Some listeners consider Maurice Ravel to be among the very greatest orchestrators in history. The most important aspect of his famous Bolero is that it was written (at least partially) as an exercise in orchestration. He was surprised and disappointed at how the piece became his most famous - it's nowhere near the top of his works, but it is very powerful in both its exploration of rhythm, and the gradual inclusion of the entire orchestra. Listening and following a description (available online) is an excellent way of discovering the "colours" of the orchestra. (It's worth remembering that great artists are also trying to teach us about what they've learned.) Tomorrow, I'll be writing about a piece that is among his greatest.

The Who's Tommy (1969) is an allegory that deals with the inward-looking nature of youth and ultimately with the simplest and yet perhaps the most profound of revelations - that other people exist. The pinball and the more sensational (or frightening) aspects of the story can sometimes obscure this relatively simple message, not that it's spelled out in big letters or anything, but for me at least that's the essence of the tale. It has quite a lot in common with other myths involving a protagonist losing his or her identity, undergoing suffering and eventually coming to a higher spiritual purpose. The ending features Tommy singing the following words, which he had sung earlier to his reflection in the mirror, to his family and ultimately to everyone (in the musical version, the "fourth wall" of the theater disappears and the entire cast makes eye contact with the audience to very moving effect):

Listening to you, I get the music
Gazing at you, I get the heat
Following you, I climb the mountain
I get excitement at your feet

Right behind you, I see the millions
On you, I see the glory
From you, I get opinions
From you, I get the story

The listener is taken from heights of near-biblical imagery and brought back to his or her life in eight lines, from the mountain to sharing opinions - and seeing friends, companions and family once more - and for the first time. (By the way, Pete Townshend turned twenty-four four days before the release of the album. Suggested reading on a similar theme: "The Answer" by Robinson Jeffers.)

Tommy (1969) was everything The Who were looking for: an artistic, musical and commercial triumph. Townshend later said that most of the group's new fans thought that the group was called Tommy, and the album The Who. In any event, the album gave the group the freedom they needed from constant financial pressure, which must have surprised them. Who would've thought that a rock opera could do that?
Today, I'd like to focus on one particular point of interest for me - when the decision was made to change one crucial aspect of the story. In the Rolling Stone interview discussed yesterday, Townshend said that it was to be the story of a boy who is born deaf, dumb and blind. But of course in the final version it is a trauma witnessed by the boy (his parents commit and cover up a murder) that brings it on. Therefore, the disabilities are psychosomatic (or something similar), and the cure that releases him from his physical isolation seems more possible. The song, "1921" gives us the initiating incident mentioned above, but it was not an easy scene to understand from the lyrics at the time. (By the way, the best version of Tommy to see is the musical done for Broadway by Des McAnuff, now the artistic director of The Stratford Shakespeare Festival, entitled The Who's Tommy. It tells the story very clearly. I don't recommend the Ken Russell film version.) The story then follows Tommy through all kinds of tribulations, until it is discovered that he has a great gift for pinball. With the aforementioned plot change, this too becomes plausible, clearing the way for a work of great allegorical power. I'll explain what I mean by that tomorrow.

In the summer of 1968, The Who were touring America for the second time that year. For one thing, they needed the money - they hadn't really had a hit recording in the U.S. to that point, despite releasing The Who Sell Out in 1967, which is now considered a classic. After one of the shows on that tour, at San Francisco's Fillmore West, Pete Townshend gave a fascinating interview to Rolling Stone magazine wherein he discussed everything from the instrument-smashing ("It doesn't get to be a drag to talk about it. Sometimes it gets to be a drag to do it..."), to the fact that a lot of his songwriting was done on airplanes. And it is interesting to note that the best songs on Sell Out feature aerial imagery: "I Can't Reach You", "Our Love Was", "Sunrise", and "I Can See for Miles", and that they are meant to contrast with the advertisements, jingles and mundane concerns of commerce and daily life that are so brilliantly parodied on the rest of the album. He was obviously looking for some kind of transcendence in the clouds.
Something else is happening, as well - certain themes, both musical and lyrical, point to what was to be their next record: "We've been talking about doing an opera... called Deaf, Dumb and Blind Boy," said Townshend, and he goes on to talk about it in great detail. It's one of the few interviews I've ever read where an artist discusses a work-in-progress without reservation. As I mentioned earlier, it's fascinating, and I wish more artists would do it. Maybe it's superstition or something. Anyway, the album he was talking about turned out OK; as a matter of fact it's one of the greatest works of art that rock and roll has ever produced. I'll be writing about it tomorrow.

Another artist that straddles the line between music and poetry is Wilco's Jeff Tweedy. He is probably the most important American songwriter of the last decade or so, because along with his brilliant band, he has explored the boundaries of both words and music in terms of creating imagery, telling stories, putting arguments forward, exploring emotion, etc. - in other words, all the things that are accomplished by poetry of the highest level. Here is an excerpt from "One Wing", from their most recent recording, Wilco (2009):

We may as well be made of stone
We can't be flown
One wing will never fly
Neither yours nor mine
I fear we can only wave goodbye

See what I mean? If you're interested in Wilco, and I think you should be, I would recommend the DVD concert documentary, Wilco Live: Ashes of American Flags (2009) where Tweedy discusses his impressionistic songwriting. I would also suggest listening to all of their albums in order from first to last to hear their astonishing growth (and some of the greatest rock music of this generation).

