever mistake Brian Wilson for Isiah Berlin. I don’t need my pop heroes to be conventionally intelligent, so why do I hold it against Jeff Lynne if he's no brighter than my bedroom doorknob? Maybe it's that the songs aren’t that good upon closer inspection. Maybe they’re simply confections that taste good in the moment but don’t have enough heft to inspire lasting emotional attachments. I mean, do you know anybody who’s absolutely fanatical about ELO? …Come to think of it, one of my best friends is just such a fanatic, so it's probably just one of those subjective things where some do and some don’t… The ELO record that interests me most at the moment is their first album, primarily because of the involvement of Roy Wood and the band’s brief crossover with the Move. Tonight’s song has a big sound and some very satisfying arpeggiated guitar playing. And no matter who you are and what you do, playing arpeggiated chords is, generally speaking, the fastest way to win my heart...

songs for broken hearts, no. 50

The main reason I prefer pop to rock is that pop songs tend to make their statements concisely, without a lot of wasted motion. The third and final Move song I’m posting for you tonight is an archetype in this respect, a piercingly romantic bit of orchestral pop that refers back to the Beatles in the interstitial period between Help and Rubber Soul. Beautiful Daughter is one of the finest achievements of Roy Wood’s career. The songcraft is intricate and complex, but also amazingly efficient. I marvel at the way Wood was able to pack so much emotionally intense stuff into less than three minutes. The song’s release was not far enough removed from the 60s to have garnered appreciation as a retro-cool piece of music. Its uniqueness is the result of its weird positioning as a song that’s ahead of its time precisely because it’s regressive. It looks forward to a time when pop will increasingly simulate the past, and it can be heard as a kind of proof of concept for what Wood would do with Jeff Lynne and Bev Bevan on the first ELO album. The song also features Tony Visconti on bass, further validating my theory that anything cool you can think of involves Tony Visconti in some way or other…

songs for broken hearts, no. 49

Another lovely song from the Move to help ease your Sunday night blues. This one is an even more obvious example of how the band was just a tad behind the curve... Something about the chord progression, the slightly flanged vocals, and the generally whimsical vibe give Curly a McCartneyesque feel. The song would have been right at home on Magical Mystery Tour. Unfortunately, by 1968 the fruity pop thing had run its course and become totally unhip, replaced by a heavier sound that marked the end of innocence. If the Move had just waited a few more years to release Curly, I'm convinced they would have had a big transatlantic hit with it. They needed to let the era of simulation begin, the postmodern condition, under which pop music would become ever more referential and imitative. Think Badfinger. Think Barclay James Harvest. Think Big Star. Think ELO... ELO is a very interesting example in this context because of the crossover with the Move. Would ELO have been such a huge success if they had done what they did in the late 60s? I think not. ...But all these Johnnie Walker Black-fueled thoughts make the listening experience too dry and overly intellectualized, don't they? The real test for me is how the song makes me feel. If I put all the socio-historical stuff to one side and move from my head to my heart (admittedly a difficult thing for me to do sometimes), I'm left with one of the truly gorgeous pop songs to come out of England in the 60s. It might've been retrograde when it came out, but hearing it now fills me with joy and makes me feel less lonely, somehow. Compared to this, all the other considerations are small potatoes...

songs for broken hearts, no. 47

The stars of yesterday's post, Les Fleur De Lys, also went by the name of Rupert's People and recorded tonight's lovely offering, a song that showcases the deep appreciation the Mods had for American soul music. I've come across a rumor on the internet that Jimi Hendrix plays ghost guitar on this track. I don't think it's true. Then again, the guitar playing does have a Wind Cries Mary-ish quality to it, and Jimi did spend quite a bit of time in the 60s in England, so who knows? Whether it's Jimi or not, the guitar laying sounds just perfect. There's also a delightful sounding soap opera organ that creates an atmosphere of kind benevolence and tragic beauty. I wonder what exactly it is that the Brits did in the 60s to make their records sound so good? I mean, have you ever heard a record that sounds as good as this one?

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songs for broken hearts, no. 46

