Robbie Robertson's "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down", the third track on The Band (1969), may be his greatest song. And that's saying a lot. The song is the first-person story of a Confederate soldier who has lost family members and his livelihood, who has endured tremendous suffering and starvation, and who then must face the task of rebuilding everything, including his sense of belonging to a country that he's not sure he understands. It's a remarkable achievement, because every word (and every note) sounds genuine, as though the song were written in the 1860's, rather than a century later. It's interesting that the note of confrontational celebration in the chorus, when "all the bells were ringing" and so forth, was not one in which Lincoln indulged. When news of the formal Confederate surrender came to him, he ordered the band to play "Dixie", saying "I've always considered it one of the finest tunes I've ever heard".

The Band's self-titled second album is generally acknowledged as a rock masterpiece. I certainly agree, and today and tomorrow, I'd like to discuss two of its songs. Let's start with the final track. "King Harvest (Is Surely Come)" is a rock and roll song in the best sense of the word - because it mixes many styles, including blues, country, and r&b into something completely new. And it's full of surprises - from its intro to its unusual structure that juxtaposes different measure lengths and moods, to its use of two lead singers, to Levon Helm's brilliant drumming - it all combines into exceptionally dramatic music. And then there's the lyrics.

The song tells the first-person story of a bewildered, destitute farmer who turns everywhere for help, without getting any. The chronology of the song (or lack of it) mirrors his sense of bafflement, and suggests the way that one's past can be looked at from so many angles that the order of events may become confused. It also brilliantly examines the way a mind can jump around when it's under duress - and lines that treat the beauty and mystery of nature ("The smell of the leaves from the magnolia trees in the meadow...") are followed abruptly with references to time spent on skid row. Like the greatest artistic events, it's hard to pin down and it keeps adding meaning, but it isn't vague - as a matter of fact, if any rock song could be used to illustrate Stanislavsky's great dictum, that "generality is the enemy of all art", it's this one.

It's certainly not an original opinion to consider Martin Scorsese's The Last Waltz (1978) as the greatest rock concert film. It has been done. But the challenge that we have, when we have a great work in front of us, is to try to understand how it got that way. OK, Scorsese had a head-start, I guess you could say, with the occasion that was presented to him: the final concert of one of the most accomplished and important rock groups ever - with guest appearances by Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Muddy Waters, Neil Young, Eric Clapton, Van Morrison and many others, in an elegant setting worthy of the company (one of my favourite moments is when Ronnie Hawkins walks out on stage, looks around, and turns to Robertson and says, 'Big time, Robbie!'"). But the simple fact is that Scorsese and his crew of filmmakers did their work so well as to be almost invisible. Until you start to think about it, that is. First, the quality of the sound recording is exceptional - and of course, The Band have a lot to do with this. The opening number of the movie is actually the final encore, a cover of the Motown hit, "Don't Do It", and it demonstrates the relaxed, powerful, deep-groove playing that can only be honed in settings where pleasing the crowd might be necessary for survival (The Beatles had similar experiences, by the way). Second, the camera work is simply astonishing - it seems like there's magic in every shot, and something to be learned there, too. There are some amazing moments in the segments shot on the soundstage, as well, where chair-lift type devices were used to create camera movements that I'm not sure I've seen elsewhere. The version of "The Weight", done with The Staples Singers needs to be watched several times to be properly appreciated. Actually, you could say this about the entire film.

It seems evident to me that had Scorsese not directed films, that he would have been a musician - it's so deeply entwined in his work. And it's interesting to try to understand what lessons he learned from it, and how he applied them to his films. I had a teacher who once said, "In twenty-five years, everyone in the world will be studying music". I hope he was right.

Before writing about my favourite concert film tomorrow, I wanted to write a short post about the great musical taste of its director, Martin Scorsese. It seems like music has been a major source of inspiration for his remarkable career, and he has used it to great effect in all of his movies (the ones I've seen anyway). Here are a few that come to mind immediately: 1. The undervalued The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), which features a compelling Peter Gabriel soundtrack. 2. The recent psychological thriller, Shutter Island (2010), where the music is astonishing throughout, with a soundtrack that includes compositions by Penderecki, Cage, Ligeti, Brian Eno and others, but one scene in particualar is rendered unforgettable by the use of Mahler's Quartet for Strings and Piano in A Minor. 3. The crime story, The Departed (2006) which, like so many of his films, makes memorable use of thoughtful rock selections, but which earned my eternal gratitude for bringing "Sail On, Sailor", one of my favourite Beach Boys' songs, back to my attention. Of course, I haven't even mentioned his brilliant music documentaries or concert films yet. That'll be tomorrow.

The jazz singer Mark Murphy has released thirty-eight albums over the course of a recording career that began in 1956. His adventurous phrasing and improvising have led to him being called the Bobby Fischer of jazz. His two most recent albums - Once to Every Heart (2005) and Love Is What Stays (2007) - are probably his two best. (For me, this is the mark of a great artist: the fact that there is improvement throughout a career. It's a testament to the work ethic of jazz musicians that this happens more frequently in jazz than in other styles - in my opinion, anyway.) All of his recordings are worth hearing in fact, but it's in concert where his artistry really shines - it's like watching a singing conductor. He gives the band cues for entries and when they should be tacet, he controls rhythms and tempos, all while singing in a unique, highly evolved style. You can get a sample on his website: Check out "Empty Faces" in the video section. But see him live if you get the chance.

