Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel - Timeless Flight

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Timeless Flight (1976) ***

Reviews are subjective by nature, and while I honestly enjoy this album a bit more (considerably more on a good day) than the three stars indicated above, that's simply because I like Steve Harley.  No, I don't mean that I know him personally - he could be an asshole in real life, for all I know or care.  He's got one of those rare voices that simply oozes warmth and charisma - a bit like Roger McGuinn does (did?), with a similarly friendly, slightly straining tenor.  The Cockney Rebels are present in name and perfunctory backup musicianship only:  this is the album where Harley apparently decided to make his gambit for serious singer-songwriter.  What that amounts to in practice is that we get an entire album's worth of mid-tempo, folky pop/rock songs stripped of any extraneous instrumentation that distracts from the words and the vocal delivery of those words - Harley's a man with a message, kids.  Exactly what that message is remains unclear, shrouded by metaphoric obscurity even at its most topical ("Red is a Mean, Mean Colour," character assassinates Bolshevik U.K. politicians with Cold War paranoia, but you'd never guess that unless you already knew to look for it - then it all falls into place).  Oh, "Understanding," is straightforward, alright -  in a rather gruesome way.  Harley had written love songs before, but never so bitelessly banal.  "Don't Go, Don't Cry," is the second album lowlight - mellow funk was never Harley's forte; it rocks so mildly it inspires little more than toe-tapping, never mind booty-shaking.   The rest of the album's six cuts are alright - just alright. nothing more; perhaps with the exception of the twilight loveliness of "All Men Are Hungry," the surefire cut-out for compilations.  Harley almost seems intent on sheer hooklessness, avoiding any of his trademark oddball hooks that made him interesting in the first place - perhaps he thought those too gimmicky and glam too juvenile, but now he's grownup and making mature music for serious consideration.  And if there's usually a recipe for a formerly exciting artist slipping into menopausal boredom, that's it.  The album initially comes off as drab and monochromatic as its cover:  classic Cockney Rebel swirled in kaleidoscope; solo Steve Harley steeps briskly in Earl Grey.  However, adjust yourself to the sad reality of a deeply ordinary, musically unadventurous singer-songwriter album and you've got quite a good one - that is, if you're predisposed to like Mr. Harley and his sense of songcraft already.  The album is too laidback by half - more Gordon Lightfoot than Bob Dylan, but hey I like Lightfoot, too, mellow easy-going melodics and all.  "Nothing is Sacred," essays the best of that Lightfoot/Dylan style, over five breathless (literally) minutes of verbiage with no room for any other than a torrent of words.  It's off-putting at first, but give it some time and it becomes cozy and comfortable.  Same as the rest of the album.

Mott the Hoople - Mott

 

Mott (1973) *****

Success under their rhinestone-studded belts, Mott must have known that the followup was crucial:  either they delivered the goods or proved that they were little more than washed-up never-had-beens that David Bowie was gracious enough to toss a bone.  And though it didn't produce a smash as huge as "....Dudes", it did amount to their biggest-selling album in the States, deservedly so:  the band finally fulfill all the misspent promise they'd been building up to.  And it only took five years and five albums to do it.  Mott's only consistently powerful album isn't merely a substantial step forward in terms of songwriting and performance - it's one of the greatest rock albums in rock history, and easily the crowning masterpiece of the genre & era (Glim-Glam, yeah).  The explosive boogie piano chords that open, "All the Way From Memphis," are practically the definition of rock'n'roll, and if you don't cop to that, I doubt that you ever understood Jerry Lee Lewis or purchased a second-hand guitar in a pawnshop.   It's simply one of the greatest valentines to rock'n'roll ever penned, up there with Chuck Berry in his prime and Paul Westerberg bopping out his ode to "Alex Chilton".  The rest of the album matches that standard - as the cliche goes, it's practically a greatest hits of all new material.  The album's conceptual thread of the troubles and travails of a touring rock band may seem self-pitying and banal to modern ears, but at the time not that many had worn such meta-rock cliches into the ground, and few (any?) have done it better since.  Ian Hunter's observations contain the telling detail of an ex-journalist and author of Diary of a Rock'n'Roll Star, and the fact that his band did indeed toil for years in groveling obscurity give his grumblings gravitas.