Mother Nature is giving us one last nasty grudge fuck before she hopefully provides some relief with the warmth and hope of spring. And when I say nasty, I mean nasty, as in cold rain coming down in impossibly relentless sheets for hours and hours on end. The rains make me feel irritable and on edge. This is not what I signed up for when I decided to plant my roots here in sunny Southern California. It’s been a strange winter. We’ve had weeks of spectacular weather, followed by the most horrible monsoon-type rains you could imagine, followed by the good stuff. Back and forth in violent gyrations. For the first time, I’m starting to feel the tangible effects of climate change. The weather patterns here are not supposed to be this erratic. LA weather is supposed to be smooth, subtle and relatively consistent. It’s reasonable to expect the occasional bad storm, but nothing like the violent yin-yang roller coaster ride we've had to endure during the winters over the past few years. Which brings me, strangely, elliptically, to Les Fleur De Lys and their balls-out cover of Pete Townshend’s Circles, a song I’m digging at the moment because its force matches the massive pounding of the rain against my living room window. Opinions are varied, but my view is not only that the cover version pisses all over the Who’s original, but also that it captures the amphetamine fueled spirit of mid-60s Mod London as well as any freakbeat song I’ve ever heard. Along with folk rock, power pop and glam, freakbeat is a style I never get tired of. Mid-60s London was clearly one of the places where human civilization reached its absolute zenith. The Mod sound of the period tended to be a heavy-duty bit of business, but if tonight’s song sounds particularly heavy it might be because the single was produced by Jimmy Page. (I’m telling you, the guy shows up everywhere.) My favorite part of the song is when the last verse climbs up a semitone, a technique you hear fairly often in country music and ballads, less so in heavy rock, but which in this case – and in the Who’s original – elevates the sonic energy of the music into the realm of the sublime...

songs for broken hearts, no. 43

Here Comes the Night is more appropriate on Friday at 5pm then it is on a rainy and cold Monday, but who cares. The song sounds very advanced for music recorded in 1964. The song really could have been titled, Here Come the 60s. It has that feeling of becoming, if you know what I mean. Van Morrison’s voice was still developing at this point, but you can hear the first traces of the style and range that would become key elements in his long and prolific solo career. The harmonies are totally wacky. I can't quite tell whether their double tracked and Van is harmonizing with himself, or if there's more than one singer. ...If you’re wondering why the Telecaster sounds so rich and satisfying, the fact that Jimmy Page is playing it may have something to do with it. Funny how ‘ol Jimmy shows up on so many hit records as a session player. I actually first became aware of Here Comes the Night via Bowie’s cover of the song on Pin Ups. The original version, posted tonight for your listening enjoyment, is far superior and always manages to make me feel good, even though its overall emotional thrust is one of jealousy, anguish and pain...

songs for broken hearts, no. 42

It's raining like a motherfucker here in LA at the moment. There's water leaking through the ceiling of my house. But I'm ok, just as long as I've got me some heavy English music. I've spent the whole day listening to the Yardbirds, Small Faces, and Humble Pie, and I haven't left the house. My cats are so stoked. It's nice to feel so wanted and appreciated ...I think you're gonna really dig this clip from Antonioni's Blow Up. The movie is a bit slow and deliberative, but its depiction of swinging London in the 60s sends my imagination soaring. The color footage of Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page in the Yardbirds is such a great gift. Check out Jimmy's mutton chops! Antonioni definitely had his finger on the pulse of the happening London scene, a scene in which the guitar was the central totemic idol...

songs for broken hearts, no. 41

Bob Cowsill was really fun last night. As my friend likes to say, Bob is the Jerry Garcia of Ventura Blvd English pub players. Heart Full of Soul was among the two dozen or so great 60s classics in his set. If you talk to me at the right time and under the right circumstances, there's a good chance I'll tell you that Heart Full of Soul is my favorite song, period. I prefer the Yardbirds during the stage when they moved away from straight blues and went in the direction of psychedelic pop. Their grounding in the blues remained an important part of their identity and was the reason why even their most pop oriented offerings still sounded so heavy. It was still some heavy-duty shit, but the hooks became so much more inviting than what would be possible with a more traditional conception of the blues. Listen tonight for the acoustic rhythm guitar. Jeff Beck's lead guitar crackles with waves of euphoric electricity, and he does that classic mid-60s thing - perfected by the Beatles and Buffalo Springfield, among others - where his solo simply replicates the song's core melody. It's a simple but oh-so-satisfying solo within two-and-a-half minutes of pop ecstasy. Guaranteed to lift you out of your doldrums when you need it most...

Songs for broken hearts, no. 40

I'm going with my bestest buddy tonight to hear Bob Cowsill at the Pickwick Pub in Woodland Hills in celebration of my 43rd birthday. He does this great thing every Friday night, just him, his guitar, and just about any 60s radio hit you wanna hear him play. It's great fun. I have to leave for the Valley in about 20 minutes, but I didn't want to break my string of consecutive days posting SFBH. Routine is very important to me, and I feel like doing this every day has helped me get through a difficult period. Music really does have healing powers. It's an amazing, beautiful thing. ...I'm not quite done with this revivalist kick I've been on. Along with Springsteen, Blondie and the Ramones, the New York Dolls were very much in the revivalist vein. When I was a kid, I used to see the Dolls' records in the record shops. The band looked so scary to me. Maybe I was a little freaked out by the sexual aberration they represented, but they also looked kind of menacing and unpleasant. Bowie, Iggy, Lou Reed and Alice Cooper did as well. It all seemed so wrong to me, yet at the same time I couldn't look away when I saw their pictures in Creem and Circus. The song tonight is in keeping with frightening things. It also happens to rock very hard. Happy birthday to me...