"Goodbye Pork Pie Hat", as I mentioned yesterday, was Charles Mingus' musical elegy to the great Lester Young. Its brilliance comes from its combination of the familiar and the unexpected (Ezra Pound's formula for art), because it is a twelve-bar blues that contains extremely unusual chord changes. This prevents improvisers from playing stock phrases (i.e. their vocabulary) in a rote manner - in other words, it forces them to play like Lester Young (i.e. right). Suggested listening: Mingus Ah Um (1959), Joni Mitchell's Mingus (1979), anything that features Lester Young.

Here are some of the subjects that I'll be writing about in the days ahead: one of Stevie Wonder's masterpieces from the seventies, one of Little Feat's brilliant albums, The Band, Mark Murphy and more.

Yesterday, I mentioned that Brad Mehldau's flame-throwing version of John Coltrane's "Countdown" was an appropriate tribute for the song's writer. This put me in mind of another tribute to a very different, but equally important sax player. "Goodbye Porkpie Hat" was written by the jazz bassist, composer and bandleader Charles Mingus, according to legend, on the very night that Lester Young died. Young, one of the most influential musicians in jazz history, was known for his thoughtful, melodic style. Someone once said of him, "If you don't play like Lester, you're wrong." I've always taken this as a reference to the fact that his measured, melodic style was actually improvised (he once said that he tried to not be a "repeater pencil") because a lot of jazz isn't. In fact, it relies on thoroughly memorized lines or licks known as vocabulary, which can be played over standard chord patterns that make up most of the repertoire. Memorized vocabulary is as crucial to jazz playing as verbal vocabulary is to conversation, and acquiring it to the point where it can be summoned at a moment's notice (to quote another Coltrane title) is an undertaking that requires many years of work. But any type of vocabulary, in language or music, can become repetitive or boring with overuse. Lester Young didn't like to be boring in either of these ways, and his playing is known for its constant inventiveness, as was his language: He was the originator of what was then called hipster style, and he's credited with adding many words and expressions to the language. "Cool" is one of them. Tomorrow, I'll discuss Mingus' tribute. For today, I'm going to suggest you type Lester Young Billie Holiday Fine and Mellow into YouTube, and watch the great singer transfixed by her longtime collaborator's solo - he's second. Some writers have called it the greatest chorus of blues in jazz history. It was the last time the two played together. (You can read more on this 1957 TV special - it was called The Sound of Jazz - at Wikipedia.)

John Coltrane's "Countdown" is a song that superimposes elaborate substitute chord changes onto the Miles Davis jazz standard "Tune Up". The concept behind these substitutions come from Coltrane's famous "Giant Steps", which was an original composition that was built upon major seven chords a major third apart, a large (and unusual) leap in a harmonic progression - hence the title. (It's interesting to note the similar harmonic movement in the bridge of Rodgers and Hart's "Have You Met Miss Jones?", which may have been Coltrane's inspiration.) Both "Countdown" and "Giant Steps" are still considered to be pieces that challenge even the best improvisers.

The album discussed yesterday, The Brad Mehldau Trio Live (2008), contains a spectacular version of "Countdown", which features Mehldau's almost unbelievable ability to solo coherently with both hands simultaneously. I know that jazz pianists spend a lot of time cultivating the independance of the hands, but I've never heard anyone else do it quite like this. It's a thrilling display of technical virtuosity, which is an appropriate tribute to the piece's composer.

On another note, Mehldau has, erroneously, been compared many times to Bill Evans. Aside from the fact that Mehldau has also led a trail-blazing piano trio, his playing has very little in common with Evans', and he has said so in print several times. Comparisons like these can be distressing to musicians, because they can create doubt as to whether the audience is getting what they're doing. (Some of the problems arise with under-qualified writers saying almost anything to fill a column or review. I'll be writing more about this soon.) In fact, it's a sign of erudition in a listener to be able to determine which earlier musicians were direct ancestors to a younger one's style. And to listen to improvising musicians with this in mind gets us pointed in the right way - toward the importance of tradition and the role of study in jazz. So, a question: who do you hear in Mehldau's playing?

The brilliant young American jazz pianist Brad Mehldau (who turns forty today) has frequently covered Radiohead, as I mentioned yesterday, but also The Beatles, Sufjan Stevens, Paul Simon, Nick Drake, and on his 2008 release, The Brad Mehldau Trio Live, the alternative rock acts, Soundgarden and Oasis. The album is state-of-the-art jazz, and it features his equally adventurous partners, the bassist Larry Grenadier and drummer Jeff Ballard. Today, I'll discuss the opening track, their version of the yob rock group Oasis' "Wonderwall".