At the center of the punk movement of the seventies were works of poetry: the lyrics of Johnny Rotten of The Sex Pistols. In fact, an argument could be made that the most powerful single song lyric in rock history is found in "God Save the Queen".
Let's leave aside all of the self-evident stuff (the sociological impact, etc.) and consider the words and ideas; they are what matter (and what last). There are two primary reasons for the power of this lyric: 1. Because the stakes are so high: The song challenges listeners to question virtually every assumption they've ever made in regard to country, ruler and religion. This had happened before in the history of poetry, of course (see World War I poetry such as Wilfrid Owen's "Dulce et Decorum Est" for an example), but not in rock. 2. The lyrics themselves fit every criterion of serious poetry. Here is the crux of the song:

When there's no future
How can there be sin?
We're the flowers in the dustbin
We're the poison in the human machine
We're the future
Your future

The first two lines ask a philosophical question of the highest order. The next two contain metaphors of startling originality and power. The last two are a threat/promise that actually came true: It's easy to see with retrospect that no rock band of that era came close to matching them for impact or influence. Would that have happened without the poetry?

Yesterday, I mentioned Radiohead's "15 Step", and it got me thinking about 5/4 time and why it is so rare. Nearly all popular music is in 4/4 for a very simple reason: it's symmetrical and it makes it easier for everyone who might participate - musicians, improvisers, dancers, even listeners. I had a teacher once who said that the history of music can be largely understood by the fact that we have two hands (ergo the piano, and its massive influence on virtually every aspect of music) and two feet (thus the prevalence of rhythms in 2 or its multiples). Of course, there are some time signatures that have flourished in conjunction with certain types of dance (3/4 and the waltz is the prime example), but for the most part 2 and 4 have taken up nearly all the room. Let's hope that changes.
One of the ways that young writers and musicians can avoid cliche (or sounding like those that have come before) is to explore new time signatures and methods of overlapping or combining rhythms. One idea is to write with music paper, but without bar lines. Because as soon as a bar or measure line is written, a pattern has been implied. And of course it's best if the pattern is discovered rather than imposed.
Here are three great songs, in three completely different styles, in 5/4: "Take Five" by Paul Desmond on The Dave Brubeck Quartet's Time Out (1959), Nick Drake's "River Man" from Five Leaves Left (1969), and Radiohead's "15 Step" from In Rainbows (2007). Perhaps the title of "15 Step" may refer to a dance or rhythmic concept - and the need to count and think for those who participate, until it becomes second nature. Ballet and other forms of dance based on classical music and its offshoots have been using unusual time signatures for many years - there's no reason that other styles can't as well. Let's not be lazy here, people.

David Bowie's Hunky Dory (1971) features tribute songs to three different artists - "Song for Bob Dylan", "Queen Bitch" (for The Velvet Underground) and the one that I'll be discussing today: "Andy Warhol". Warhol's influence on rock music rivals any non-musician. He wasn't quite the rock and roll Diaghilev, but he wasn't far off. His influential handling of The Velvets alone (among the most important of American rock groups) would be enough to give him musical immortality, but he did much more for music and musicians, both directly and indirectly. For one thing, it seems like all the musicians who met him considered it an important moment in the development of their thinking and work. Warhol questioned ideas of authorship, originality, modernism and popular art, and the nature of fame and communication (I don't think anyone laughs at his "fifteen minutes" quote anymore). Essentially, he made it a requirement for an artist to deeply consider what they were doing and why - something rock definitely needed (and still most often does, in fact). He also led by example: he was an extremely hard worker. (Incidentally, the one trait common to all good music is hard work.)
So back to the song. It's a dramatic piece with unusual uses for common materials, which is appropriate to the subject matter. It uses chords from the keys of G and D, starting on an E minor. The chorus uses a chord progression unlike any other I've heard to set an equally original melody. The lyrics are a humorous tribute to Warhol as working artist, friend, ringleader and work of art:

Like to take a cement fix
Be a standing cinema
Dress my friends up
Just for show
See them as they really are
Put a peephole in my brain
Two new pence to have a go
I'd like to be a gallery
Put you all inside my show

Andy Warhol looks a scream
Hang him on my wall
Andy Warhol, Silver Screen
Can't tell them apart at all

Andy walking, Andy tired
Andy take a little snooze
Tie him up when he's fast asleep
Send him on a pleasant cruise
When he wakes up on the sea
Be sure to think of me and you
He'll think about paint
And he'll think about glue
What a jolly boring thing to do

Words (and music) worthy of their subject. Thought of the day: "Dress my friends up/ Just for show/ See them as they really are". (Essential viewing: Bowie playing Warhol in Basquiat - 1996)

In writing about Nicolas Roeg yesterday, I mentioned the different rockers who had starred in his films: Mick Jagger, Art Garfunkel and David Bowie. It has always struck me that Bowie's appearance in Roeg's 1976 film, The Man Who Fell to Earth, Bowie's first starring role, was a very important moment in his career. First, he used photos from the film on the covers of two of his greatest albums: Station to Station (1976) and Low (1977). Second, from that point forward his stage personas were related somehow to the concept of the alien (as opposed to earlier, marginally more human ones like Ziggy Stardust or The Thin White Duke). Third, his lyrics became increasingly influenced by a cinematic type of story-telling - in that the listeners were given images with little or no connective tissue and asked to figure out the narrative and themes for themselves.
Let's look at the lyrics to "Always Crashing in the Same Car" from Low:

Every chance,
every chance that I take
I take it on the road
Those kilometres and the red lights
I was always looking left and right
Oh, but I'm always crashing
in the same car

Jasmine, I saw you peeping
As I pushed my foot down to the floor
I was going round and round the hotel garage
Must have been touching close to 94
Oh, but I'm always crashing
in the same car

