Asia: Phoenix

ASIA: PHOENIX (2008)

1) Never Again; 2) Nothing's Forever; 3) Heroine; 4) Sleeping Giant / No Way Back / Reprise; 5) Alibis; 6) I Will Remember You; 7) Shadow Of A Doubt; 8) Parallel Worlds / Vortex / Déyà; 9) Wish I'd Known All Along; 10) Or­chard Of Mines; 11) Over And Over; 12) An Extraordinary Life.

Uh-oh. Here we go inflating the old balloon again. As you might recall, the one thing that made «late-period-Payne» Asia slightly more palatable than «early-period-Payne» Asia was that the band considerably toned down their ambitions, positioning themselves as relatively «humble» adult contemporary artists rather than the save-the-world type. Now that Payne is out and Howe, Palmer, and Wetton, the authenticated mastodonts of prog, are back in, the new old Asia's first stab at a studio album is re-brimming with ambition.

Yeah, let us face it, «pretentious» is a fairly appropriate word to use in the negative sense when you have to review a record that immediately greets you with such lyrics as "I saw the universe, I held it in my hand / The planets and the stars, merely grains of sand". (This seems to be an Asian translation from Yesian, which makes it more understandable for the people at large, but also more vulnerable to vitriolic critical stabs). The words come riding on the back of a Big Genera­tor-style pop-metal riff, and eventually burst out in an anthemic chorus where we learn that "Ne­ver again will I bear arms against my brother, never again will I dishonour anyone", which Wet­ton sings with such passion, bravour, and authenticity that I am actually inclined to take a cauti­ous look into his criminal record.

Apparently, it was decided that there was no point in making another Asia album if it did not try to take the band to the next level, rather than just being an exercise in nostalgia. As a result, this particular Phoenix seems to have risen out of anabolic ashes: almost everything is loud, big, sprawling, multi-layered, «cosmic», whatever. Unfortunately, everything is still Asia, and that means more often silly-sounding than cathartic. The illusion might be that they have reinvented their sound, and are now trying to conjure the classic «progressive» spirit — in reality, though, they are still spinning rather trivial arena-pop, whose triviality is only barely covered with layers of keyboards and guitars.

One thing to say, though: Steve Howe. Either they begged him, seeing the error of the old ways, or he blackmailed them, having nothing to lose either way, but more than half of the songs fea­ture fabulous guitar playing from Steve, and I don't mean the Big Generator riffs: I mean richly me­lodic, free-flowing, complex solos that the man normally reserved for Yes or his solo projects. It starts already on the second track, the happy-sad anthem ʽNothing's Foreverʼ, but peaks later. The opening to ʽAlibisʼ, for instance, is clearly reminiscent of the heavenly pedal steel playing on ʽAnd You And Iʼ, and the song's coda, where Howe duels with Downes' harpsichord, is far more imaginative and elegant than the vocal part.

The most depth and complexity is attained on the ʽParallel Worldsʼ suite, where the vocal part only functions as a thematic introduction ("There's a vision I see..." and the rest is self-understo­od). The voyage through a ʽVortexʼ and into the psychedelic world of ʽDeyaʼ is excellently struc­tured, going from a dynamic, swirling section that features Palmer's most energetic drumming for the day, into a paradisiac section, first with a bit of cheesy Spanish guitar, but then with an elec­tric solo that, to tell the truth, is mood-wise more Steve Hackett than Steve Howe (replete with prolonged wailing notes so typical of the other Steve), but is nevertheless quite moving.

Besides, Howe is the only one in the band who remembers anything about subtlety. One of my fa­vourite tracks here is ʽOrchard Of Minesʼ (no, no, it is not about Bosnia or Iraq; it is actually a cover of a song originally done by the Globus «ensemble», of Immediate Music), if only for tho­se barely audible high-pitched notes that Steve plays against Wetton howling "to know... to feel... to play me once again" during the song's climax. If you ever happen to listen to that song, don't forget to tune your ears in at around 3:45 into the song for some elite aural delight. (I'm sure there must be other moments like these on here, but I couldn't bring myself to waste time on additional listens: Howe or no Howe, this is still an Asia reunion, and there is only so much time one can allocate oneself on an Asia reunion).

As for the pop stuff, well... it's manageable, not too annoying arena-pop with moments of genuine catchiness. Trivial, but sincere: ʽAn Extraordinary Lifeʼ was apparently written by Wetton after a risky surgery, and reflects all the honest joy that one usually does not feel about life until after ha­ving been exposed to the risk of losing it, so, no matter how banal the sentiment, I cannot bring myself to feel too bad about it. And Wetton's aged voice actually serves him well: even a ro­mantic ballad as straightforward as ʽHeroineʼ is sung normally, without trying to rise to operatic heights (but when will these lyricists ever learn not to use the word "heroine" in a love ballad? Don't they understand that this brings an entirely new light to the line "I hold the razor blade up to my face" that begins the song?).

On the whole, Phoenix is probably as good as Asia could ever get at that point, and almost probably better than everyone believed it could get. The old boys handle their pomp with care, allocate plenty of time to their best musician, and get away with at least one complex prog instru­mental. Of course, trying to convince us that they are continuing the tradition of classic Seventies' progressive rock rather than their own one is useless: to do that, they would have to get rid of Geoff Downes and John Wetton and bring in Rick Wakeman and Jon Anderson... could be a great band, come to think of it. But, in any case, Phoenix upholds and strengthens the modest reputa­tion of Asia. Had they simply disbanded around 1985, it would have been an old men reunion. Instead, it is a semi-successful attempt at setting things straight. Thumbs up.

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Average White Band: Shine

AVERAGE WHITE BAND: SHINE (1980)

1) Catch Me (Before I Have To Testify); 2) Help Is On The Way; 3) Watcha Gonna Do For Me; 4) Let's Go Round Again; 5) Into The Night; 6) Our Time Has Come; 7) For You For Love; 8) If Love Only Lasts For One Night; 9) Shine.

Somehow I forgot to mention that the noticeable shift of sound from Warmer Communications to Feel No Fret had much to do with the band's change of label and, more importantly, producer: from Atlantic veteran Arif Mardin they went on to Victor Records and new producing guy David Foster, one of the big heroes of mainstream Eighties pop. It was under his guidance that the Ave­rage White Band began and completed the transformation into the Average White Automaton; which, naturally, does not take the blame off the shoulders of each individual member as well.

Shine is basically Feel No Fret No. 2, but goes even further in the direction of dispensing with the «live» feel and machinizing the sound of the band. They still play their own instruments, even the drums, but all of the grooves have been streamlined, and there is a stiff, robotic feel to all the tracks — exactly the kind of thing Foster was aiming for. Thus, it does not really matter any more if it is the AWB playing this shit, or any other run-of-the-mill dance band with ten years of heavy practice behind its back.

The pretentiously jovial ʽLet's Go Round Againʼ managed to become a minor hit single here; and as far as generic, but expertly produced disco goes, it is neither better nor worse than any other such minor hit single. The chorus is catchy, the rhythm is danceable, the strings and horns well placed, and Hamish even gets to play a melodic solo. But crowd pleasers like that really go for a dime a dozen, and I would rather take ʽHelp Is On The Wayʼ, whose vocal melody is nowhere near as easily memorable, but not as silly, either.

Alas, the only track on here that is vaguely reminiscent of the AWB's former «average greatness» is ʽInto The Nightʼ. It is almost completely instrumental (apart from a few mood-setting vocal lines in the «chorus»), so you do not have to put up with Gorrie's formulaic falsetto. It has a per­fectly well worked out brass groove that takes a brief, but effective musical idea and explores it, unlike the horns on the other tracks, which merely exist to provide an extra sonic layer. It is «fun­ky-pretty» rather than «disco-crappy», and is more influenced by Stevie Wonder than Donna Summer. If anything ever survives from Shine, it's gotta be this one rather than ʽLet's Go Round Againʼ — I'd rather have the mainstream disco epoch be remembered through its clever facets than its populistic anthems.