The original is a tongue-tied, teenage love song that contains a strong melody despite indifferent playing. The Mehldau Trio's version, however, provides one of the most sophisticated instrumental performances that a song of this genre has ever had. One of the really interesting things about jazz is the way that it can be used to explore the forces that make up a piece of music - its rhythms, harmonic motion, counterpoint, texture. It's like a physics experiment in some ways. And this recording does all of it. But as I've mentioned before, the complexity of this style requires that it be given the benefit of multiple hearings. It simply won't reveal itself to a half-hearted listener. So don't be one. (Tomorrow: a discussion of another track - this one a jazz standard.)

The band I was referring to yesterday is Radiohead, of course. Their songs have been covered by many jazz artists, including some of the most celebrated of the current generation: Chris Potter, Robert Glasper, and especially, Brad Mehldau, because, by my count, he's recorded versions of four of their songs, and they've become staples in his repertoire. I'll be writing more about him soon.

Today's topic is the song entitled, "Dollars and Cents" from Amnesiac (2001). Like "I Love Paris" (see yesterday), it also features major-minor interchange as one of its central components. In this case, it's a B chord that moves back and forth freely between major and minor - a very unusual harmonic movement - that helps to create the song's otherworldly atmosphere. Also worth noting are the thoughtful performances of each member of the band. Radiohead's music is distinctive not only for its compositional sophistication, but also for the fact that each member is responsible for working out his own contribution to each song. Their process, ironically enough, is quite the opposite from the improvisational approach that a jazz group would (mostly) employ. (Suggested listening: Compare their version of "Knives Out", also from Amnesiac, with The Brad Mehldau Trio's from their 2005 album, Day is Done.)

Since major-minor interchange, also known as mixture, is something that I've written about previously, I'll give only a brief definition today. (By the way, I can't really avoid there being some overlap of subject matter between various posts. I'll try to minimize it, or at the least, add something new when it does happen.) Basically, a key centers around one note - known as the tonic. But several types of scales can be built on it. When a piece employs two scales, one major and one minor, we use the terms above. OK, for the next couple of days, I'd like to turn your attention to some very different songs that employ the concept to remarkable effect.

Today's piece is "I Love Paris" by Cole Porter. This song provides perhaps the clearest example of the technique that I've heard, simply because the first half of the song is in minor and the second half (which begins after "... when it sizzles") is in major, at which point it feels as if the sun has broken through the clouds. Porter used major-minor interchange in many of his greatest songs, including "Night and Day", "What Is This Thing Called Love?", and "All of You". (Ella Fitzgerald's versions on Sings the Cole Porter Songbook are highly recommended.) His masterful use of mixture is one of the reasons that his songs have been played so frequently (and continue to be) by the greatest artists in jazz. Tomorrow: a song by a rock group that has also inspired numerous jazz cover versions.

Joni Mitchell's "Help Me" from her classic 1974 album, Court and Spark, provides a wonderful example of how a key can be expanded through the use of parallel harmony. I'll define this term in a minute, but first this: One way of thinking of a key in music is as a house. And a house can be simple and easy to understand immediately, or it can be complex with many rooms and hallways and so on. But in both cases, for the house to be beautiful, it must be clearly only one house. In music, the chords built from only the notes of a key are called diatonic, and they have been used to harmonize all types of melodies in all types of music. They are crucial, but most musicians try to find ways to expand keys by bringing in sounds and chords from other keys. These chords (and notes) are called chromatic (due to their colourful quality, I suppose). Now back to parallel harmony. This term means that the structures themselves (rather than the individual notes) create the glue that holds the piece together. In "Help Me", it is the structure known as the major seven chord that is used to accomplish this.

Now the diatonic chords in the key of G are the following: G major seven, A minor seven, B minor seven, C major seven, D seven, E minor seven, and F# minor seven (flat five). Notice that there are only two major seven chords. OK, here are the chords in "Help Me" (also in the key of G): G major seven, F major seven, C major seven, Bb major seven, D major seven, A major and E minor. So there are five different major seven chords used, and each one takes us into another chromatic room in this glittering mansion of a song.

Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble were one of the very few groups that could be considered peers with The Jimi Hendrix Experience - in other words, at the very top of blues and/or rock lists. Both groups featured virtuosic guitarists who were also reticent vocalists (although they shouldn't have been) backed by rhythmically sophisticated, yet frequently understated rhythm sections.

Now the goal of a serious band is known as "groove", in musician. And both of these groups had a ton. When a musician can play with touch and power, while listening intently and responding to the others in the band, he is said to have "great time". (One of my teachers, another great guitarist, said that he wouldn't play in a band that didn't consider time to be its primary concern.) When the entire band can do it, they are said to play "deep time", one of the highest compliments possible, and the only kind these two bands deserve. Suggested listening: "All Along the Watchtower", "Wait Until Tomorrow", "Cold Shot", "Couldn't Stand the Weather". Everything grooves (including the singing).