Musically, it's an unusual track because the most human sounding instrument is Dennis Davis' drumming, which fits in with a setting that is halfway between dream and reality. (Incidentally, this sound was clearly an influence on Radiohead - cf. "15 Step", for example.) Of course, the title tells us right away that we are in a world of recurring dreams, but ironically the first statement has a realistic ring to it ("Every chance/ Every chance that I take/ I take it on the road") in the sense that an automobile, like going to a movie, can free an individual from having to behave in a socially acceptable manner. For this protagonist, it seems like the only such outlet. The rest of the song gives us more, but not all, of the story, and listeners are free to supply their own endings and interpretations. Another musical aspect worthy of note: the way Bowie sings at some points with the beat and at others against it. Here's the way I hear it (today, anyway). I'll use regular type for parts sung with the beat, and italics for the parts sung against it:

Every chance,
every chance that I take
I take it on the road
Those kilometres and the red lights
I was always looking left and right
Oh, but I'm always crashing
in the same car

Jasmine, I saw you peeping
As I pushed my foot down to the floor
I was going round and round the hotel garage
Must have been touching close to 94
Oh, but I'm always crashing
in the same car

There's much more to being a great vocalist than having a "good voice". More on this (and Bowie) to come.

Sometimes a rock song can open an area of interest for a listener. I know this is true, because "E=mc2" (1985) by Big Audio Dynamite did it for me. The song, written by the group's guitarist and lead vocalist Mick Jones (ex-Clash), is often cited as the first to employ sampling, but the subject matter is what struck me. It's a tribute to the film director, Nicolas Roeg, and the lyrics (and the video, as well) refer directly to stories told in six of his films: Performance (1970), Walkabout (1971), Don't Look Now (1973) The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976), Eureka (1983) and Insignificance (1985) - although they do it in an oblique way. This is part of the homage, of course, because Roeg's films are known for being cinematic puzzles that require work and thought on the part of the viewer. You should look elsewhere for discussions of his craft, but the main thing is that the song made me check out his films and I became a big fan.
There is also a strong musical component in Roeg's work. Along with the fact that three of his films feature rock stars in leading roles (Mick Jagger in Performance, David Bowie in The Man Who Fell to Earth, and Art Garfunkel in Bad Timing: A Sensual Obsession from 1980), his films always use music and sound in interesting ways. I've found each of his pictures to be different from the others (i.e. not at all predictable) and very thought-provoking. After seeing one of his films, it definitely feels like something important has happened to you. The line in the song that sums it up for me: "Didn't think that you could get/ So much from a picture show". (The song is great as well, by the way.)

Roxy Music's Siren (1975) is one of my very favourite recordings. It can be seen as a quasi-cinematic depiction of a love affair that goes wrong, but memorably so. The album begins and ends with songs that are clearly meant to show the effects of experience on a single theme: romance as narcotic. "Love Is the Drug" is quintessential Roxy - all the glamour and thrill of nightlife in a modern cityscape. The opening footsteps and engine roar are the perfect dramatic introduction to the band playing at the best level they had yet achieved on record. The track (and the entire album) features the virtuosic and rhythmically powerful bass-playing of Jon Gustafson, and the others show that they are capable of supporting him (which sounds easier than it is). It is probably one of Ferry's great vocals as well - his blue-blood persona capable of combining passion and humour - something Elvis could do too, although in a different way. The next track, "End of the Line" features an astonishing melody (Ferry as a writer reminds me of Smoky Robinson, who also finds unusual and beautiful melodies in seemingly simple harmonic settings), stirring violin by the multi-instrumentalist Eddie Jobson (who was twenty at the time) and a lyric that perfectly describes the emptiness left when sex turns to unrequited love, as it often does.
The segue to the next track, "Sentimental Fool", is a feature for the thoughtful and original guitarist Phil Manzanera, who once joked that he'd made a career out of making the guitar sound like everything but a guitar. The opening line ("Surely you cannot be leading me on...") is another melody worthy of note which leads quickly to the second section of this through-composed tripartite song ("through-composed" means that the song is not "strophic", i.e. it doesn't have choruses or repeated sections). The lyrics show an internal argument as the narrator alternately berates and absolves himself:

Sentimental fool
Knowing that fate is cruel,
You ought to forget it.
Yes, I know it's true,
I've seen what love can do,
But I don't regret it.
Oh, you silly thing--
Can't you see what's happening?
You're better without it.
No, that's not the case--
If you were in my place,
Then you wouldn't doubt it.
Sentimental fool
Who broke the golden rule,
You couldn't resist it.
Though it's all in vain,
I'd do it all again
Just to relive one minute.

The song is a masterpiece. And so it continues, each song as distinctive and beautiful as the one before, leading to the album's climax: "Just Another High", the inverse to "Love is the Drug" and an ambivalent, heart-breaking ending to the story and the album. The song's honesty and exploration of real experience and emotion is a splendid example of the Roxy Music difference - by which I mean the qualities that distinguish them from those who would cover the same territories in less thoughtful fashions. Did I mention that they're touring again?