Still, if you like smooth, perfectly polished, un-annoying disco as background muzak to accom­pany your home chores or morning aerobics, Shine might find some sort of useful application: when played loud enough, it will effectively hinder your sleeping reflexes. This is why the pre­dictable thumbs down reaction arrives hatred-free.

Curious P.S.: It is exceedingly funny how all the reviews of these late-period AWB on Amazon rave about their greatness and consistently come furnished with 5-star ratings. It takes a stupid person like me a few minutes to realize that, in most cases, there are about three to four reviews for each, and that, most probably, they are all written by nostalgic 50-year old geezers whose me­mories of this music are inextricably tied in with memories of their first sexual experience. Tee­nage musical experience can be so detrimental, once you think of it.

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Andrew Lloyd Webber: Cats

ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER: CATS (1981)

1) Overture; 2) Prologue: Jellicle Songs For Jellicle Cats; 3) The Naming Of Cats; 4) The Invitation To The Jellicle Ball; 5) The Old Gumbie Cat; 6) The Rum Tum Tugger; 7) Grizabella: The Glamour Cat; 8) Bustopher Jones; 9) Mungojerrie And Rumpelteazer; 10) Old Deuteronomy; 11) The Jelllicle Ball; 12) Grizabella; 13) The Moments Of Happiness; 14) Gus: The Theatre Cat; 15) Growltiger's Last Stand; 16) Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat; 17) Ma­ca­vi­ty; 18) Mr. Mistoffelees; 19) Memory; 20) The Journey To The Heaviside Layer; 21) The Ad-Dressing Of Cats.

This review is for the Original London Cast of Cats, which, predictably, is a little less Broad­wayish than the Original Broadway Cast, although the two are only separated by one year, and the difference is not particularly striking. As usual, there are dozens of subsequent versions as well, including a relatively tolerable movie (musically tolerable — the idea of enjoying people jump around in stupid cat make-up has, for some reason, never appealed to me at all), but review­ing all of them would be quite a chore, considering that I have no deep love for the original.

It is a bit ironic, of course, that Sir Andrew would go completely song-and-dance on a piece of work drawn from the art of T. S. Eliot. But then, the original Old Possum's Book Of Practical Cats could hardly be called a «peak of intellectualism» all by itself. And if we take Cats in the on­ly reasonable way it could be taken — as a «show for the entire family, with emphasis on the kids» — then it has to be agreed that Webber did manage to find a perfectly appropriate musical vibe to fit the funny feline adventures as narrated by Old Possum.

Cats are lightweight, kitschy, and occasionally corny; and ʽMemoryʼ has been overplayed to such a terrible death that, like the Beatles' ʽYesterdayʼ, it is one of those songs today that one may find almost im­possible to enjoy on a gut level. Still (okay, here goes), ʽMemoryʼ is a great song, even despite being covered by Barry Manilow and Celine Dion, and there is quite a bit of excellent music to be found on the rest of the album as well.

The big colorful advantage of Old Possum's Book is that it introduces such an enormous variety of characters, exploring all sides of cat psychology; and, respecting that, Webber took the right decision to represent each of these characters with a different musical style — which makes Cats into his most eclectic oeuvre of all time. Let us see. There is some old time flapper jazz (ʽThe Old Gumbie Catʼ); some playful R&B (ʽThe Rum Tum Tuggerʼ); a bit of mock-Wagnerian opera (ʽGri­za­bellaʼ); some folk-pop (ʽBustopher Jonesʼ); nods to «classic» Rogers & Hammerstein and the like (ʽOld Deuteronomyʼ); kiddie sing-alongs from Sesame Street (ʽSkimbleshanksʼ); spy mo­vie muzak (ʽMacavityʼ); big, brawny glam-pop (ʽMr. Mistoffeleesʼ); and even a lengthy multi-part suite (ʽGrowltiger's Last Standʼ) that could, for almost ten minutes, evoke a progressive rock feeling in whoever would be willing to properly assess its complexity.

The bad news is that the atmosphere of it all way too often seems either «cutesy» or downright «silly». The two and a half minute long ʽOvertureʼ, mostly built on pianos and synthesized horns and strings, is inspiring and occasionally even tense, but as the ʽPrologueʼ leads you on into the world of merrily dancing predators singing "jellicle songs for jellicle cats", you might begin to wonder whether you have just been politely asked to surrender a significant part of your brain, and if yes, then what are your actual gains from surrendering it.

Clearly, nobody should be afraid of a little silliness from a grown-up person, but when that silli­ness takes on the form of a major stage musical, that may be a little over the top. Fortunately, as on most of Webber's «original casts», the singers never tend to overdramatize (the only part that I could never really stand was Paul Nicholas as ʽThe Rum Tum Tuggerʼ, but that may be not so much his fault as an inborn element of incoherence between the music and the vocal part).

Unfortunately, the whimsy nature of the show makes it hard to be genuinely moved by its darker or more complex moments: basically, everything connected with the character of Grizabella (who was not a character in Eliot's book, but existed as a sketch, eventually removed by the author due to the «excessive sadness» of her persona), and the choral hymn conclusion of ʽThe Ad-Dressing Of Catsʼ. Along with diversity, they add confusion, and the sequencing requires getting used to. It is hardly a surprise that ʽMemoryʼ, sung by the Grizabella character (Elaine Page in this original version), took on a life of its own — not just because it is the best song on the album (it may or may not be), but also because it feels quite out of tune with it, and works well when disconnected from the amusing cat melange.

But overall, Cats is fun. It should be taken for what it is: a lightweight stage musical to give the people a good time. It is a high-class musical, set, after all, to much higher quality lyrics than Tim Rice could ever provide, and written in a broad, ambitious manner — even if the actual music, once you have eliminated all the endless reprisals and analyzed all the remaining themes and mo­tives, may perhaps be judged as a triumph of form over substance (Webber's «debts» to classical and other composers, e. g. to Puccini for ʽMemoryʼ, are well on record, nor did he ever deny those debts altogether himself). So why should anyone be cringing?

Only for one reason — because Cats completes and stabilizes Webber's transition into the world of second-hand fluff. JCS granted the man immortality, Evita could still be perceived as a seri­ous musical work tackling sharp subjects, and even Tell Me On A Sunday, behind its exaggera­ted simplicity and minimalism, was hiding loads of social bitterness. Cats, on the other hand, at the same time pull out all musical stops and have no «big meaning» whatsoever. They were, and still are, a commercial triumph, but they pretty much crashed Webber's reputation in «serious» circles, or, at least, initiated that crash, completed five years later with Phantom Of The Opera. In a different context, they could be just a light comedic divertissement for the man (as Jeeves was in the mid-1970s): as it happened, he somewhat got stuck in «light» mode for the rest of his life. Thumbs up anyway — but do not even think of coming close to this kind of music if JCS and Evita are your ideal projection of Andrew Lloyd Webber, and you'd like it to stay that way.

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The Beatles: With The Beatles

THE BEATLES: WITH THE BEATLES (1963)

1) It Won't Be Long; 2) All I've Got To Do; 3) All My Loving; 4) Don't Bother Me; 5) Little Child; 6) Till There Was You; 7) Please Mister Postman; 8) Roll Over Beethoven; 9) Hold Me Tight; 10) You Really Got A Hold On Me; 11) I Wanna Be Your Man; 12) Devil In Her Heart; 13) Not A Second Time; 14) Money (That's What I Want).

By the time With The Beatles came out in late 1963, the Beatles were already superheroes all over Europe, with the «super-» bit neatly provided by the success of ʽShe Loves Youʼ. But at this point, they did not yet need to «prove» anything — what they did was still seen simply as pop music, and there was no conscious, openly perceivable drive on their part to «push boundaries» or whatever. They were simply writing more songs the way they felt these songs, and that is what is so exciting about those early records, one hundred percent pure and free of any intellectual pre­tense: natural innocent genius, not at all burdened with reasoning and calculation. (Well, they we­re happy enough to have George Martin do the calculations for them).