Frank Sinatra's Watertown (1970) is an undervalued classic. It is a song cycle (or concept album, if you prefer) written for him by Bob Gaudio (one of The Four Seasons) and Jake Holmes (most famous for writing the Led Zeppelin cornerstone, "Dazed and Confused") that deals with middle age in middle America. The story is a simple one: a wife leaves a husband and children behind, and the man goes through many emotional states as he tries to deal with it. The instrumentation is closer to rock than jazz, which is unusual for Sinatra. In fact, the sound of the album is similar to some of The Four Seasons' recordings. And it works wonderfully. It is poignant and honest, and it treats a time of life that is not considered often enough in popular music. Sinatra's performance is, as always, majestic. (Sinatra's consistency as a singer is unmatched.)

One writer said that the story is an allegory, with the wife standing in for Sinatra's audience having left him during the sixties, etc. (More detail on this is available if you search Watertown Sinatra in Wikipedia.) I'm not sure about this idea - for one thing, Sinatra didn't write the material - but if it is true, it's the audience that was wrong. Of course, we don't have to be now.

(Note to readers: I've started another blog. It's called Star of England: A Blog on Shakespeare. The link is on the right. Check it out, if you're interested.)

Yesterday, while writing about "Little Wing", I mentioned that in the song Hendrix transcended his rhythm and blues roots. A couple of points: 1. Rhythm and Blues was a term invented by Jerry Wexler, a producer for Atlantic Records. He was looking to replace "race music" (understandably) to describe African-American popular music. Rhythm and blues, therefore, is not the same thing as blues, which is an older and more specific (or narrower) genre that is primarily based on a particular AAB, twelve-bar song form. (Stevie Wonder is usually considered the greatest living r&b artist. B.B. King is at the top of the blues list.) 2. Both r&b and the blues are crucial to Hendrix' playing, and he expanded the possibilities of both styles. 3. Most lead guitar blues playing is based on a pentatonic (i.e. five-note) scale. This leads some to believe that the music made from it is somehow simpler than other improvised forms (jazz, for example). This is a mistake. One doesn't count the colours in a painting to determine its complexity or power. The same goes for music. Hendrix' playing rivals anyone's in any genre. If you don't believe me, listen to "Come On (Part 1)" from Electric Ladyland (1968).

Perhaps the most beautiful guitar playing on a rock record is the introduction to "Little Wing" from Axis: Bold as Love (1967), by Jimi Hendrix. To me, it is a perfect example of Picasso's great aphorism that states, "A work of art is one that keeps on changing even after it's finished", because every time I hear it, it sounds different. It is based on a vocabulary that Hendrix learned and developed while playing with a variety of rhythm and blues acts including the Isley Brothers and Little Richard. But it transcends its roots. One of the reasons it does so is its almost unbelievable rhythmic depth. One of my teachers once said, "When I think of Hendrix' time-feel, I want to smash things up and run into the street screaming." (He was serious, by the way.) Another quote about Hendrix comes to mind, although I forget the source: When Hendrix first played London, someone at the back of the crowd said, "You'd better not go to the front of the stage; it's all wet up there." He was asked to explain. "All the guitar players are crying." We still are.

(By the way, it is very much worth checking out some of the cover versions of the song, including the one on Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs (1970) that features both Eric Clapton and Duane Allman, and Stevie Ray Vaughan's instrumental version on The Sky is Crying from 1991.)

One of the reasons that the guitar has been such an important instrument - arguably the most important, in popular and folk music anyway - is that it is capable of playing any note. By this I mean it can play any of the hundreds of notes located between, say, D and D# on a piano. These notes are sometimes referred to as microtones, and most western music has deemed them unnecessary (although quite a few composers have experimented with them). In certain types of music however, they are crucial - particularly in blues (but also in jazz and country).

Probably the most important aspect in blues guitar playing is the bending of notes, which is accomplished by pushing (and in some cases, pulling) the strings up (or down) the fretboard. This creates a quality that is sometimes considered vocal in its sound. You can hear it clearly in the playing of B.B. King, Eric Clapton, Albert King, etc.

Today, I'd like to turn your attention to one of the greatest examples of microtonal, string-bending, blues guitar playing in existence: Duane Allman's solo on "Stormy Monday" from The Allman Brothers at The Fillmore East (1971). (Search Stormy Monday in YouTube and you'll find it.) The solo begins at 3:36 and builds in intensity throughout, until it reaches its climax at the 4:58 mark (approximately) where the same note is repeated eleven times (by my count). But with tremendous pitch control achieved through string-bending, it never sounds the same twice. The solo is remarkably expressive and powerful, and it is music that could only be created in this style and on this instrument. Of course it requires a masterful player as well, and Duane Allman is still considered among the very greatest, despite his having died in a motorcycle accident three months after the release of At Fillmore East, and a month before his twenty-fifth birthday.

Here's just one of the things that is so great about listening to George Jones: Vowels are the most important sounds for a singer; notes couldn't be held without them. With George Jones, they just sound so cool. The tune that I suggested yesterday, "He Stopped Loving Her Today" (often ranked at or near the top of all-time country songs), has a great example in the chorus: Listen to the way he pronounces "her" - just amazing. There are many other songs and examples that are equally great.