But most of all what makes it a great rock'n'roll album is that it's perfect driving music:  if there's another album more designed to be played on cassette while cruising, I've yet to find it (and I've spent many hours testing this theory).  Part of that is the flow:  the album's paced flawlessly, with flashy mid-tempo rockers oozing into thoughtful ballads and then back again.  And it's magnificently bookended, as few albums begin so mightily ("Memphis") or end so heartbreakingly ("I Wish I Was Your Mother").  "Ain't there one damn song that can make me break down and cry?" Bowie asked in "Young Americans" - yeah, David, this is one of'em, and the pretty mandolin adds the final, conclusive touch.  A bitter lament of alienation that aches powerfully as Hunter plays the role of a damaged punk who aches for tenderness and belonging, but is too cynical and wounded to find either, and it's tearing him apart.  It's as fitting a conclusion to this breathtaking album as "Memphis" was a fittingly rousing album opener.  Between those two benchmarks, the band finds room for giddy pop ("Honaloochie Boogie" - "My hair gets longer as the beat gets stronger/Going to tell Chuck Berry my news"), snarling Clockwork Orange social commentary ("Violence"), only faltering with the flamenco-style instrumental near the end of the record.  In "The Ballad of Mott the Hoople", Hunter recounts the story of how Mott broke up after playing in a converted gas tank in Zurich, mentioning all his bandmates by name, and admitting that playing music for a living is a chump's game but he can't quit.  Lucky for us he didn't.

P.S. Of the bonus tracks, the B-side, "Rose," is a fine piano ballad - it didn't graduate to the album for obvious reasons (it wasn't quite good enough).  But that says more about the strength of the 9 songs that did make it to Mott than any real weakness of "Rose".  And R.E.M. namechecked it in "Man on the Moon," many moons later:  "Mott the Hoople and the game of life / Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah."  

Titus Andronicus - The Monitor

After ten thousand years, it’s still us against them

....and they're winning

The Monitor (2010) ****1/2

I've long taken the position that ambition does not necessarily equal achievement, but exceptions exist to be made:  Patrick Stickles and the crew (over two dozen musicians listed in the credits, of which only the rhythm section is carried over from the debut) by no means achieve their outsized ambitions, yet that is only because their grasp is so absurdly huge.  A 10 song, hour long concept album that employs the American Civil War as a metaphor for modern angst and frustrations, it's an intense, deeply exhausting listen, and as such difficult to soak in on first (or fifth) listen.  With the exception of the twin fragments "Titus Andronicus Forever," and "...And Ever," which conceptually help tie together the first and second half of the album (they're the same song, more or less - the first take straight bruising punk, the second attempt looser barroom anarchy complete with honky-tonk piano; each last about a couple of minutes), the song lengths break down thusly:  four 7 to 8 1/2 minute epics, three relatively short'n'snappy 5 minute mini-epics, and one 14 minute epic epic.  Length only accounts for part of the exhaustion; couple that with the band's cacophonous overdrive and Stickles' impassioned (to the point of hectoring) vocals and lyrics that scream intense self-importance concerning his own self-loathing angst and the breakdown of contemporary American society (not necessarily in that order of importance) - well, this is one great album that you'll be glad to switch off and slump in your chair after it's finished firing its final volleys, as you wipe your grit-strained brow from the sonic and emotional assault.  (In all fairness, Stickle's poor grasp of memorable melodicism has a lot to blame for that feeling, as well.)  The weighty bits of quoted monologues linking the tracks together (Walt Whitman, Abraham Lincoln - who knows what other American icons) only show that Stickles is eager to show off that he's the son of a U.S. History high school teacher (well, so am I, so I can relate to his pretentiousness).