Reviews of the album often (almost always, in fact) start with expressing admiration for the front sleeve. Ooh, black and white. Wow, standing in the shadows. Dark! Disturbing! What a far cry from the silly smiling faces on Please Please Me. Progressive and intelligent. Look at what Ger­ry and the Pacemakers, or Freddie and The Dreamers were putting on their album covers at the time. No comparison whatsoever.

Frankly, I am not all that sure that the album cover (although it does look cool) is really such a tremendous achievement. What is much more interesting is that With The Beatles manages to sound fairly «dark» without any actual help from the blackness of the album sleeve. Well, maybe not «dark» as such, if by «darkness» we mean Jim Morrison or Led Zeppelin. But I have always felt that there was a very significant line separating With The Beatles from Please Please Me, per­haps even one of the most significant lines in Beatle history (and Beatle history knew plenty of lines). It is the line that separates «lightweight» from «heavyweight»; and it is no coincidence that it was only With The Beatles that the first «serious» musical critics started suspecting there might be something of use for them in that air.

One thing that need not confuse us are the lyrics. At this point, neither John nor Paul (nor George, who makes his songwriting debut on here) showed any care for the words; the epitome of «wordy cleverness» to them was finding a line like "it won't be long 'til I belong to you", and the rest ge­nerally just rearranges all the love song clichés extracted from God knows where. (That's what you get for sticking to crude rock'n'roll values and ignoring The Songbook — at least the Tin Pan Alley people knew their English). But I do not think that, before Bob Dylan got the guys interes­ted in the magic powers of language, either John or Paul invested a lot of time and work into the words, or had any high thoughts of those words. Later on, John would make it a personal hobby to look upon the Beatles' legacy with a critical laser-eye, and demolish the stupidity of the lyrics in particular (Paul's, preferably, but his own were not exempt from self-criticism either). But in 1963, none of them were teenagers any more, and they certainly understood how silly it all soun­ded to the average «grown-up» person, and they did not give a damn about it.

And neither should we. The lyrics just followed the conventions of the times, which certainly does not apply to the music. Take ʽIt Won't Be Longʼ, for instance. On the surface, it is just an upbeat tune about... well, find the quote in the previous paragraph. But, for some reason, I have never thought of that song as «happy». The main melody rather shows a clear Shadows influence, and Shadows mostly wrote «shadowy» music — that British variant of surf-rock with a spy mo­vie atmosphere. Now there is no spy movie atmosphere in ʽIt Won't Be Longʼ, but its meat and bones are tough, and its colors disturbingly grayish.

And then there are the vocals. Any other vo­calist would probably sing the lines "Since you left me, I'm so alone, now you're coming, you're coming on home" with all the proper «tenderness» and «sympathy» that they require. Not John, who never in his life stooped to simulating emotions on his songs. But instead of just being all out wooden about it, he sings it, well, probably in the same way he'd be greeting his wife Cynthia after a hard day's night: pretending to care, but in rea­lity not giving much of a damn. As a result, both ʽIt Won't Be Longʼ and the immediate followup, ʽAll I've Got To Doʼ, have a surprisingly emotionally hollow sound — but it still works. (A good way to understand this would be to play ʽAll I've Got To Doʼ back-to-back with one of those Yoko-period Lennon ballads on which he really cared, like ʽJuliaʼ).

So genuine sugary sentimentality is left in the care of Paul, right? Not quite. It certainly rears its head on the record's only «sappy» number, a cover of ʽTill There Was Youʼ from The Music Man, but nowhere else. Even there, the sentimentality is tempered with class: Paul learned the tune from Peggy Lee, who already performed it in a poppier, more rhythmic, slightly Latinized ar­ran­ge­ment when compared to the orchestral sludge of the original — and still the Beatles al­most completely reinvented the music, coming up with a complex melody played on twin nylon-stringed acoustic guitars (and featuring one of George's first brilliant solos).

But a song like ʽAll My Lovingʼ is anything but sentimental; or, rather, sentimentality is merely one of its side effects rather than the main attraction. It started out as a country-western tune, ac­tually (traces of that history can still be found in George's Nashville-style solo), but ended up becoming a fast pop-rocker; and any lesser band would have simply settled for placing the em­pha­sis on the catchy vocal melody, but what really pushes ʽAll My Lovingʼ over the threshold is the rhythm guitar work from John: the rapidly strummed triplets that drive the verses are techni­cally unnecessary, but, being there, they give the illusion that the song is played thrice as fast as it would be otherwise, and shift the focus away from Paul's vocalization, closer to what almost looks like a bit of subconscious paranoia.

Finally, in comes George with his first original offering, and while ʽDon't Bother Meʼ is simply a preliminary stage in his songwriting maturation, it is decidedly dark, not to mention how much the title really reflects George's persona: "please go away, leave me alone, don't bother me", I be­lieve, should have eventually been etched on his tombstone. A big hooray to whoever had the idea to double-track the vocals: the trick magically transformed the stuttering, insecure delivery on ʽChainsʼ and ʽDo You Want To Know A Secretʼ into a thick, threatening rumble-grumble. One step further in that direction — no more teen pussy for George! (Or, rather, he'd have to start borrowing from the special Mick Jagger/Keith Richards brand).

Part of why With The Beatles has this «darker» aura around it lies in it being almost totally do­minated by John, which was not the case on Please Please Me: he is the main composer and/or «spiritual presence» on more than half of the songs, whereas Paul bears primary responsibility for only three of the tracks — and the third one, which I still have not mentioned, is ʽHold Me Tightʼ which I have always perceived as one of his weakest ever tunes, if only because the vocal melo­dy resolution (the "it's you — you, you, you-ooo-ooo" bit) comes across as exceedingly silly.

John, on the other hand, further extends his reputation by throwing in three excellent interpreta­tions of Motown material, turning the Marvelettes' cutesy-flimsy ʽPlease Mister Postmanʼ into a rip-roaring personal tragedy, the Miracles' soulful ʽYou Really Got A Hold On Meʼ into the same tongue-in-cheek, slightly sarcastic stab as ʽIt Won't Be Longʼ, and delivering Barrett Strong's ʽMoneyʼ with enough evil glee to make us all believe that that is what he wants, indeed — not that hard to do once he has already established his lack of a proper tender heart on the previous tracks. Real nasty guy, that Lennon, without any attempts to hide it.

From a sheerly musical point of view, it would take too much time to list all the new tricks that the band introduces here (besides, it has all been written about a million times already), so I will just mention one obvious thing — the complexity and creativity of vocal harmonies on With The Beatles completely dwarfs Please Please Me. That this is going to be a seriously voice-oriented record is obvious from the very start: in the place of the energetic, but not particularly surprising "one two three four" of ʽI Saw Her Standing Thereʼ we have the multi-flanked assault of "it won't be long yeah – YEAH – yeah – YEAH" which, to the best of my knowledge, comes from no­where at all. There is no «beauty» as such in these harmonies that get ever more trickier as the album progresses (no comparison with the Beach Boys, who had a strictly Heaven-oriented ap­proach), but there is a wonderful dynamics, the major goal of which is your undivided attention.

In effect, With The Beatles might be said to introduce the unspoken motto of «leave no spot un­filled». Not only is there supposed to be no filler, the idea is that there should be no «filler within non-filler», that is, the songs are not supposed to have any wasted moments. Gaps between verse lines? Fill them in with counterpoint backing vocals. Instrumental passages? Make them either reproduce the verse melody or construct an economic solo that makes perfect sense and is easily memorable, rather than merely respects the convention that there be an obligatory instrumental passage. And so on.