Yesterday, I mentioned that I felt the best description for Jones was as the Frank Sinatra of country. I say this because both singers created a sound that is unique - strongly influenced by their time and place, and yet timeless. Also, their tremendous experience allowed them to develop a technique so strong that it's easy to overlook. The result of all their effort is a natural and personal style. But the more music I listen to, the more respect I have for them. The most obvious common ingredient is their tremendous rhythmic sense. This leads to the "size" of their voices. Try this little experiment with either singer: Play a record by another singer from the same genre, then, without touching the volume control or anything, play one by Jones or Sinatra. Well?

For those who still don't like country music, two thoughts:

1. No country music - no rock and roll.

2. As the song says (one of the greatest song titles ever, by the way): "Don't Get Above Your Raisin'".

Just a short note today regarding what I'll be writing about over the next few days. I mentioned George Jones yesterday, and have spent some time listening to the great man today. It occurred to me that a good way of describing him would be as the Frank Sinatra of country music. And then I realized that I haven't written about Frank yet, either. I'll correct those two situations very soon. I've also been remiss in not putting down some thoughts on the ne plus ultra of rock instrumentalists: Jimi Hendrix. I'll be writing about him and other great rock six-stringers, including Clapton, Albert King, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Duane Allman in the next week or so as well.

As always, my focus will be on enriching the listener's experience (I hope) with all music, by presenting the best examples I can find from my own sonic adventures. (Suggested listening: "He Stopped Loving Her Today", "All or Nothing at All", "Crosstown Traffic", "Driftin' Blues", "Born Under a Bad Sign", "Crossfire", "Stormy Monday")

Whoever came up with the term "progressive rock" didn't do the genre any favours. It implies that the rest of rock is what? Regressive? (Another one is "intelligent dance music". It may well be accurate - artists like Autechre and Aphex Twin are brilliant, but it comes off as arrogant, I think you'll agree.) Now I doubt that the artists themselves are in favour of labels to begin with (which come about, for the most part, because some critics don't have much else to say), let alone ones like those mentioned above, but I do know that the concept behind much of prog rock has been much maligned, particularly by those with punkist sympathies (like me). The idea, which probably started with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, is that rock could be more ambitious and/or expansive in both technique and composition.

Well, like any genre of music, it's had its ups and downs. I would argue however, that no style of music should ever be dismissed out of hand. Listeners will cut themselves off from a lot of good stuff if they do. Good music takes effort and integrity; it's not the style that determines the quality. (I'm always shocked when someone tells me they don't like country music - particularly if they can't name a single George Jones song.) But a piece that you must hear (or hear again, as the case may be) came to mind recently when I wrote about Peter Gabriel and his leaving Genesis. "Supper's Ready" is a twenty-three-minute through-composed masterpiece that stands as an eloquent counter-argument to anyone who takes a swipe at the band - or the genre. (Particularly recommended is the "new stereo mix" version.)

"Hold it, fellas... That don't move me. Let's get real, real gone for a change."

In "Milk Cow Blues Boogie", Elvis Presley re-enacts the legendary events of a few months earlier during which rock and roll (or at the very least, one of its main sources) was born. Apparently it happened during a break in recording, with Elvis picking up his guitar and starting to "goof around", in his words, and singing a souped-up version of "That's All Right (Mama)". Sam Phillips asked what he was doing, and then famously said, "Just don't lose it." He didn't, and the rest we know.

A few points:

1. Rock and roll is "blues with a country beat", said Carl Perkins. It's still the most succinct and accurate definition. (It's also important to remember that most innovations in anything come from combining elements that already exist. It's one more reason that learning the poetic concept - where something new is seen through something familiar - is so important.)

2. You've got to love "gone" as an adjective, as in "That cat is gone." (Many cool words came from musicians, including the word "cool" itself. More on Lester Young soon.)

3. "Exuberance is beauty." - William Blake

4. "Hearing Elvis was like a jailbreak, and I didn't even know I was in jail." - Bob Dylan

Further to yesterday's post: Another great Radiohead song to try conducting to is "All I Need" from In Rainbows. It's a very interesting structure because the verse is in 4/4, but it is based on an unusual harmonic rhythm (i.e. the rhythm determined by the chord changes). In 4/4, most chord changes occur either every four or every two beats. They do in this song as well, but with one important difference: There is a pattern of three chords, with the first and second chords being four beats in length, and the third only two. This creates a ten-beat pattern, the equivalent of two and a half measures. Double that, and you have a verse built on five-measure phrases. It creates a very unique effect, in my opinion, an awesomely beautiful one. Radiohead's music is frequently misunderstood. All kinds of crazy things have been written about them. But the fact is that their music is some of the most thoughtful that rock has ever been graced with. Don't let others make up your mind for you. Put your ears on.

Also, further to yesterday's post: I used Peter Gabriel's "Solsbury Hill" as an example of a rock song in 7/4. But the song is notable for another reason as well: It treats the time in his life when he made the decision to leave Genesis, and to start his solo career. It is very interesting to look at the lyrics in that light. (Cf. The Beatles' - or is it Paul McCartney's - "Blackbird".)