Big news: Roxy Music are touring (Europe only, so far) and Bryan Ferry has got a new album coming out in October. Ferry is another of the great songwriters whose beginnings were influenced by disciplines outside of music - in this case, visual art. He studied with Richard Hamilton (who's been called the English Warhol) at the University of Newcastle upon Tyne, but eventually opted for music, luckily for us. Of course, his work is deeply rooted in the visual: glamour, style, and the emotions that they simultaneously express and mask. Perhaps no recording artist has ever explored romance, in all its facets, as deeply as Ferry.
I mentioned on Sunday that Ferry (like Lou Reed and Ian Hunter) was greatly influenced by Bob Dylan, as both a writer and a vocalist. Of course, he's made no secret of the fact - recording cover versions of many Dylan songs and eventually releasing an entire album of them: Dylanesque (2007). You can clearly hear a similarity in tone (by which I mean attitude) to Dylan on many of his performances, especially the early ones. As well, many of his early lyrics feature a relentless verbiage that is, well, Dylanesque. Check out "Do the Strand", for an example. As time went on, he became more economical with his language. A good example is "Avalon", where a fairly innocuous story of romantic indecision is punctuated with the single word from the title, which opens a window into a world of romance (in its broadest sense) and imagination.
Over the past few years, Roxy Music and Bryan Ferry have finally received some of the credit they've deserved for a long time: some writers have said that they're second only to The Beatles in terms of influence on British rock music, which sounds about right to me. But there's one thing that always bothers me when I think about Ferry and Roxy: when people are asked to name their favourite album, no one (that I know of, anyway) ever chooses mine - Siren from 1975. Tomorrow, I'll try to explain my reasoning.

Paul McCartney once told a story about his relationship as a songwriter with John Lennon. If I remember it correctly, it concerned listening to a recording of the just-finished "Here, There and Everywhere" on a small tape deck in a hotel room during a tour of England. McCartney explained that they were both "northern lads" and therefore quite reserved (I guess you could say) in their words of praise for each other - not that there wasn't a great deal of appreciation and respect between them. Anyway, McCartney remembers Lennon saying, after listening to the song, "That's a good one, that one", which McCartney remembers as the biggest compliment Lennon ever paid one of his compositions.
Well, Lennon was right: it is a good one. The song features The Beatles in fine voice, with a splendid lead vocal from McCartney and inspired vocal backing from all of them. The introduction, marvelous and original, leads us into a tune that features both the keys of G major and G minor. The opening section is built on chords derived from the first steps (i.e. do, re, mi, fa) of the G major scale. With the lyric "wave of her hand" there is a shift to a minor sound (E minor). We are still essentially in the key of G, but a different chord within that key has become "tonicized" (i.e. become the new "do" of the moment - tonic is another word for do). This concept is crucial for a songwriter or listener to understand: basically, any chord can be of a passing nature or of a resting nature, and this song is an excellent one for hearing the difference. Then we have a shift to G minor (from G major) with the lyric "I want her everywhere" - which is known as a parallel shift, because the type of the chord has changed, but not the chord root. (The earlier change from G major to E minor is called a relative shift.) At the end of this G minor section the melody returns to major with the words, "But to love her is to need her everywhere", which I've always felt is one of the most sublime moments in all of popular music. No wonder John liked it.

Bob Dylan, as a vocalist, is hugely important. First of all, his rhythmic delivery is awesome. Listen to "Like a Rolling Stone", for example, where his singing is easily the most powerful timekeeper in the group. Also, the melodic contours that he finds are not the usual ones. Try singing "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue", and you'll see what I'm getting at. Third, he makes us consider what we are getting from listening to a singer. For instance, many people who see him in concert are astonished at how he changes the phrasing and melodies of his songs, almost to the point where they are unrecognizable - one of the main reasons that he does so is a simple one: he doesn't want the crowd singing along with him. And finally, in terms of influence, leaving aside the obvious examples (virtually any "singer-songwriter"), the rockers Lou Reed, Ian Hunter and Bryan Ferry are directly and deeply in his debt as vocalists. Listen to "Prominent Men", "Sweet Angeline", and "Virginia Plain" for evidence. I don't know about you, but I don't even want to imagine a world without The Velvet Underground, Mott the Hoople, and Roxy Music. Could these groups have existed without Dylan? The answer, my friend... (Suggested listening: "Queen Jane Approximately")

Dylan's switch to electric instruments is rightly considered a pivotal moment in rock history. Both Don't Look Back (1967) and No Direction Home (2005) do a good job of documenting some of the fallout. But just as significantly, Dylan's lyrics were undergoing a radical transformation at approximately the same time. He was moving from the tangible world to a symbolic one, and his lyrics became both more puzzling and more direct - quite an achievement. When songs become symbolic, the listener is called upon to do much of the work, i.e. to return the descriptions and events back to the physical plane of existence. Let's take a look at a song performed in Don't Look Back - "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue" from Bringing It All Back Home (1965):

You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun
Crying like a fire in the sun
Look out the saints are comin’ through
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue

The highway is for gamblers, better use your sense
Take what you have gathered from coincidence
The empty-handed painter from your streets
Is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets
This sky, too, is folding under you
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue

All your seasick sailors, they are rowing home
All your reindeer armies, are all going home
The lover who just walked out your door
Has taken all his blankets from the floor
The carpet, too, is moving under you
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue

Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you
Forget the dead you’ve left, they will not follow you
The vagabond who’s rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore
Strike another match, go start anew
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue

No doubt there are some wonderful lines in this song (the one about the lover and his blankets, for example, has always struck me as hilarious). But without symbolic interpretation, the listener might feel a little stranded. The first verse, for example, tells us about "[our] orphan with his gun/ Crying like a fire in the sun", who might be thought of as representing something that has been abandoned during a life, but which now has a brooding or even threatening presence and can't be ignored. And the second part of the line ("Crying like a fire in the sun") asks if one more person crying really matters in a world like this one. But of course, these are only some of the possibilities. The fun and usefulness of this type of writing is found by each individual listener (or reader), and the meanings keep on changing, and adding up.