It does not always work. The curse of pop repetitiveness strikes hard on the overlong chorus to ʽHold Me Tightʼ, and even harder on ʽI Wanna Be Your Manʼ, a song that John and Paul origi­nally wrote for The Rolling Stones, and, honestly, I think they should have left it at that: the Sto­nes arranged and performed it as an eerie sexual menace, with a supertight, take-no-prisoners at­titude, next to which The Beatles' comparatively «relaxed» performance and, especially, Ringo's near-comical vocals (as opposed to Jagger's evil gloating!) lose hands down. (It did give Ringo a more assured and natural live solo spot than ʽBoysʼ, though). Personally, I have never been a big fan of John's ʽLittle Childʼ, either, a somewhat sub-par R&B composition, only lifted out of me­diocrity by an over-pumped tour-de-force on harmonica, which John must have been trying to literally «blow to bits» during the session — even Sonny Boy Williamson II could have appreci­ated that.

But none of this really matters, because the major goal of With The Beatles was to stabilize the band's position as accomplished artists, and that goal is clearly fulfilled. In addition, the record just might feature the best ever balance in Beatle history between covers and originals: the covers, although ranging from Motown to Chuck Berry to musicals, are all strong, inventively rear­ranged, and sit fairly well next to the originals. (On Beatles For Sale, the band would be falling back on covers for lack of free time to come up with more originals rather than out of free will, and that had its negative effect on the final results). Hence, a very special thumbs up here: With The Bea­tles often gets a little bit overlooked next to the «great big breakthrough» of A Hard Day's Night and its all-original cast, but in the story of the Beatles' evolution it may actually have play­ed a much more important role.

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Blind Blake: Complete Recorded Works Vol. 2 (1927-1928)

BLIND BLAKE: COMPLETE RECORDED WORKS, VOL. 2 (1927-1928)

1) You Gonna Quit Me Blues; 2) Steel Mill Blues; 3) Southern Rag; 4) He's In The Jailhouse Now; 5) Wabash Rag; 6) Doggin' Me Mama Blues; 7) C. C. Pill Blues; 8) Hot Potatoes; 9) Southbound Rag; 10) Pay Day Daddy Blues; 11) Elzadie's Policy Blues; 12) Goodbye Mama Moan; 13) Tootie Blues; 14) That Lovin' I Crave; 15) That Lonesome Rave; 16) Terrible Murder Blues; 17) Leavin' Gal Blues; 18) No Dough Blues; 19) Lead Hearted Blues; 20) Let Your Love Come Down; 21) Rumblin' And Ramblin' Boa Constrictor Blues; 22) Bootlig Rum Dum Blues; 23) Detroit Bound Blues; 24) Beulah Land; 25) Panther Squall Blues.

The ratio of mediocre to great on this second volume is more or less the same (as is the ratio of crackle to cleanliness). Early highlights of late 1927 include ʽSouthern Ragʼ, which features some of the most complex guitar runs recorded at that time — people amazed at the ability of Robert Johnson to play rhythm and melody simultaneously should take a listen to this, where at times it sounds like there are three guitars playing at once, where there is only one (and somehow he also manages to rap out brief accounts of Southern life as well); and a solid version of ʽHe's In The Jailhouse Nowʼ with the original, political lyrics ("Remember last election / Everybody was in ac­tion") rather than the depoliticized tale of crime and punishment, popularized by Jimmie Rod­gers and then, further on down the line, in Oh Brother Where Art Thou? Particularly of note is Blake's suddenly-turned-gravelly voice as he changes the refrain from "He's in the jailhouse now" to "He's in the graveyard now" — a classic moment in country blues history, I'd say.

Further on down the line, we get some diversity: on ʽDoggin' Me Mama Bluesʼ, Jimmy Bertrand all but steals away the spotlight with a funny xylophone part, while Blake is content with provi­ding rather ordinary accompaniment; and on ʽC. C. Pill Bluesʼ, he is paired with Johnny Dodds on clarinet — incidentally, this happens to be one of Ry Cooder's favourite pre-war recordings, due to the sheer added value of all the talent involved (apparently, Dodds is considered to be one of the pre-Benny Goodman era clarinet greats). Bertrand, meanwhile, switches to slide whistle, an instrument rarely heard in principle and almost never as a counterpart to acoustic blues perfor­mances in particular.

Later on, Blake is again accompanying singers, such as Elzadie Robinson and Bertha Henderson; however, neither of the two is tremendously interesting, and neither seems to have had any inte­rest in supporting Blake's interest in ragtime guitar, preferring to stick to generically slow urban blues. We do get to see the man in some exciting piano action, though, on ʽLet Your Love Come Downʼ, which proves that he was just as adept on the ivory keys as he was on the strings (hardly sur­prising, though: you'd have to learn your ragtime on the piano first, before transposing it to guitar). But overall, for most of early 1928 Blind Blake was generally engaged in playing so-so urban blues, even when playing solo, exactly the way that, say, a Leroy Carr would perform it on piano. The worst thing about these performances is not even the lack of a proper territory to show off his technique, but rather the very fact that urban blues sifted through an old-time Delta atti­tude is almost a contradiction in terms. «Urban blues» is generally middle-class entertainment, whereas Delta blues grows on much lower depths, and both require different skills and attitudes to be successful.

«Smooth» players like Lonnie Johnson could get away with it — Lonnie was quite «urbanized» in his soul and sound; Blind Blake, on the other hand, was a figure cut out for dance frenzy, de­bauchery, and drinking (which is why the former lived to a ripe old age, and the latter only left us one single photograph). So give me ʽSouthern Ragʼ and ʽHe's In The Jailhouse Nowʼ over boring material like ʽDetroit Bound Bluesʼ any day. For these songs alone, the second volume earns ano­ther certified thumbs up; but filler will always be filler, no matter how many thin-grained subtle­ties a jaded listener's ear can locate in the blueness of the man's blue notes.

Blitzen Trapper: Field Rexx

BLITZEN TRAPPER: FIELD REXX (2004)

1) James & Larry Earley; 2) Lux & Royal Shopper; 3) Love I Exclaim; 4) Summer Twin; 5) Cold Gold Dia­mond; 6) Concrete Heaven; 7) 40 Stripes; 8) Asleep For Days; 9) Dreamers & Giants; 10) Turkey In The Straw; 11) Dirty Pearls; 12) Leopard's Will To Live; 13) Country Rain; 14) Moving Minors Over County Lines; 15) Love.

The band's second album had an extremely limited budget, making the sound suffer: a little mud­dier and duller, but still, this is hardly «lo-fi»: wherever they recorded it, they made the best of whatever they had at their disposition. In fact, they even invented a certain pretext to justify the shoddier standards — parts of the album are introduced with snippets of archival recordings by a certain James Earley (could he be Eric's father?), singing bits of old hillbilly tunes. So that almost makes it into genuine «Field Rexx» indeed. In any case, whatever they recorded will inevitably sound much better than archive field tapes. Genius idea, no?

The good news is that the songwriting has not been impaired at all by financial troubles. On the contrary, Eric Earley is slowly, but steadily growing into a Renaissance man of pop music, sprea­ding his nets far and wide and always successfully. Furthermore, Earley steadily continues to link his persona to that of Jeff Tweedy's: soulful and literate roots-rocker with an experimental drive and vast ambitions. If that already sounds awful, do not despair: the ambitions are not vast eno­ugh to prevent the man from abandoning archaic concepts like melody, harmony, rhythm, or even «rock and roll». On the contrary, the record is even more accessible than the first one.

ʽLux & Royal Shopperʼ, for example, takes a simple, effective garage riff and turns it into the ba­sis for a small exploration that first takes us to the country (with a little backyard harmonica in­terlude), then into outer space, with classic psychedelic sound effects, treated guitars, and multi­ple head-warping overdubs. The other end of the record is symmetrically bookmarked with ʽMo­ving Minors Over County Linesʼ, the album's only other genuine «rocker», albeit with a country-pop whiff all the same — think Mike Nesmith or something in that vein.