Further to yesterday's discussion of meter, and conducting as a way to better hear it - here are two interesting (and well-known) rock songs that use the unusual 7/4 time signature: Pink Floyd's "Money", and Peter Gabriel's "Solsbury Hill". In this meter, a good conducting pattern is a measure of three and then a measure of four or vice versa (see yesterday's post for instructions for conducting in both three and four). Try them both with the two songs, and see which fits better for each. Also, at certain points the time shifts back to straight 4/4 - see if you can figure out where. (The answers are available in the songs' Wikipedia entries.)

Another interesting technique used by composers is the concept of "disguising one", wherein it is not easy to determine where the count begins. Two Radiohead songs come immediately to mind: the first is "Let Down" from OK Computer, which could be thought of as beginning with a bar of 23/4 - not exactly the traditional "One Two Three Four!" of rock and roll. (Thanks to Ethan Iverson's great Do The Math blog for this, by the way.) The other is "Videotape" from In Rainbows, where the band itself had a lengthy discussion regarding the location of one. There are plenty more examples from their repertoire that are worthy of discussion, and over time I hope to get to more of them.

It sounds strange at first, but there are two ones in a piece of music. The first is the central note of the key (also known as do, or more formally the tonic), and the other is the first note of the repeated pattern that sets the piece's meter. Being able to identify both allows a listener to hear much more deeply into the music. Today, we'll discuss the second of the above: the meter. It is useful to learn a few fundamentals of conducting to assist in this process.

There are three main types of conducting pattern - in two, in three, and in four. (The rest are essentially combinations of these three.) The pattern for conducting in two is the simplest: 1. down 2. up. (This is where the term downbeat comes from, by the way.) To conduct in three requires a right triangle shape: 1. down 2. right 3. up. And finally, in four is shaped like a plus-sign: 1. down 2. left 3. right 4. up. That's all you need to get started.

OK, first of all, nearly all rock is in 4/4 time, so let's use a straightforward but interesting example: "Satisfaction" by The Stones. The drum is played on all four beats, so it's very clear. But notice the extra beat between 3 and 4. It's a wonderful touch because it gives the song a unique rhythm, but without clutter. And a good example to use for 3/4 is Jerry Jeff Walker's "Mr. Bojangles". 2/4 is rare in popular music, but nearly all marches (as you might expect) and polkas use it. Try "Egyptian March" and "Tritsch-Trastch Polka", both by Johann Strauss II. More on this tomorrow.

As time moves along, we notice that many rock bands have integrated a larger number of influences than in years past. Top of the list, of course, is Radiohead who have managed to bring together jazz concepts from Dixieland to Miles Davis, advanced composition and orchestration techniques from modern classical music, electronic influences, and of course rock and roll, particularly via punk. (I don't know if it is common knowledge how much Thom Yorke is indebted to Johnny Rotten in terms of singing style. Check out "Bodysnatchers" or "Electioneering", if you don't believe me.) I'll be writing about them much more in posts ahead, but today's topic is a jazz trio who have, unbelievably, virtually the same diversity of taste as Radiohead. The Bad Plus, an acoustic jazz piano trio from Minneapolis, have done cover versions from every style mentioned above - and more, in fact. They've covered songs by The Pixies, Nirvana, Queen, Heart, David Bowie, The Bee Gees, Stravinsky, Aphex Twin, Ornette Coleman, Black Sabbath, and Roger Miller among many others. Their most recent release, the splendidly titled For All I Care (2009), is an album entirely comprised of covers. It is also their only recording to feature a vocalist: Wendy Lewis, also from Minneapolis, who fulfills her duties brilliantly. Their previous albums were mostly made up of originals - all three members, Ethan Iverson on piano, Dave King on drums, and the bassist Reid Anderson make compositional contributions - but the cover versions got a large portion of the attention. And it wasn't always positive: Many critics felt that they were poking fun at the originals and that they were indulging in a sort of musical irony. The band disagreed, and hence the album (and title) mentioned above. My opinion? There is some humour in their work, but the effort that they put into their versions says it all. They wouldn't spend all that time (doing a jazz cover is an arduous process, particularly with the attention to detail of this group) if they didn't respect the material and its sources. We can look forward to a new album, to be called Never Stop and consisting entirely of originals, in September.

Led Zeppelin's version of "Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You" from their 1969 debut album (written by Anne Bredon and discovered by Page and Plant on Joan Baez in Concert, Part One from 1962) is very interesting. Musically, it provides an excellent cross-section of the Led Zeppelin sound - the folk and blues influences, the acoustic and electric guitars, the dynamic ranges of all four members - it's all there. It also gives a fine example of how they put as much effort (and originality, strange as it may sound) into their versions of non-original material as they did into their own. Listen to the two versions (they're on YouTube), and you'll hear what I mean.