And it is a great album, not merely because it so desperately strains to be a Great Album (though that helps immensely).  A formerly good but unexceptional indie rock band has emerged from the cocoon as a great band - much better production and performances all around, and the musical scope has transcended generic indie-punk to encompass lengthy guitar heroics, barroom boogie, piano balladry, he/she duets, drunken C&W (as filtered through the early Pogues), and bagpipe solos (yes - the last hard rock band to pull that stunt was AC/DC).  It's not nearly as varied as that laundry list might lead you to except, but this sprawling double album (at over an hour, it's best to think of it that way) rarely falls into the monotony trap, in large part due to a trick pulled on several tracks:  start off slow and Tom Waits-ish at the piano or strummy guitar, carry on in that gin-soaked vein for a dozen or so verses, as the music either slowly builds up to or jarringly lurches into the poundingly anthemic hard rock section.  And if some of the sections are weak (the slow ones do underline Strickles' stunted melodic sense) - it's a sprawling double LP, that comes with the territory.

Each individual track may deserve an analysis equal to its bloated length, but in the interest of non-bloviation I'll limit myself to selected highlights (with my trusty yellow highlighter).  "A More Perfect Union," militaristically calls the album to arms (shades of the Skids!) with a rouse-the-troops guitar solo that's as viscerally thrilling as the opening riff of "Bastards of Young" (the Replacements, youngsters).  "No Future Part III:  No Escape," starts off as an almost parody of stereotypically wimpy indie rock, until the drummer kicks it into second gear.  Likewise, Strickles initially softly sings, "You will always be a loser," in the whimpering voice of a deservedly pathetic whiner, but by the end of the song has turned that same refrain into a defiant, inclusive, almost celebratory anthem.  "Theme From 'Cheers'," is close to what you'd expect - a lament/celebration of the committed, lifelong drinking man's lot, sung with resigned bitterness and drunken gusto.  And damn does it make me thirsty.  Which is the highest compliment you can pay to a drinking song.  We await until the end for the album's tour de force, the 14 minute, "The Battle of Hampton Roads," which only in the most superficial sense deals with the first battle of ironclads in naval history.  By the end of the first verse Stickles has dispatched the Monitor and the Merrimack, and is ready to address more contemporary social grievances, both solipsistic and of wider societal import  -  "Is there a girl at this college who hasn't been raped? / Is there a boy in this town that's not exploding with hate?" - ranting full on for 7 1/2 minutes until he collapses melodically into the "please don't ever leave," coda, after which at approximately 9:15 in we're treated to the inevitable bagpipe solo, and the bagpipes & Celtic-spiked electric guitar carry us on out.

And so we conclude the first genuine rock masterpiece of the second decade of the 21st century (not that I'm all that hip with what kids dig today).  That Titus Andronicus currently boast one of the most rabid fan followings in the country is understandable, even before you consider their live rep (catch'em while they're still young and before they've fossilized into 'legendary').  I wouldn't agree with some of the more rabid youngsters who claim that this is their favorite album of all-time (trawl RYM), given that I've heard 300 greater albums than this - but I've got some extensive knowledge of rock history.  Kids for whom all of this is fresh - I'm not going to disagree with them.  Which is an admission I would never begrudge any other hard rock band I've heard in the past decade - not the White Stripes, not the Black Keys, not even QOTSA.  Titus are playing rock'n'roll with heart-on-sleeve emotion, passionate sincerity, and not a trace of irony - which you can't say about any of those other bands, and is an exceedingly rare commodity among Millenials.  They aren't playing with a knowing wink in their eye, and they ain't twee & precious, neither.  And that makes all the difference.

............................................................................................................

The first single was a 3 1/2 minute edit of a 7 minute song:

Flamin' Groovies - Supersnazz

 

Supersnazz (1969) ***

1) The songwriting's thin - out of the 10 originals and 3 covers, not a single knockout.  Nearly all of them score respectable base runs, but none hit'em out of the park or score home runs.

2) The major-label production sands the edges too soft - not a lot of grit in this boogie, which matters when you're rollickin' bar band.