In between we have some old-school pop-rock (ʽCold Gold Diamondʼ; ʽAsleep For Daysʼ, with the catchiest vocal melody on the album, wisely reproduced note-for-note in the solo in the good old Beatles tradition); some meditative country balladry with lazy harmonica and sentimental, but intelligent vocals (ʽConcrete Heavenʼ — with a bigger-than-ever nod to Tweedy); some banjo plunking tied to a well-imitated Southern accent (ʽDirty Pearlsʼ); a hipness-oozing novelty indie-pop number that would not be out of place on a Flaming Lips record (ʽLeopard's Will To Liveʼ); and some post-Woody Guthrie acoustic folk thrown in for good measure (ʽCountry Rainʼ). None of these songs are masterpieces on their own, but all of them are growers, and, if nothing else, al­most each one boasts an ear-catching sonic combination of some sorts. On ʽCountry Rainʼ, for in­stance, you do not just get an acoustic guitar and a fiddle, but a Jew's harp as well plinking and plunking in the background. It needn't be there, but if it weren't there, attention would not be drawn to the song's melody nearly as much. Who wants to simply hear an acoustic guitar and a fiddle? Bring on the Jew's harp — and, for that matter, where is the «electric jug»?..

Another pair of tracks that bookmark the album is ʽLove I Exclaim!ʼ and its reprise, performed in a style that I could only define as «homely-funky», or, perhaps, as a deconstructed version of trip-hop performed with actual instruments, rather than pre-programmed. It's all novel, yet it provides the album with a «mutant anthem», a song that establishes an idealistic agenda and, by the way, prevents me from being able to recognize this band as «The Ween of the 2000's», as I have seen a few people call it. It took the real Ween more than ten years before they started letting us in on some of what was going on behind the Boognish mask; Eric Earley had no problem with that right from the start.

Hence, another thumbs up. The diversity of the styles and approaches here compensates for the re­lative lack of hard-rocking material (especially as compared to the self-titled debut): most pro­ba­bly, Field Rexx should be best enjoyed when «lazing on a Sunday afternoon in the summer­time», to quote the classics, but all it takes is to properly synchronize it with one of those moods, and you will be taking a trip to Portland in no time.

Archers Of Loaf: Vee Vee

THE ARCHERS OF LOAF: VEE VEE (1995)

1) Step Into The Light; 2) Harnessed In Slums; 3) Nevermind The Enemy; 4) Greatest Of All Times; 5) Underdogs Of Nipomo; 6) Floating Friends; 7) 1985; 8) Fabricoh; 9) Nostalgia; 10) Let The Loser Melt; 11) Death In The Park; 12) The Worst Has Yet To Come; 13) Underachievers March And Fight Song.

Although Icky Mettle usually gets all the hoopla, I personally find the follow-up, Vee Vee, to be far more interesting. As it often happens, the sophomore effort is a little less aggressive, a little more experimental, a touch more oriented at subtleties and a touch less at basic punch. But if The Archers Of Loaf were to find their own place in the already huge and still growing world of in­die rock, they had to rely more on subtleties and less on punch — because, want it or not, we gene­rally punch more or less in the same way, whereas our subtleties are all vastly individual.

The subtle side of Eric Bachmann, in particular, led him to exploring the capacities of the drone, the trill, and the jangle. There is a lot of exciting dual guitar playing here, and a lot less boring generic noise than on Icky Mettle. Check out ʽUnderdogs Of Nipomoʼ, where one low-pitched gui­tar begins playing the song like a jerky mid-tempo blues-rocker, then a different, higher-pit­ched, one joins it in a weeping psy­chedelic manner and prevents the song from being «just an­other» alt-rocker. And that happens all over the place on this album.

Additionally, there is a little more emphasis placed on the accessibility of the lyrics — the surre­alism is still there, but the «key phrases», like root notes, are more firmly accentuated to set cer­tain moods for certain songs. Thus, "all of my friends have floated away", sung in a croaking, al­most breaking voice, immediately sets a lament-like sort of mood for ʽFloating Friendsʼ, and even if the rest of the lyrics seem to insist that the phrase be taken literally (because "they clog up the valley and drift up to outer space"), you know that's not really it. It's just a sad song, if not a par­ticularly great one in terms of melody.

In terms of melody, most of the really cool stuff happens early on. ʽStep Into The Lightʼ is a swir­ling kaleidoscope of droning and jangling guitars, much more early Velvet Underground in style than Nirvana or even Pavement. So is ʽHarnessed In Slumsʼ, except it is much faster: if you really let yourself go, the contrast between the masculine and feminine guitars spinning round and round will suck you right inside the circle. Yet it isn't a happy psychedelic merry-go-round — it is a grim circle, maybe more like an inescapable vortex, not overtly pessimistic and suicidal like The Cure, but with a strong whiff of negativity all the same. If it looks like I am babbling, it is simply the result of having to listen to these songs too many times in order to get their appeal.

Words, intonations, notes, overdubs, structures, everything seems to come together here in a ge­ne­ral message that is perhaps best summed up in the next to last song, ʽDeath In The Parkʼ: "It's always the same people / Pissing the same people off". The surrealism and psychedelia with which Bachmann and Johnson are toying around is just a mild attempt to break the circle of de­pressing boredom and routine, predictable happenings of life. The grim guitar drone symbolizes the boredom, and the high whining guitar... the pain? Whatever. Anyway, it is not about the sin­gle ingredients, it's about the whole package — it works, although it also takes quite a bit of time to sink in. But concentrate on understanding that these two guys swirl their guitars like few other couples of guys ever swirled them, and that is the first step towards feeling the coolness of Vee Vee rather than just stating it.

Ironically, the record ends on a completely unpredictable note: after the depression reaches a climax of sorts on the aptly titled ʽThe Worst Has Yes To Comeʼ, the band launches into an al­most carnivalesque «ditty», replete with kiddie-style whistling, simplistic banjo strum, and stupid horns — ʽUnderachievers March And Fight Songʼ, indeed. "Underachievers / Total domination / Kill a billion years / Of total frustration" — hey there hordes of people all over the world, The Archers Of Loaf have written the perfect anthem for you to wake up to every morning, and most of you probably don't even know about it. Oh well, here's one little thumbs up to help with the promotion, even if it's coming about fifteen years too late.

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Asia: Fantasia - Live In Tokyo

ASIA: FANTASIA – LIVE IN TOKYO (2007)

1) Time Again; 2) Wildest Dreams; 3) One Step Closer; 4) Roundabout; 5) Without You; 6) Cutting It Fine; 7) Intersection Blues; 8) Fanfare For The Common Man; 9) The Smile Has Left Your Eyes; 10) Don't Cry; 11) In The Court Of The Crimson King; 12) Here Comes The Feeling; 13) Video Killed The Radio Star; 14) The Heat Goes On; 15) Only Time Will Tell; 16) Sole Survivor; 17) Ride Easy; 18) Heat Of The Moment.

Most likely, it was just a matter of time before the original Asia came back — old proggers, lite or hardcore, are particularly prone to nostalgia kicks. As far as I know, the breakup between Dow­nes and Payne happened somewhat unexpectedly, and not very politely: according to one version, Downes simply «dumped» Payne once he had perceived a serious chance for the original lineup to get together once again. As a result, the insulted Payne formed his own Asia («Featuring John Payne»), and the two bands currently co-exist — although, fortunately for us all, only one of them records new studio albums.

Anyway, somehow the stars aligned into a position that brought all four original band members back together in 2006 — and they have never been apart since, although most of them wisely al­ternate their duties between Asia and other projects (Howe with Yes, whom the reunited Asia ac­tually supported on their tours; Palmer with occasional reunions of ELP, etc.). To celebrate the rebirth, they started out «modestly»: with this 2-CD live set recorded in... well you know. And, although I am not reviewing Asia's entire live catalog due to its hugeness, this particular live re­cord certainly deserves a mention, at least as a historical event.