Their treatment of the lyric is also worth noting, because the protagonist is shown struggling with a decision, seeming to make up his mind, only to reverse it shortly thereafter. Some commentators have credited Shakespeare as being the first artist to show characters doing this - to literally show characters thinking during a story. (Before him, characters spoke in a style that is best described as declamatory - in other words, they simply announced their situation and/or mindset directly, with little or no second thought. Come to think of it, there are still plenty of stories in books and on film told that way. And although this style may be superficially entertaining, there are two problems with it: 1. It's unrealistic, because it's not the way people are. 2. It's boring, because it leaves the audience with nothing to think about.) Back to the song. My main point in all of this is that the song is actually the reverse of the common situation - on the surface, it's a simple story, but it isn't really, because it shows a human mind at work.

On July 12, I mentioned When You're Strange, Tom Decillo's recent documentary about The Doors, and said that I would be writing about them soon after giving their work another listen. Well, here goes:

The Doors were just slightly before my time (I was born in 1962) so I probably didn't appreciate their contributions the way I should have. For most of my life, I wasn't a fan - and not for the first time, I was wrong. With the help of the film, and older ears, my perspective on their music has changed. At the top of my reasons for new-found respect is the fact that they put the poetic aspect of their work at the forefront. They weren't hiding it behind any sort of ironic detachment: it was their reason for being. Jim Morrison's background was more of a literary nature than a musical one, but this allowed him to forge a unique identity. His singing I'll get to in a moment, but as a performer, well, the film puts it best - he had "the rare combination of intelligence and danger", (I realize now that frontmen like Iggy Pop wouldn't have existed without him) and that he was essentially personifying the poetes maudits like Verlaine and Rimbaud that had been such an influence on him. Of course, William Blake gave the band its name, and what a name it was. There'd be an argument for it being top of the list.

Musically, their strengths came from their weaknesses. Morrison's lack of experience made him a self-conscious vocalist - he sounds like a macabre easy-listening singer who can just barely control a demonic alter-ego, (check out "Light My Fire", both the record and on Ed Sullivan, for an example). Robby Krieger played without a pick, which is rare in rock, and he seemed to have more background in flamenco than the blues - but this too became central to their sound. Ray Manzarek covered both the keyboard and bass duties, which gave a slighly lighter touch to their music than one might expect of a band of their type. Finally, the drummer, John Densmore, was the best player in the group. Like two other greats of that era, Keith Moon and Mitch Mitchell, he had the power of a rocker and the inventiveness of a jazzer. In other words, he played with great energy and sensitivity without repeating himself. As I once said about Charlie Watts, I doubt this band would have been famous without him.

One of the central qualities of their music as a whole is its sense of discovery - one feels that the band is learning as they go, and that each song is a new adventure. Except for Densmore, they weren't great musicians (compared to, say, The Jimi Hendrix Experience), but in rock that can be a plus. I had a teacher once who said he would rather be working on student compositions than studying the works of Mozart, because in the students' music there is life. In the music of The Doors, there's a lot of it. And to be fair, it is easy to hear each member making major musical strides over the course of their six studio albums.

In the film, Jim Morrison gives Robby Krieger some concise and valuable song-writing advice: make sure that each line has more than one meaning. This is central to poetry, and to art in general. Of course, it's also the listener (or reader) who must keep that concept in mind - to read poetry, one must think like a poet. And to appreciate The Doors, one must listen like one.

In my July 23 post, I mentioned the influence that Nicolas Roeg's The Man Who Fell to Earth had on its star, David Bowie. Today, I'd like to discuss the influence that Robert Benton's film, Bad Company (1972), had on the group of the same name. Obviously the film so inspired the singer, Paul Rodgers, that the first album, its best song, and the group itself were all named for it. (I believe that Public Image Ltd. and Wilco are the only two other groups to have accomplished the song, album, name trifecta, but there may be others.) The film is about draft dodgers - from the Civil War, not Vietnam - and their misadventures on the frontier. Now, it could be argued that film has always had a large effect on rock and roll - Elvis Presley could recite Rebel Without a Cause from memory, for example - but this case is a particularly explicit one. The film's story and characters seem to have provided the band with the personae that they have used, in both songs and performance, from their prime in the seventies to this day.

Some might say that this is a form of dishonesty, and that they prefer performers to be more "real" with themselves and their audience - the confessional approach, it used to be called - and they might have an argument. But it eventually comes down to the fiction vs. non-fiction debates that readers have occasionally. Yes, fiction is not "the truth", but when it influences someone so deeply that it gives them direction and purpose in life - as is the case with the many scientists whose interests and careers began from reading science fiction novels - what could be more real than that? (Incidentally, Bad Company's two leaders are Rodgers, formerly of Free, and Mick Ralphs, formerly of Mott the Hoople. They've made some very strong hard rock albums, particularly early on, that stand up well today. Rodgers, as a singer, is considered one of the best rock has produced, and Ralphs is a thoughtful, less-is-more rock guitarist. Suggested listening: Run with the Pack from 1976.)