At this point in his career, Dylan was probably looking for a way of expressing his ideas without giving himself away entirely - many of the confrontations in Don't Look Back seem to emanate from this point, it seems to me. He had already written "Blowin' in the Wind". What else needed to be said in a song about civil rights? Some have said that Baby Blue is Dylan himself, and that this song was written to keep himself bucked up in the face of the many gathering storms ahead. I doubt we'll ever know if that's true, but I do know that it can do so for us, if we want it to.

I'm always amazed when I think about Bob Dylan's output from 1963 to 1966. During this three-year period, he wrote and recorded Freewheelin', The Times They Are A'Changin'; Another Side of Bob Dylan, Bringin' It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, and Blonde on Blonde. How could this happen? Six albums in three years, two of them in Rolling Stone's all-time top ten, some of the greatest songs ever written, covered by thousands of artists in all styles (one of the greatest jazz performances I've ever heard was the bassist Dave Young's solo version of "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright". If anyone out there knows of a recording, please let me know.) At first glance, this explosion of creativity seems to have come out of nowhere. For example, his first album (released in March of 1962, a full year before Freewheelin's May 1963 release) contained only two original songs and eleven covers of standard folk songs.
His autobiography, Chronicles, Volume One, contains some clues. The first chapters deal with the characters and musicians that he met in his early days in Greenwich Village. He also shows great knowledge of the traditions and artists of folk music. And there are some wild and wonderful descriptions of rock and roll singers: for example, Roy Orbison " sang like a professional criminal." But the most telling sections are about the reading that he was doing in those days. He was playing as much as he could, but making next to nothing. Therefore, he was forced to crash on couches of friends and peers. During his free time, he read their books - everything from the classics to history, modern literature to poetry, medicine to philosophy. He's very honest about how he went about it - starting in the middle and going back to the beginning if he liked the book, and not necessarily finishing everything, for instance, but never stopping the reading itself.
I had a music teacher once who would try to encourage his students to keep slogging away by saying, "You have to take root to fly." It seems like that was what Dylan was doing in those days: taking in the sights, sounds and people of New York; listening deeply to folk, blues and rock and roll; singing and playing at every opportunity; and reading creatively, with great width and depth. The results? The astonishing period from May 1963 to May 1966 described above, and an incomparable recording and performing career of over forty-eight years that continues to this day.

By the way, my name is George Wall and I am a guitarist and occasional composer who started this blog about a month or so ago. My idea was to focus on the listener's experience with music. Here are some of my reasons for doing so: 1. People who participate in music always begin as listeners. 2. To improve one's listening ability can help in any other challenge one faces. 3. I've been very fortunate to learn a lot from teachers, musicians, family and friends - and I'd like to pass on as much of it as I can. (I hope I can remember all of it.) I should also mention that the opinions you read in this blog are mine alone - in case there's some blame to be dished out at some point. 4. I love music, and I'm enjoying trying to explain why.
Here is the link to the MySpace page of my rock and roll jazz duo:

http://www.myspace.com/moondogduo

and another to hear some of my piano pieces:

http://www.myspace.com/georgelbwall

I'll be writing about Bob Dylan tomorrow.

Steely Dan's debut album, Can't Buy a Thrill (1972), begins with a song that has retained its distinctiveness all the way to 2010. "Do it Again" as a musical creation speaks for itself - one listen is all it takes - but as a lyric, it demonstrates the literary backgrounds, skill and flexibility of its composers. It is a song that deals with themes of addictive and/or self-destructive behaviour in a most unusual (and vividly realized) setting: a Western. Also, it is written in the second person ("In the mornin' you go gunnin'/ For the man who stole your water/ And you fire 'til he is done in/ But they catch you at the border...") - another rarity - which provides the listener with the feeling of being at the center of the action. The song also contains examples of literary techniques such as synecdoche ("Then you find you're back in Vegas/ With a handle in your hand...") - something else you don't find in every rock song.
The other nine songs are just as interesting. Many topics and themes are touched on in many different ways. There is political commentary ("Kings", "Change of the Guard"), musings on the passing of time ("Midnight Cruiser"), contemplations on the causes and effects of failed romance ("Reelin' in the Years", "Dirty Work"), discussions of alienation and cynicism ("Fire in the Hole", "Only a Fool Would Say That") and songs that must be considered symbolically in order to glean their meaning ("Brooklyn", "Turn that Heartbeat Over Again"). And it's all done with wit, style and the light touch of art. Of course the music follows suit, as it has all through their astonishing career. But, you tell me, would the growth of their music have been possible without the lyrics?

Steely Dan's story is an amazing one. The band, essentially the songwriting duo of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker, began working together after meeting in 1967 at Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson, New York. They were English majors. The amazing part is that their musical career, which rivals the most important composers and/or recording artists in popular music history in terms of variety, depth and sophistication (their peers are people like Duke Ellington) was really a creation in large part of their literary backgrounds - or at least would not have been possible without their literary backgrounds.
First, to approach their songs properly, one must recognize that they are essentially short stories (or narrative poems, if you prefer). As a matter of fact, it could be argued that they are as accurate as anything in recent fiction in terms of describing modern sensibilities.
Second, over the course of the nine Steely Dan studio albums, and the five solo albums (three by Fagen, two by Becker), their lyrics have developed at the same rate as their musicianship and recording studio knowledge. In fact, the music may have developed partially as a result of the lyrical growth. (Try to imagine the story told in "Black Cow", for example, without its musical setting.)
Their first album, Can't Buy a Thrill (the title is a line from Dylan's "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry") is the best place to begin, and we'll do that tomorrow. Listening: two tracks that didn't make it onto Can't Buy a Thrill - "Sail the Waterway" and "Dallas" - available on YouTube (cf. "Black Cow").