3) The band has an overboard of influences and the eclecticism seems to overwhelm the band:  as an Encyclopedia of Roots Rock, the variety keeps the album from ever sticking in a dulls-rut, but where do the Groovies seem to want to take those influences?  The resultant sprawl can either be taken as assured exploration of American roots'n'roll or confusion as to what sort of band the band intends to be.  Lessee -

Ragtime
'50s rock'n'roll (lots of that - mostly that, as you might expect)
Folk balladry
Hippie pop
Country & Western (more Western than Country - the Groovies did hail from Frisco)
Showtime vaudeville
Repetitive hippie pop chant ("Around the Corner," which works as a goodbye kiss and little else)

....anything I forgot?  Probably, but track-by-track reviews are kind of a chore.  This pleasant and enjoyable album doesn't live up to the promise of the cartoon cover - it's less a barrel of firecrackers than a head-noddin' toe-tapper.  And while as I noted, none of the individual songs will bowl you over, the album works a good time magic definitely greater than the sum of its parts.  The Groovies' debut aims for little more or less than a boogie hoedown, and sustains that lighthearted groove throughout without any real bummers disrupting the consistent flow.  Its failure to attract much notice at the time (the Groovies were dropped by Epic after this epic fail) is due not only to no true knockout singles material ("Laurie Did It," comes closest), but the nature of the scene and its time.  Only mild traces of Haight-Ashbury psychedelia rubbed their patchouli over the Groovies' grooves, aside from the groovy hipster name.  The Groovies come across as more mellow and laid-back (man) than they would shortly become in their classic incarnation, which does fit in snugly with the hippie zeitgeist:  it amounts essentially to late '60s roots-rock revivalism, with updated post-Hendrix guitar tones and slightly updated spaced-age sensibilities.  The band would groove much groovier (groan), but this ain't a half-bad start.

Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel - The Best Years of Our Lives

 

The Best Years of Our Lives (1975) ****

Goodbye, Cockneys; hello, Steve.  For whatever reasons of ego or dissension, the original Cockney Rebel broke up prior to this release, with only drummer Stuart Elliott to follow the leader.  The music subsequently takes a drastic nosedive in terms of musical identity - precious little of the quirk and charm of the first pair of Cockney Rebel albums; instead it's mostly straightforward mid-'70s pop-rock soaked in by-then-conventional glam negligee.  Around a decade or so ago, I made this my first toedip into Harleyland, and while I enjoyed quite a few of the songs, I couldn't quite figure out what the fuss was:  he seemed like an entertaining, but highly derivative johnny-come-lately of Bryan Ferry and David Bowie.  Now that I've heard him within the context of the first two Rebel albums, I can discern his unique talents; but it is only through that prism that one can distinguish every subsequent album as anything more than well-crafted, sometimes excellent but non-earthshaking mainstream '70s rock.  Steve Harley the talented singer-songwriter remains intact, but Steve Harley the musical visionary has departed the building.

Get over that and what you are left with are 'merely' some great tunes with enticingly delivered vocals and cryptically intriguing lyrics.  In fact, with Harley playing it relatively straighter (lyrically and musically), the songs are more immediately catchy and emotionally rewarding than anything off of the first pair of records.  The title track may be a put-on, full of Dylan-esque straining towards grand import and emotional resonance, despite amounting to little more than a string of non-sequiturs  - "Lost now for the words to tell you the truth / Please banter with me the banter of youth" - but damn if it isn't improbably moving in spite of itself.  Harley may be putting on the mask of the sensitive troubadour for sport, but he sings richly (ah, that vocal may be the performance of his career) with such actor's conviction that he completely and convincingly inhabits the form.  "Make Me Smile (Come Up and See Me)" is the track that towers above all the rest, however - center-pieced dab in the middle, and Harley's only #1 hit.  Deservedly so:  it's simply one of the greatest pop singles of all time, full stop.  Harley's crisp crooning over the lush but sprightly bed of acoustic guitars and cooing background oo-la-la vocals, as he alternately disdains and implores his potential conquest - you'll think it's tragic, but it's magic, it's the best single of 1975.  And that Spanish guitar break is pure icing.  "Mr. Raffles," was the more than worthy follow-up, not quite as magical (how could it be?) but a hit in its own right, and one of Harley's most lyrically intriguing:  late-period Dylan gone Elton John is the best I could describe it, with the clever sound effect of cracking maracas immediately after the "you shot that Spanish dancer," line always giving me a chuckle.  The paranoid, "Back to the Farm," is the key 'deep album track', a moody set-piece that is very, very Roxy-esque, underscored with Eno-esque synth squeals if you missed the point.  If I had to pick a weak track, it would either be the mild (very mild) quasi-funk of "49th Parallel," or the atmospheric but hookless, "It Wasn't Me," all drifting six minutes of it.  But neither are bad, just forgettable - this may not be Harley's most adventurous album, but it is perhaps his most consistently tuneful one.