Just as each person is made from two parents (and therefore two genetic sources), musical compositions often are too. Yesterday, in discussing John Deacon's "You're My Best Friend", I mentioned that a song can be strongly influenced by the situation it comes from - in this case, a very experienced bassist working in a world-class rock band, receiving encouragement and feedback on his writing. Today, we'll be considering another singular song, written by another experienced bassist, in another world-class rock band: "Can't Buy Me Love" from A Hard Day's Night (1964). Paul McCartney had a lot of harmonic knowledge from the pre-rock repertoire (you can hear evidence in early songs such as "I'll Follow the Sun" and his cover version of "Till There Was You".) He also had a tremendous gift for rock and roll, both as an instrumentalist (The Beatles would not have been The Beatles without his bass-playing), vocalist (listen to "I'm Down") and writer ("I Saw Her Standing There" is a great early example). And all of it comes together on "Can't Buy Me Love", a song which mixes pop chord changes - in the opening where the title is sung twice, and the blues, by way of rock and roll - in the section that begins with "I'll buy you a diamond ring, my friend...".

The theoretical aspect of the blues is understood differently by virtually every musician who is involved with them, and one of these days, I'll share a few of my own thoughts on the subject, but one thing is for sure: certain notes and chords become available to a key that are not in other styles. In this case the key is C, and two of the "blue notes" made available are Eb and Bb, and the chords used in this section (C, F and G - it's a standard twelve-bar blues, in fact) become dominant seven chords. This gives the song two separate terrains to explore. It's comprised of two different sets of genes, I guess you could say, sort of like The Beatles, as a group, and as individuals.

Why is it that on one day I'll write about a work like Ravel's Le Tombeau de Couperin and the next about a rock and roll song ("Wild Thing" on one occasion)? Well, first of all, I started as a rock fan and I've remained one. For a while there, I thought that maybe rock had run its course. But great artists like Radiohead, Wilco and others restored my faith. Also, it's important to remember that what distinguishes one type of music from another is primarily the process used in making it. For example, no other style of music sounds like jazz - because jazz is put together in a very specific way. Not even great composers can emulate its sound, and I mean people like Gershwin, because the steps involved are different. (I like Rhapsody in Blue - a lot, actually - it's wonderful, but it's not the same sound as jazz. I'll be writing more on the processes involved in jazz on another occasion.)
One of the things that makes rock great is that it accepts every possible type of input and/or method. As Lou Reed once put it (I'm quoting this from memory): "In rock and roll, anyone can hit one out of the park." The upshot of all this: rock (perhaps more of a concept than a type of music) has got unbelievable diversity, and can produce songs that are unique. Which brings us to today's subject, "You're my Best Friend", from Queen's A Night at the Opera (1975). On an album filled with great and distinctive songs, this one stands out for me. Written by the bassist John Deacon (he and the drummer, Roger Taylor usually contributed one song per album - most of the writing was done by Freddie Mercury and Brian May), it's a beautiful rock and/or pop song that doesn't sound like any other I've heard. It's harmonically and rhythmically sophisticated, and yet natural at the same time, and it came to be because a particular situation allowed it to. Moral of the story: if a listener does not try to appreciate the best from all styles of music, then a lot is being missed. (Also to be enjoyed - a great performance from the band and Freddie's refulgent singing. I should also mention that although Deacon didn't write as many songs as some of the others, he did write some of their biggest hits, including "Another One Bites the Dust" and "I Want to Break Free", and others that should have been, such as "Need Your Loving Tonight".)

Maurice Ravel once said about his most famous work (Bolero) that it was "a piece for orchestra without music". Two things come to my mind about this comment: 1. He wrote the piece to learn and to teach about orchestration (see yesterday's post), and therefore the relative lack of musical material was intentional. 2. He had very high standards. Some of his works contain so much music that they are almost overwhelming - an example being the ballet entitled Daphnis et Chloe (1912), where the harmonic settings and melodic ideas are unbelievably complex, and yet not a note is out of place. It's an astonishing listen.
Today, though, I'd like to turn our attention to Le Tombeau de Couperin, a piano suite written as an elegy to friends who were killed during World War I. It is comprised of six short pieces, some based on dance forms (Forlane, Rigaudon, Menuet), and others on compositional structures (Prelude, Fugue, Toccata). It is unique in that it is considered a masterpiece as a work for solo piano (it requires a very high degree of virtuosity), as well as for orchestra, because Ravel later orchestrated four of the pieces (he excluded the Fugue and Toccata, although they have been done by others since) and they too have entered into standard concert repertoire. Usually, if one wants to hear the most adventurous and/or experimental work of a composer, the pieces for smaller ensembles (or solo instruments) are the ticket - for two main reasons. One: composers are less willing to take chances when the livelihoods and reputations of many people are involved. Two: some sonorities that sound fine on a piano (or the like) do not come across as well when the multiple timbres of an orchestra are involved, unless the composer is also an orchestrator of the highest rank, as is the case here. So a rare listening opportunity presents itself with this work - to compare and contrast its two forms, and to try to learn what Ravel is telling us about the orchestra, and music, and art - and how they are inspired by both the living and the dead.