It seems that the most successful songwriters are the ones with the greatest interest in literature. It could even be argued that the musical development of the most accomplished ones is more a function of the stories and ideas they wish to express than the study of music theory, or anything of that nature. The words shape the music, therefore, and not the other way around. Over the next few days, I'll be trying to prove these contentions with the assistance of some well-known examples, including Steely Dan, Bob Dylan, Lennon and McCartney, David Bowie and Bryan Ferry.
Speaking of musical artists with literary ambition, I recently saw When You're Strange, the documentary about The Doors (Tom DiCillo, writer and director), and enjoyed it. It made me think of their career and music quite differently than I had before. In the next little while, I'm going to revisit their six studio albums and I'll be writing about the experience in this space.

Led Zeppelin was certainly one of the most misunderstood bands. For one thing, the group was comprised of professional studio musicians. (The photo on the back cover of the first album is more representative of what the members were really like than any other that I've seen. The image that grew around them was more representative of the time and their success than reality.) In listening to their music, one can hear very clearly the professionalism and musicianship that went into the recordings. For an example, listen to the bass lines in "Stairway to Heaven", or to the opening track ("Good Times, Bad Times") on the aforementioned first album: It is one of the most sophisticated studio performances by a hard rock band ever. Compare it with tracks by other bands of the same time and genre, like Blue Cheer, for instance. And this was their starting point, remember.
But like all serious musicians, the band's primary interest became learning and improving. Therefore, experimentation and long passages of improvisation became integral to their work. All four members participated, including Robert Plant, the vocalist. The interplay between Page and Plant became one of the band's innovations. (It could be argued that no other group got so much out of their singer.) Also, their music was based so completely on the blues that some have accused them of plagiarism. (Eliot's line about bad poets imitating as opposed to good poets stealing comes to mind.) But it was a respectful, almost scholarly approach to the blues, not a haphazard one. What resulted from all of this was a group that was never formulaic - their albums and songs display amazing diversity - whose songwriting and studio mastery rivaled anyone's, including The Beatles. As supporting evidence, I recommend giving "The Rain Song" a listen. (To learn more about their music, In the Houses of the Holy: Led Zeppelin and the Power of Rock Music by the musicologist Susan Fast is a must.)

On June 27, while describing Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra, I gave the following in regards to sonata form: "The basic concept of this form is that there are two theme groups (or melodies with variations), played one at a time, and then mixed together (usually in several different keys) in the development section, and then reprised in the recapitulation." For a brief definition, that works well enough. Today, I would like to direct your attention to a famous example of the form: the first movement of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. (If you search Beethoven's Fifth Symphony in YouTube, you will be able to hear the same version, and more importantly, use the same times to which I refer. It is 7:05 in total length.)
First Theme Group - 0:00 to 0:44
Second Theme Group - 0:44 to 1:21
(All the above is then repeated.)
First Theme Group - 1:21 to 2:05
Second Theme Group - 2:05 to 2:42
Development Section - 2:42 to 4:00
Recapitulation - 4:00 to 7:05
(Note that the first section, i.e. the first and second theme groups is precisely 1:21 in length, both times. This means that the conductor and orchestra kept the tempo perfectly.)
At this point in music history, the different forms used by composers were being stretched and experimented with; this was one of Beethoven's major contributions, among many. In this piece, it is the recapitulation where that fact is most evident.
Of course, the descriptions of form and so forth can be much more technical than what I've provided here, and there is plenty to read and learn about in this area, but my concern here is that listeners grasp the main concept: two contrasting ideas are played separately, then mixed together, and finally, resolved. The listener who can hear sonata form (when it's present) will be able to understand how musical ideas are developed, contrasted, integrated, etc. He or she will also be able to hear much more deeply into the music. Listening: the above of course, but also try some of Beethoven's influences - particularly symphonies by Haydn and Mozart.

"Ballet is a lovely grove - its branches forever tossing on the winds of music."
I heard this on a television program years ago, and I'm sorry, but I can't remember the name of the show or the source of the quote - but I'll share it with you anyway. (If you can help with the missing information, please put it in a comment.) Some listeners feel that many composers write their greatest music for ballet (and/or other dance forms). It would be hard to argue that Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev and Stravinsky did otherwise, for example. Debussy's Prelude a l'apres-midi d'une faune, however, was written as a tone poem (a very free compositional form) and then later choreographed by Vaslav Nijinsky for Les Ballets Russes. The piece came almost twenty years before the ballet, and it is my contention that it did a lot to shape the direction of modern dance and Les Ballets Russes.
Because it was written in a new harmonic language (see yesterday's post), and inspired by a Stephane Mallarme poem, it is a piece that suggests both freedom and cross-pollination between art forms. (It is like sonic Art Nouveau.) This became the essence of Les Ballets Russes, where the greatest choreographers, dancers, painters and composers of the early twentieth century were inspired and informed by each other. (Some have argued that the most influential figure in modernism was not an artist in any traditional sense, but rather an entrepreneur: Sergei Diaghilev, the director of the company.) The list of names involved is unparalleled in terms of achievement and influence, and it's startling to think that all of that work may have been (at least partially) inspired by a piece of music, ten minutes in duration.