The setlist is telling: they play Asia in its entirety (not a single song missing!), plus only a hand­ful of hits from Alpha, and nothing whatsoever not only from the Payne era, which is understan­dable, but even from Astra as well. Instead, they occupy the remaining space with songs from their progressive past — each member gets to choose one track that will represent him. Howe chooses ʽRoundaboutʼ from Yes career; Palmer chooses ʽFanfare For The Common Manʼ; and Wetton, oddest of all, chooses ʽCourt Of The Crimson Kingʼ even though he was not a part of King Crimson in 1969, and, in fact, I do not think he has even performed the number in concert during any of his shows with Fripp and company. As for Downes, he gives us a new rendition of ʽVideo Killed The Radio Starʼ — what else? (Something from Drama could be imaginable, but the Yes hotspot is already occupied with ʽRoundaboutʼ).

All of this means that the reunited Asia tries hard to defend its «progressive honor» — implying that Asia was actually a serious prog effort, deserving to be mentioned on the same plane with the best of Yes and King Crimson, but also indirectly admitting that everything after it was a failure in terms of artistic integrity. We need not buy it (there is no abysmal gap whatsoever between the­ir debut and everything that followed), but it is an interesting, somewhat unexpected stance. And as the Asia songs themselves get expanded with various instrumental passages, occasionally rearranged and reinvented (ʽDon't Cryʼ, for instance, is redone as a weepy acoustic ballad), and mixed in with the old classics, the illusion almost works.

Concerning the way they sound, my only disappointment — but one that has to be dealt with — is the deterioration of Wetton's voice. It has not lost much in range, but it has lost a lot in sheer power and volume: an old man's voice that can no longer rise to the epic heights demanded by the material (never mind if these are «poor man's epic heights», they still need to be scaled). If you think of it from a different angle, the singing has become less pompous and more homely, but it's not as if it was a conscious choice or anything. Then again, he can still master the required grit and spite for such numbers as ʽCutting It Fineʼ and ʽThe Heat Goes Onʼ...

...and, furthermore, the band does everything in its power to ensure that it does not exclusively depend on superhero-style vocal hooks. The real star of the show is certainly not Wetton, nor is it the omnipresent Downes, but Howe — who, I would think, only agreed to join the band under the condition that they'd finally let him have his way. And they do; and this is the only reason, really, to own this album other than out of a sheerly documentary interest. Howe plays lots more guitar, and in a lot more prominent way, than on the original album — just listen to the wah-wah having a field day on ʽSole Survivorʼ, both for the solo and the lead flourishes between the verse lines, where formerly it used to be so reserved and shut out. He gets a brief acoustic solo spotlight all to himself (incorporating parts of ʽThe Clapʼ and something else, I think), and we also get to hear the ecstatic battle cries of the instrument during the climactic moments of ʽOnly Time Will Tellʼ that no other player was able to perfectly reproduce.

Thus, if the brand new Roger Dean cover is not worth the thumbs up all by itself, Howe's pre­sence nails it for me. The songs have not become any better (they do cut a fine ʽRoundaboutʼ, and Downes' Mellotron imitations on ʽCourt Of The Crimson Kingʼ come quite close to the real thing), but they are performed as close to «non-commercial mode» as possible. I have also heard com­plaints about sound quality that I do not quite understand — they do not have poor recording standards in Japan, and I, for one, can hear each of Howe's notes perfectly well, and that's pretty much all that matters here. Final judgement: «passable» for «passive» Asia fans, but a strict must-own for Steve fans. Like it or not, on those joint Asia/Yes tours he was equally committed to both projects. (And it's a pretty tough fare, to be playing both for the main and the opening act).

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Average White Band: Feel No Fret

AVERAGE WHITE BAND: FEEL NO FRET (1979)

1) When Will You Be Mine; 2) Please Don't Fall In Love; 3) Walk On By; 4) Feel No Fret; 5) Stop The Rain; 6) Atlantic Avenue; 7) Ace Of Hearts; 8) Too Late To Cry; 9) Fire Burning.

How can I «feel no fret», I wonder, when, without a warning, all of the advantages gained in 1978 are lost one year later? The Average White Band finally make their way through to disco, and it is not a pretty sight. Actually, it is no sight at all. The whole album just speeds by, and once it's gone, nothing remains but the sad echo of involuntary toe-tapping.

Let us begin with this: ʽWalk On Byʼ used to be a decent pop song, a highlight of the Dionne Warwick catalog and all. What was the reason for trying to reimagine it as a mid-tempo dance­floor standart sung in disco falsetto? It takes all the power out of the hooks without adding any extra groove strength. There is nothing wrong with trying to modernize classics as such, but there has gotta be a point. This particular rearrangement has none. And that is what's wrong with the whole album altogether: the band seems to have snapped out of their conservative formula — and found itself aimlessly adrift in musical space.

The central piece here is the title track. At six minutes and thirty seconds, it is supposed to de­mon­strate how firmly the AWB has now grasped the essence of disco. Sure enough, they repro­gram their rhythm section — hardly a monumental task — speed up the tempo, and provide the club-goers with an extra bit of dance fodder in case the club-goers run out of «average white dis­co» artists before dawn. But the groove as such is non-existent: the guitars are limited to beeps and bleeps, the brass section plays nothing but lazy, quiet flourishes, and the keyboards are limi­ted to «atmospheric» hissing synths. Basically, they just forgot to add some music to our day.

Unfortunately, I cannot locate any hidden gems, either. ʽWhen Will You Be Mineʼ is probably the strongest of the lot, opening with grumbly wah-wah and preserving a strong funky attitude throughout — it sounds like a second-rate outtake from Warmer Communications, and, for that reason, is quite a traitorous introduction to the album; once it's over, it's lazy balladry and limp, unsubstantial disco all the way to the end. ʽAtlantic Avenueʼ is occasionally extolled as a high­light as well, and it is a semi-notch above the rest due to its proud anthemic ambition, but the ly­rics are ultimately dumb ("So come on, down Atlantic Avenue / Let the samba take ahold of you" embodies the decade's hedonism without the slightest bit of irony — even the Bee Gees could do better than that), and the melody only really goes well together with a leisure suit.

In short, Feel No Fret simply reflects a complete loss of whatever individuality these guys had — and I have no idea how it is possible at all to enjoy this without first constructing a late 1970s dance club atmosphere framework in one's mind. (For that matter, I strongly believe that ʽPick Up The Piecesʼ or ʽSame Feeling, Different Songʼ will find their admirers any time, any day). But if, for some reason, you are in need of a concrete example of how «transition to disco ruins a solid funk band», a «paired» listen to Warmer Communications and Feel No Fret will do nice­ly, and a perfect thumbs down is guaranteed for all.

(PS: For some reason, the CD edition of the album not only added four extra tracks, but was even re­titled as Feel No Fret... And More — as if we should all be happy to get more of the same for the same money exactly when it comes to selling the worst album in the band's history so far. Marketing is a strange, strange art indeed).

Andrew Lloyd Webber: Tell Me On A Sunday

ANDREW LLOYD WEBBER: TELL ME ON A SUNDAY (1980)

1) Take That Look Off Your Face; 2) Let Me Finish; 3) It's Not The End Of The World (If I Lose Him); 4) Letter Home To England; 5) Sheldon Bloom; 6) Capped Teeth And Caesar Salad; 7) You Made Me Think You Were In Love; 8) It's Not The End Of The World (If He's Younger); 9) Second Letter Home; 10) Come Back With The Same Look In Your Eyes; 11) Let's Talk About You; 12) Take That Look Off Your Face (reprise); 13) Tell Me On A Sun­day; 14) It's Not The End Of The World (If He's Married); 15) I'm Very You, You're Very Me; 16) Nothing Like You've Ever Known; 17) Let Me Finish (reprise).

In between the giant successes of Evita and Cats lies this little platter, quite delicious in its own humble way. I omit a review of Variations, a rock/classical hybrid that Andrew concocted in col­laboration with his brother Julian (a classically trained cellist) — I have no skills that would al­low me to properly «review» Paganini, much less a set of 23 variations that A. L. W. composed for Caprice No. 24 In A Minor — but the odd trick is that, eventually, the Baron found a way to integrate both projects: the musical Song And Dance would be splicing together Tell Me On A Sunday, a relatively short song cycle performed in its entirety by one female vocalist, and Varia­tions, choreographed for a ballet performance.