Bonus tracks:  "Another Journey," is a melodic gem that should've graduated from B-side to album track (replacing either one of the two aforementioned weaker tunes).  The live version of "Sebastian," stretches on for nearly 11 minutes, which isn't undeserved, and certainly gives Harley's vox a good workout - if you want to hear the man at his most throat-shreddingly impassioned, here you go.  Maybe "somebody called me Sebastian," actually did mean something deeply personal to Steve, after all.

Stupid coat.

The Idle Race - The Birthday Party

 

 He gets out of his face with the Idle Race /  He gets out of the room with this tune

- the Fall, 1979

The Birthday Party (1968) ***1/2

Initially I naturally thought of the Idle Race as imitating the Move imitating the Beatles, but with a lighter, softer pop touch in contrast to the Move's somewhat doomy Who-derived rocking.  On second listen, I noticed that the very-velly English whimsy and music hall influences spiced liberally with the softer edges of psychedelia put me more in mind of the Idle Race imitating Syd Barrett imitating the Kinks.  In final conclusion, however, this sounds like a preview of Wings.  It's exactly the sort of post-psychedelic, post-Beatles, post-pot damaged nonsense that Paul McCartney would pump out circa "Admiral Halsey".  In other words, it sounds like a dead ringer for Dukes of Stratosphear era XTC aiming for The Bee Gees' 1st.  If this fundamentally childish album weren't so bloody fun it would be impossible to take seriously.

First a little biography.  The guy in the Afro is Jeff Lynne, later of the Move and even later of ELO, but of course most infamous as the fifth Traveling Wilbury.   The Idle Race were formed from the ashes of a beat-era group known around town as the Nightriders, which featured an up and coming Roy Wood before he was poached as the chief genius behind the Move.  A teenage Lynne was drafted in as a replacement, and their debut single was....a cover of the Move's "Here We Go 'Round the Lemon Tree."  Naturally, given all those incestuous ties within the Birmingham scene, the Idle Race never quite shook off (then or now) a little kid brother to the Move rep.  And in all fairness, such a reputation wasn't unwarranted - the music here is very Move-like.  I rate the Idle Race just a notch or two below the Move simply for the fact that the Move's harder rocking tunes sound bigger and more fully developed; the chintzy production values write the Idle Race's music on a more miniature scale.  However, even at this point, Lynne's songwriting skills were quickly catching up with his slightly older mentor's.

One other distinction from the Move is that the operative word here is 'childish':  the Idle Race were clearly aiming for what may be described as 'bubblegum psychedelia', more "Yellow Submarine" than "Tomorrow Never Knows".   Tastes are tastes, and I can completely sympathize with those who find the likes the absolutely idiotic "Sitting in a Tree," charmingly sing-a-long rather than Forrest Gumpish.  Likewise, a few other simplistic novelty numbers such as, "(Don't Put Your Boys in the Army) Mrs. Ward," and "I Like My Toys," (yes, a real title, and indeed as childish as you'd expect) spoil my appetite.  The proximity to such stuff slightly mars more substantial fare, such as the gorgeous "Morning Sunshine," and "The Lady Who Said She Could Fly," which demonstrate that even as a tender prodigy, Lynne's hypermelodic abilities had arrived fully formed.  The title track was a wise choice for a single (even if it undeservedly flopped, like every other Idle Race single):  beginning with a 23-second mock-orchestral (foreshadowings of ELO!) snippet of the most widely-known song in the English language, it leads to a mock-melodramatic, faux-melancholy ballad concerning a girl who commits suicide because no one remembered her birthday.  With exception of guitarist Dave Pritchard's "Pie in the Sky" (fine little tune) and that snippet of "Happy Birthday," all of the 13 tunes are Lynne originals.  A not insignificant feat in an era when most bands still relied on covers to pay the bills.  Maybe this kid might amount to something someday.  In short, while this music is by no means essential to any but diehard British Invasion fanatics, it is likeable and fun, not to mention a nifty appetizer for greater achievements to come.