The turning point in modern classical music was Claude Debussy's Prelude a l'apres-midi d'une faune. After this piece, music was never the same. The main factor involved was the entirely new concept of thinking of harmony as non-structural, which meant that any set of sounds could lead to any other, depending on the intention (and skill) of the composer. Before, a chord was first and foremost considered as part of a key, and either prolonged a passage or led to some sort of cadence. Chords were labeled with roman numerals and elaborate names, which by the very act of doing so, implied how they were to be used. Listen to this piece and compare it to anything by Mozart, for example, and you'll hear the difference immediately. Tomorrow: more on Debussy and a discussion of Les Ballets Russes.

One interesting theory regarding jazz history has it that instrumentalists and composers have alternated in moving the music forward. It goes something like this: In the twenties, it was an instrumentalist (Louis Armstrong); in the thirties, a composer (Duke Ellington); in the forties, another instrumentalist (Charlie Parker); in the fifties, a composer (Thelonius Monk and/or Miles Davis - take your pick); in the sixties, an instrumentalist (John Coltrane); in the seventies, a composer (Charles Mingus, although he started much earlier). It's an oversimplification obviously, but it is an interesting one. In rock and roll's formative decade, the most important composer (songwriter, if you prefer) was also the most important instrumentalist: Chuck Berry. Yesterday, I wrote a little about his lyrics, today his contributions to the guitar.
Chuck Berry is rock and roll guitar. Every rock guitarist must come to an understanding of the way he plays to have any authenticity in their sound. The deeper they go into his work, the more successful they become. (Yesterday, I mentioned that neither the Beatles or Stones would have existed without him - I forgot to mention The Beach Boys.) It is fascinating to listen to early Berry recordings because he is so far ahead of his band rhythmically. You can often hear them learning as the song goes along. (Part of the reason for this is how each player interprets the three vs. two of blues, jazz or rock - more on that to come - but essentially Berry was a few years ahead of his band at this point.) His rhythm playing is the quintessential sound of rock and roll. His introductions were (and are) amazing in their power and originality. His solos had all the wit, excitement and intelligence of his performing. But perhaps most importantly, he also showed, definitively, that the way forward for rock was to be found in studying and extrapolating from the blues. As a matter of fact, with retrospect, it's probably appropriate that his work be considered alongside (I mean equal to) the blues in its importance to and influence on rock and roll.

Chuck Berry's contributions to rock and roll music are unsurpassed by anyone. I don't think there can be a lot of debate about that - for starters, I doubt whether the Beatles or Rolling Stones would have existed without him. But, on top of that, he may be the greatest lyricist that rock ever produced. His humour, his documentation of teenage life (Sal Mineo said that in Rebel Without a Cause, James Dean invented the teenager. I'm not discounting the idea, but I think it could be argued that Berry got there first), the world-view he demonstrates, his incredible eye for detail, the rhythms in the words themselves: who has done better?
For an example of all the qualities mentioned above, read the lyrics (while listening to the song, of course) to "You Never Can Tell". At first, it may seem that not much happens in the story, but actually, a lot does. For one thing, the song shows that optimism can be cool (a rare combination, unfortunately, in rock). It also deals with the necessary interdependence of the generations. Finally, it provides positive examples of thoughtful, fun-loving young people. Chuck Berry is a master; we're still catching up with him. More on the man tomorrow.

Further to yesterday's discussion of Ian Hunter, the lyrics to "Irene Wilde" from All-American Alien Boy (1976) are both straightforward and profound. It's a story of early rejection, sorrow and eventually, resolution. Yesterday, I mentioned Hunter's honesty. Here's an example: according to what I've heard, Irene Wilde is the real name of the person involved (hence: "Smile through your shock/ As you hear your name aloud"). Like many of his words and opinions, this decision may leave us uncertain as to whether we like him at that particular moment, but the fact that he makes the honest choice (not simply the one that puts him in the best light) is a large reason for the longevity of his work. Ultimately, the song leaves the listener with a useful thought: "And I think most folks agree/ A little put-down makes them see/ They ain't no chain, they're just a link/ And that's why you made me think/ I'm gonna be somebody, someday". I hope every teenager hears this song.

The album's title track was about a more recent upheaval in the singer's life: his move to America. It deals with culture shock, bewilderment and more. (It also contains one of the more sophisticated political comments found in a rock song: "Don't wanna vote for the left wing/ Don't wanna vote for the right/ I gotta have both/ To make me fly". The sophistication comes from the realization that maybe a system with opposition and debate, rather than one party having all the power, is most likely to produce freedom - radical as that may sound to some.) The song ends with lists of all types of Americana in a very funny Dylanesque ramble. It also features one of the greatest solos ever put on a rock record by the incomparable bassist, Jaco Pastorius, as well as stirring contributions from David Sanborn on sax, and Gerry Weens on guitar. But throughout the song and album, it's Hunter's intellectual and emotional honesty that sets the tone. Musically and lyrically, it's a great album. Listen to it, and read the words.

There is some debate as to whether Mott the Hoople ever realized their potential in the studio - their reputation as a live act was immense. I can't comment: I've never seen them, but I do like their albums, a lot. My favourite is the one called Mott (1973) as it contains some of their best and most poignant songs. Two lyrics stand out for me, both dealing with life as a rock and roller: "All the Way from Memphis" and "The Ballad of Mott the Hoople". The songs show Hunter's ambivalent feelings about his life and career choices, but ultimately he comes to an understanding, of a sort: "Rock and roll's a loser's game/ It mesmerizes and I can't explain/ The reason for the sights and for the sounds/ But still the greasepaint sticks to my face/ So what the hell, I can't erase/ The rock and roll feeling from my mind". His music has kept that feeling in the minds of many.