I do not care much for the Song And Dance idea: merging these two completely different ventures within one concept was merely a pretentious gesture, whose real purpose must have been not to «lose sight» of all of Webber's latest creations. It did not actually last too long, and eventually Tell Me On A Sunday re-emerged on its own, expanded with several extra songs to boost the over­all length of the performance (the original album goes only slightly over 40 minutes). How­ever, to this day it still remains one of the lesser known Webber musicals, eclipsed by one too many biggies.

Which is a pity, because there is an element of subtle intrigue and freshness about this project that sets it apart. For one thing, it is all targeted towards one singer: the original album is usually lis­ted as part of the discography of the UK artist Marti Webb (selected by Webber based on her previous experience as Evita in the matinee performance), although most people have probably never even heard of any other Marti Webb albums (they do exist). For another thing, it is all on a relatively small scale: the whole story, with lyrics written by Don Black after Webber and Rice had a falling out, explores the confused personal relationships of one young girl that take her from New York to Los Angeles and back again. The subject is not particularly overwhelming and, when you come to think of it, everything is oh so very Seventies, but neither is it stupid or over­tly clichéd, and, with a subject like that, there is no risk of the attitude ever becoming overbearing.

Apart from a few brief plot-related links, the whole record does not really have the feel of a mu­sical — more like a typically 1970s soft-rock / folk-pop album, and only Marti Webb's musical-oriented vocals betray the final stage goals of the concept. They are appropriately sweet, though, and never over-the-top (as it always happens to Webber productions as they age — starting out with technically imperfect vocalists who compensate for imperfection by actually sounding like human beings, then eventually falling into the hands of «poor man opera singers» who squeeze all the humanistic content out of them by overacting like crazy). Webb lives up to the role — the character here is not as complex as Evita, but not as fairy-tale-ish, either, and her anger, irony, sentimentality, and sadness are all believable.

And then there is some good music, too. ʽTake That Look Off Your Faceʼ, the lead-in number where the heroine reacts to the first news of her boyfriend cheating on her, went all the way to No. 3 on the UK charts when released as a single — at the height of the disco/New Wave era, despite its defiantly tradionalist melodic structure and arrangement. Actually, it bridges the gap between folk-pop and ABBA-style Europop (without the corny synthesizers), and gives the world a fine, appetizing transition from the light ("take that look off your face, I can see through your smile...") to the dark (the "couldn't wait to bring all of that bad news to my door" employs delightfully thre­atening chords to show us a bit of the «unsettling» side of the protagonist).

Other memorable compositions range from sappy, but modestly and stylishly touching balladry (title track) to quirky combinations of old school vaudeville with a hillbilly shuffle attitude (ʽCap­ped Teeth And Caesar Saladʼ) to featherlight upbeat pop ditties (ʽI'm Very You, You're Very Meʼ) and only very occasionally, a bit of a harder punch to accentuate the bad mood spells of the pro­ta­gonist (ʽLet Me Finishʼ). As usual, almost each motive gets reprised at least two or three times, which may seem overkill given the album's short running length, but all of the compositions are fairly brisky themselves — this is all «small-scale» indeed, with none of Evita's sweeping orche­stral runs or church chorals. So there is really plenty of time to fit in everything fittable.

If you can stand a little sentimentality, I'd at least certainly recommend Tell Me On A Sunday over... well, my personal diagnosis is that I am incurably allergic to The Sound Of Music and eve­rything of its ilk, so, naturally, a light musical with a sentimental female protagonist, for me, is automatically stripped of any presumption of innocence there may be. Yet, in a way, this whole thing sounds more like a Carpenters album than a genuine Julie Andrews orato­rio, and a fairly well-written Carpenters album with an intelligent (if not all that intellectual) concept. A nice, healthy way for the composer to close out the decade — and that entire part of his career which need not, and, quite often, should not be described with the word «cloying».

Thumbs up — for this original version: I have not heard the more recent expanded revision of Tell Me On A Sun­day, but, through the powers of induction, can guess that it probably does not beat the Marti Webb show. Oh, by the way, Rod Argent, of the Zombies and Argent fame, is here on all the keyboards (he also played on the Variations album before that), and Jon Hiseman, of the jazz-rock pioneer band Colosseum fame, is on drums — one good reason for the rock music fan to seek this out (not that there is a lot of keyboard wizardry or thunderous drumming going on, but still, you never know how to please your subconscious).

The Beatles: Please Please Me

THE BEATLES: PLEASE PLEASE ME (1963)

1) I Saw Her Standing There; 2) Misery; 3) Anna (Go To Him); 4) Chains; 5) Boys; 6) Ask Me Why; 7) Please Please Me; 8) Love Me Do; 9) P.S. I Love You; 10) Baby It's You; 11) Do You Want To Know A Secret; 12) A Taste Of Honey; 13) There's A Place; 14) Twist And Shout.

We deserve a little bit of a preface here. This is, after all, the third time that I am writing about the same Beatles albums — the first one was from a generally fanboyish perspective, poorly wor­ded and quite uninformative, and the second one was written in a text-generating frenzy that pro­bably went over the top. Third time, hopefully, be the charm, or else it just was not meant to be.

It is amusing to look back on the old days — not even the early reviewing days, but the good old Iron Curtain days when music was scarce to come by, and each album received approximately the same span of attention that is today reserved to a large shelf crammed with CDs — and realize how the Beatles could be «everything and more» to somebody who had so little context to place them into. Many people knew the Beatles, but not their sources and influences — not Motown, not a lot of early rock'n'roll (Elvis, perhaps, but Buddy Holly? Carl Perkins?), certainly not skiffle or the late 1950s / early 1960s British pop music scene. Of their contemporaries, with whom they constantly traded ideas back and forth, also only select figures were known to the average Soviet listener — and, I dare say, many of the average non-Soviet listeners as well. No surprise, then, that many of the musically knowledgeable people like to think of — or, at least, talk of — the Beatles as phantom-like figureheads, a band whose achievements are vastly overrated just beca­use they happened to market stuff better than the people who actually invented it.

It would seem, then, that as we pick up more and more «context», the Beatles are more and more probable to turn into «just another band», a good one, maybe a great one, but hardly the ultimate benchmark for every musical adventure of the 1960s. Who would dare judge Frank Zappa by ap­plying the same criteria as one's mind sets out for the Beatles? Or The Grateful Dead? Or Carlos Santana? Surely the idea is laughable.

And yet... every time I have the occasion to put on a Beatles record (which I do not actually need to put on — after all these years, each single note on each single Beatles record is inextri­cably ingrai­n­ed in my head), I cannot help wondering how different it sounds. If the primary goal of music, after all, is to incite vibration in our emotional nerves, then different artists, throughout the history of music, have displayed various levels of skill in inciting this vibration — and the diffe­rence of the Beatles is that, in almost everything they did, no matter how «derivative», «imita­tive», or «tentative» it was, they seemed to work as if not making these nerves ring out at top vo­lume was not even an option. Where others would string together «nice-sounding» or «catchy» chords, the Beatles consistently — and I stress, consistently — strung together chord sequences that went somewhere goddamn deeper than they were supposed to. (The infamous discovery of «Aeolian cadences» by William Mann in Lennon's early ditty ʽNot A Second Timeʼ may sound funny, but there is a grain of seriousness beyond each such bit of fun: whatever there was, it must have hit The Times' resident musicologist real hard — unless, of course, he was bribed by Parlophone executives or Brian Epstein in person).

Let us take Please Please Me as our first test case. There can hardly be any disagreements here — it is literally the «weakest» Beatles album, if only because it was recorded in such a rush: 9 hours and 45 minutes of studio time altogether, from a young band with very little studio expe­rience. Already guided by George Martin as the wise studio guru, for sure, but, by February 1963, the band and their producer had not yet even gotten to know each other all that well. The band's original compositions were still few and far between: John Lennon still struggling as a songwriter, Paul McCartney feeling a little bit more self-confident, but stuck hands and feet in a simplistic teenage mindset, George Harrison not even beginning to look up to his «elders», and then there's always Ringo — or, rather, there was beginning to always be Ringo, having quite freshly repla­ced Pete Best and not yet «proven» as an integral part of the band.