P.S.  In keeping with U.K. practice of the day, gems such as "Imposters of Life's Magazine," which were released earlier as singles, did not appear on the debut album.  Wanted to avoid overlap, you see.  And since there is no CD reissue with bonus tracks currently available, you'll have to look those singles up yourself. Such music as this has grown somewhat overrated over the passing years due to its inaccessibility, but we are fortunate enough to live in the age of Youtube.  Enjoy and indulge for yourself!

 

Mott the Hoople - All the Young Dudes

All the Young Dudes (1972) ***1.2

Apologies to Cracked.com for borrowing a cartoon I saw the other day:

 

This sums up the malady Mott's fifth album suffers from:  there are quite a few slabs of more than respectable examples of glitzy cock rock (and for once I do not mean that as insult; it's an objective observation) on this disc.  But nothing comes remotely close to matching the emotional and melodic power of the title track, a more than generous donation from David Bowie (he should be awarded a lifetime achievement for philanthropy), a song of such anthemic ubiquity it virtually defines the early '70s, and had the double-edged blade of not only breaking Mott in America but having Mott written off as otherwise forgettable one-hit wonders and no-talent puppets of Mr. Ziggy Stardust.  Credit good karma to Bowie not merely for penning Mott's greatest hit - he also effectively rescued the band from breaking up, as they were about to do upon returning to Blightey after a disastrous European tour.  According to Ian Hunter, the band also took lessons in professionalism from Bowie - for the first time they actually took care in rehearsing and arranging their songs, instead of just "spewing it out like a gig."  Thus, their debut for CBS Records crunches sleekly and swaggers tightly in a quantum advance of musicianship over their Island Records albums.

So why don't I rank this a half star ahead of Brain Capers when it's a clear entire star (and maybe a half) step up in musical quality?  Simple:  it's lacking some crucial elements that endear fans of Mott, despite (because of?) how crappy they could be.  To start - emotional heft, for lack of a better descriptor.  Oh, and the untamed, desperately unhinged bar-room brawl anarchy that characterized their first four albums.  Sure, Mott were a complete mess that failed more often than they succeeded, but they were what modern kids today would call a hot mess.  Bowie's tutelage and production reign the band in tightly, but the effect is a little arid and calculated when compared to, say, "Thunderbuck Ram."  And with the exception of the title track and the closing piano ballad, "Sea Diver," Hunter the thoughtful and introspective poet of noble loserdom is nowhere to be found.  The band simply offer up one tight, hot, crunchy, sleazy glam rock anthem after the other - after a while some of these might seem a little interchangeable, but they're helluva fun while cranked up.  Just don't take stuff like the one about a girlfriend's oral skills followed up by the one with jerkin' in its title to heart - geez, maybe Bowie's influence rubbed off (huh huh Beavis) a little too much.  The band were mistaken for homosexuals when they toured the States, after all, due to "Dudes," and a juvenile delinquent anthem entitled "One of the Boys".  Anyway -

High point:  a cover of the VU's "Sweet Jane" that is definitive, despite Hunter being on record as believing that the song was shit, Lou Reed was shit, and the VU were shit, too.

Middling point:  Mick Ralphs' "Ready for Love," superior to his later reworking for Bad Company, but unwisely stretched out to nearly seven minutes due to the pointless "After Lights," jam.

Low point:  Verden Allen still cannot write songs but he insists on putting them on albums anyway.  Worse, he tries to sing "Soft Ground" - if you thought Ian Hunter was a weak singer, you ain't heard nothing yet!  Still, the downplaying of his keyboards on this album (in favor of pumped up guitar riffage) is a blow to Mott's distinctive musical identity.  After this album, he'd be gone, and thus unable to partake in producing Mott's masterpiece for the history books.  This one ain't it, but it does take a few valuable steps in the right direction.