The word "sentimental" gets thrown around a lot when discussing poetry and song lyrics. I'm not sure that it's always used correctly. For me, the best way of understanding the term (in its derisive sense) is when an artist says nothing new about a subject, or worse, something everyone already agrees with, and the listener is not provided anything fresh or useful. There's nothing to learn, nothing to think about. For example, understanding the true nature of the rock and roll experience is a complex task - an artist that can help in that regard is rare. Not to put too fine a point on it, but most songs written about rock and roll are dumb, dishonest or both.
This brings us to today's subject: Ian Hunter and Mott the Hoople. Mott the Hoople was one of those bands that did not achieve great popular success during their time, but made huge contributions to the field itself. Groups as divergent as Queen and The Clash would agree on their importance and influence. Ian Hunter, the group's singer and primary songwriter has had a career (with, and for the most part, without Mott) that has spanned six decades. He recently turned 71 (!) and continues to record and tour. (Incidentally, Mott the Hoople recently reunited for a series of London concerts in October, 2009 and got big reviews for them.) And the main reason for his longevity and influence is that his songs are honest. Two albums contain all the supporting evidence this statement needs: Mott (1973) and All-American Alien Boy (1976). Robert Frost once said something along the lines of "90% of writing is having something to say". Tomorrow, I'll try to convince you that Ian Hunter did and does.

How does music create imagery? And I mean the same type of imagery that poetry does. It's remarkable, if you think of it. An example for today: the first movement of Gustav Mahler's Symphony no. 2. One story regarding its writing has it that a friend went to visit Mahler in his summer composing hut on Lake Attersee in Upper Austria and was amazed by the view of the mountains that it provided. Mahler said something like, "Never mind that. It's all in the music", and proceeded to play him a draft of the piece in question. Incredibly, he was right. Listen to it and you'll "hear" (or is it "see"?) the mountains.

But how did he do it? What techniques would allow a composer to render alpine scenery in music? Considering this question should make us realize the infinite potential of music to make listeners think, feel, visualize and grow conceptually. It's as awesome as a mountain range, or anything else in nature.

The albums made by Al Green and Willie Mitchell for Hi Records in the seventies are among the greatest recordings in American music history. They display their greatness in many ways: the song-writing, arranging (i.e. the writing of parts for the various instruments. It is not quite the same as orchestration in classical music, which is more about distributing already written lines to the proper sections of the orchestra. Arranging is on a par with, and is in fact similar to, composing in terms of importance in some types of music. It became an accepted art form with the advent of jazz.) and of course, Al Green's entirely original and wonderful singing. But the aspect of the recordings that I'd like to discuss today is the sound achieved by the instrumentalists. In music, "touch", "feel", and "time" are the primary reasons that a player achieves a great sound. Touch involves knowing precisely how hard to hit each note - for the tempo and mood of the piece, for the phrase being played, for the place of the part within the whole. Serious instrumentalists spend a great deal of time practicing with metronomes to achieve the fullest sound possible. It's like focusing a microscope and involves listening for both the primary and secondary waves of each note. A great player can make a quarter-note sound like it has an eighth-note twin, or even a triplet just by how he or she plays it. "Feel" involves understanding the layers of played and implied rhythms, and playing accordingly (one of the hardest things to do in music is to play swing eighth-notes in jazz, for example). "Time" is the ability to maintain a tempo, and to understand and play what Hendrix called "what goes between the notes".
Which brings us back to the Al Green albums. These recordings, under the direction of Mitchell and Green, are masterpieces of sound, and the reason for that is the touch, feel and time of the many players involved. To this day, to give one example, you will not hear drumming sound more beautiful on a pop recording than on Call Me from 1973. If you haven't heard it and the rest of these albums, put your ears on.

The Size of Song

Some rule of birds kills off the song
in any that begin to grow
much larger than a fist or so.
What happens as they move along
to power and size? Something goes wrong.
Bird music is the tremolo
of the tremulous. Birds let us know
the songsters never are the strong.

One step more on the way of things,
we find a second rule applies
to birds that grow to such a size
they lose, or start to lose, their wings:
they start to lose the very strings
of sound itself. Give up the skies:
you're left your weight. And your last ties
to anything that sings.

- John Ciardi

A great and thought-provoking poem, I hope you agree, that always brings to mind one of the most original of rock acts: Sparks. The Mael brothers, from Los Angeles, during a career of over forty years and twenty albums, have explored aspects of life not usually covered in rock songs: nervousness, trepidation, confusion, awkwardness. Their sound is so distinctively "the tremolo of the tremulous" that first-time listeners often don't stick around long enough to recognize what their fans do: their stuff is a blast.
For an introduction to the band, I would recommend their fourth album, Propoganda (1974). It starts with the very bizarre (even for them) title track, one of the few a capella pieces that could be qualified as disturbing. There are fearful and funny tracks like "Reinforcements", "B.C.", and the sublime "Don't Leave Me Alone with Her" (the line that follows: "Every home is Rome alone with her.") "Something for the Girl with Everything" includes the memorable wish: "Here's a really pretty car/ I hope it takes you far/ I hope it takes you fast and far." Their songs are always tuneful, and there are particularly exquisite melodies on "Never Turn your Back on Mother Earth", "Achoo", and "Bon Voyage". But you have to get past the fact that the tone and content of their work is unusual.
Another line in the above poem ("...the songsters never are the strong.") makes me realize why I so rarely find music of interest in acts of any genre that try to hide their humanity by pretending to be "tough" (or "hard", as the English say). It takes courage to show fear (and make music) - a bit of a paradox, but there it is.