In short, there is no need to prove to anyone that Please Please Me represents the tender infancy of the Beatles. For most bands, such «tender infancy» is, at best, giggly-cute, at worst, confusing and ugly, but in both cases, normally, there is no good reason to listen to this music for a second time other than research purposes. But Please Please Me still stands up — despite all the flaws, the silliness, the rampant naïveness, and ʽAsk Me Whyʼ, which may be the worst Beatles original ever composed (and is definitely the worst original Beatles song composed by John Lennon).

It all begins with ʽLove Me Doʼ. "Love, love me do / You know I love you". When the Ramones wrote lyrics like that twelve years later, they were taken as smart, ironic, streetwise minimalism. When the Beatles wrote them, they were dead serious, or, rather, they did not give a damn — the words never mattered anyway, except for the stipulated convention that it had to be something about «love». As an «artistic statement», ʽLove Me Doʼ has even fewer credentials than a Sesame Street composition (the latter ones have educational value at least). Big question, then: why does it stick so sorely in the head, much more so than the average Dave Clark Five or Billy J. Kramer & The Dakotas song? Melodically, it has very little going for it other than the main harmonica part, and the repetitive vocal melody that partially replicates it.

But there is this little matter of the Beatle-specific hook: the resolution of that melody during the extended "so plea-ee-ee-eeese..." bit — I'd bet my head on it that a hypothetical Billy J. Kramer would have been able to come up with everything in this melody but that particular resolution, which so admirably breaks up the monotonousness of the main part of the verse. Simply put, we start out «simple, stupid», then add a tense «longing» effect with the "please", then bring it all to a natural conclusion with an accappella moment of half-comic «spookiness». It might seem stu­pid, but there is a touch of suspense, maybe even some primitive mystique, in the song — which makes it stand out among dozens of technically similar compositions of 1962, and explains its ra­pid chart success (No. 17 on the UK charts at the time), achieved, by the way, without any serious marketing / promotional campaign.

There is no such element of mystique in the follow-up single, ʽPlease Please Meʼ, which, instead, concentrates on overwhelming joy, conveying it with as much effect as a standard four-piece band in 1963 could be capable of. Lennon's harmonica is triumphant rather than menacing this time, the joint vocal harmonies sound as if George Martin was pushing them in a «Beethoven for teens» direction, and, again, the Beatle-specific hook: the "come on come on..." crescendo that nobody else could think of delivering at the time. The Dave Clark Five would later shamelessly steal that technique for ʽAny Way You Want Itʼ — but even if they had enough talent to more or less convincingly replicate the mood, they still did not come up with the better song.

It is interesting that, for all of the band's Hamburg- and Cavern Club-acquired reputation as rough and tough onstage performers of genuine rock'n'roll, Please Please Me features only one genuine self-penned «rocker». I have always thought that, perhaps, had the Beatles started their recording career one or two years later, when mainstream fears towards «aggressive music» had already slightly diminished, they may not have had to endure the reputation of «softies» compared to the Stones' «tough guys» image; but then, on the other hand, had they started out later, they would not be so much in the lead — plus, there is no use in all these ifs and buts.

In any case — what a rocker. Paul's "one, two, three, FOUR!" countdown that opens the song was specially glued on to the final master tape from another take — a genius decision, giving the al­bum an energetic blast-off start, again, sounding like nothing before it. The idea behind the LP was to give the audiences a slight approximation of a Beatles live show; clearly, this was incom­patible with George Martin's perennial quest for sonic perfection, but the few «live» elements that they did incorporate still gave the record a huge advantage. To me, the main hero of ʽI Saw Her Standing Thereʼ, however, is the other George: it is his lead work, both in between the verse lines and on the solo, that gives the song its genuine tough edge. The vocals, harmonies, lyrics are all «teen fluff», but George's echo-laden licks, some of which seem to be imitating 1950s guitar gods such as Scottie Moore, are the true grit of the song. The transition into the instrumental section is one of the ass-kickiest moments in Beatle history.

Of the other originals, I have always thought of ʽMiseryʼ as tremendously underrated — not only does it have a fabulously catchy melody, but there is something deeply disturbing as well about how the bitter-tragic lyrics of the song clash with its overall merry mood: how is it possible to sing lines like "without her I will be in misery" when the singer is clearly having a hard time pre­venting himself from toppling over in spasms of laughter? (The truly disturbing realization about it is that the song might easily have reflected John's genuine feelings about his affairs). The rest is fluff, ranging from passable (ʽP.S. I Love Youʼ — Paul in his songwriting infancy stage) to quite awkward (the already mentioned ʽAsk Me Whyʼ: the most fake song John ever wrote, trying to convey an atmosphere of care and tenderness of which he quite obviously knew nothing at the time — the whole song is a mess of poorly strung together clichés that are really grating).

ʽThe­re's A Placeʼ is frequently found in comparisons with the Beach Boys' ʽIn My Roomʼ due to both of them exploring the topic of «loneliness» in the lyrics, but if we dig from there, there is no question that the Brian Wilson song is the better of the two — its slow, melancholic musical ba­cking fully matches the word, whereas the Lennon song is upbeat and optimistic (but not devoid of subtlety: its harmonica blasts are notably sterner and sadder than the ones on ʽPlease Please Meʼ). Still, the vocal modulations are beyond reproach.

Of the six covers, Arthur Alexander's ʽAnnaʼ is a fantastic achievement — on the instrumental plane, the band extracts and amplifies its main melodic hook in the form of a finely shaped, mys­teriously resonating guitar riff; and in the vocal department, John finds a good way to let go of the self-restraining «mannerisms» of traditional black R'n'B and actually convey a believable tragic atmosphere in the bridge section. Goffin and King's ʽChainsʼ is given to George, who does a fine job of transposing his natural slight tongue-tiedness onto the song's message of love confusion; and the Shirelles' ʽBaby It's Youʼ, like so many other songs the Beatles did, simply converts the original's excessive «roundedness» into sharper angles.

It is useless to speculate on whether Please Please Me already «sows the seeds» of the grand suc­cesses to come. The Beatles certainly do not come across as «enthusiastic revolutionaries» when you listen to Paul telling us how he'll be coming home again to you love, or even when John is screaming his head off throughout ʽTwist And Shoutʼ, trying to beat the Isley Brothers at their own game (and I think he did — except, of course, the Isley Brothers probably did not need to go home and nurse their voices with cough drops after the recording session). But it also never real­ly seems as if they «just» went into the studio to record some songs, knock off an LP and be done with it. All of the little things I have mentioned show ambition, and lots of it: a strong desire, right from the start, to be the very best at what they are doing, otherwise there's no point in doing it in the first place. And there is a clear understanding of the long-playing record as the proper medium to do it — a realization that it is a bit humiliating when your fourteen song-long col­lec­tion consists of two well-written hit singles surrounded by a sea of useless filler.

Which is why Please Please Me, after all these years, holds together quite fine as an album, un­like 99% of pop-oriented LPs from 1963. (Too bad for the Wilson brothers, who did not start pro­perly understanding the LP's potential until All Summer Long). It is slight, occasionally clumsy, lyrically trivial, not devoid of very strange decisions (such as saddling Ringo with ʽBoysʼ, a tune that was perfectly fine when the Shirelles did it, but predictably earned him a gay image with cer­tain audiences), yet it is unmistakably Beatles, and everything that is unmistakably Beatles deser­ves a thumbs up without any need for meditation on the subject. And anyone who tries to slight it too much should just try to remember the names of at least ten other pop LPs from 1963 with­out calling on the Internet for help. Might be a chore even for some of those who had already struck their teens back in the day.

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