The Average White Band: Show Your Hand

THE AVERAGE WHITE BAND: SHOW YOUR HAND (1973)

1) The Jugglers; 2) This World Has Music; 3) Twilight Zone; 4) Put It Where You Want It; 5) Show Your Hand; 6) Back In '67; 7) Reach Out; 8) T.L.C.

In 1973, this record was one of the biggest novelty items on the UK market. Plenty of British bands had by then already fallen under the influence of funk, but few, if any, were willing to con­sciously establish themselves as legitimate funk acts — because, well, it is a strange overseas black thing, and one does not want to look too ridiculous, openly aping an overseas black thing in­stead of dressing it up in patriotic clothes, like those early British R'n'B bands used to do at the dawning of the rock era.

The Average White Band knew that, and took some precautions. First, they called themselves The Average White Band — a brilliant PR move, immediately giving the entire act a tongue-in-cheek attitude that told listeners «do not take us too seriously», even when the actual songs might seem to be telling the opposite. Second, armed with all the Scottish verve they could muster (all the original band members were Scottish, although, curiously, each one was born in a different town), they practiced hard enough so as to pre-eliminate all possible accusations of «unprofessio­nalism». Third and most important — the point was to synthesize a particular version of «white funk», so that, for the well-trained ear, Show Your Hand could never be mistaken for a genuine «black» album, nor could it be claimed that it genuinely tries (and fails) to be one.

From the beginning, the sound of the AWB was very smooth and easy-going. This is not heavy psychedelic funk à la George Clinton, or wild party grooving à la Sly Stone. Most of the usual compari­sons are with the slightly watered-down-for-mass-consumption sounds of Tower Of Po­wer (or, perhaps, Earth, Wind & Fire as well). But even compared with these guys, the AWB are much more intent on keeping themselves in total check, never taking the direction of religious ec­stasy, common for black bands. This reduces the possible infectiousness of their groove power, but also reduces the risk of emotional embarrassment — because, let's face it, it is one thing to learn the basics of funk music and achieve perfect coordination between all the members of the band (and a pretty damn hard thing, too), and quite another to pile up «spiritualism» on top of the trade. It is fortunate for us that the AWB, in their better days at least, never even tried to invoke spirits dancing in the flesh.

What they tried to do instead was to flesh out the individual grooves to the point at which they started to resemble pop hooks. Watch the intro to 'The Jugglers' — a brief percussion flash that leads straight into a syncopated bass/keyboard riff that is not merely «danceable», but memorable, and even somewhat disturbing, which is appropriate given how, lyrically, the song seems to be about fighting addiction. It is not exactly a funk-pop masterpiece (the AWB were far too A to pro­duce pure pop perfection and, as I said, way too W to foment full-force funky flavour), but it is solid B-level entertainment with a brain.

And it is with these fast-played, precise, intelligent, and catchy funk tunes that the AWB make the grade. Show Your Hand may not have gained too much attention in the UK and remained completely unknown in the States (it was only released two years later, with a slighty different track listing), but up to this day it remains one of the band's finest hours. Of this fine hour, the fi­nest five minutes are unquestionably a cover of The Crusaders' 'Put It Where You Want It', an irresistible proto-disco tune that was already fine enough in its original incarnation, but is totally cooking here thanks to Malcolm Dun­can's lengthy sax solo at the end — joyful, inventive, hi­larious, infectious, and something else from a more obscure part of the thesaurus. The band seri­ously reworked the composition, adding lyrics as well to the formerly instrumental number — now it is a sort of a sex song that doesn't as much assert its se­xiness in a harassing manner as it learns to approach its subject with nonchalance. "Put it where you want it, lay it on the line, you can share your love around and I can share my time" — or perhaps not, whatever, just as long as that sax is blowing it all out.

Another major highlight is the eight-minute 'T.L.C.', whose complex web of scratchy guitar riffs, geometric figures laid out by the brass section, and tight vocal harmonies is not what I would call «ass-kicking» or «sweaty», but rather «subtle» and «well-nuanced». It's like a public love celeb­ration that, for some reason, you have to hold behind closed doors in the middle of a small audi­ence so as not to disturb the neighbours — compensating with subtlety and innuendo for the im­possibility of belting it out loud and proud. It might seem boring to some, but I prefer to think of it as funny — even touching, perhaps.

The odd average white magic does not work so well on slower, more lyrical numbers, such as the soulful 'Twilight Zone' and the title track, both of which move closer to bland, generic soft rock with little in the way of a backbone. At least 'Reach Out', although structured as an equally gene­ric blues-rocker, adds some much-needed grit to the proceedings, with respectable «sting guitar» work from one of the guitarists (Hamish Stuart, probably?).

Unfortunately, these songs already show the exact way in which AWB would be developing into WBAWB («Way Below Average White Band») in a few years. But as they started out, the high­lights were numerous enough to cancel out the lowlights — and even the lowlights were not that low, as even the worst songs here still feature well-written choruses; their main defect lies in the sanitized arrangements, and an awful «snowy» keyboard sound typical of very mediocre jazz-fu­sion acts of the time (keyboards are, indeed, the weakest musical link on this record). And even if my gut feelings didn't immediately feel like it, Show Your Hand is one of those strange albums that one could develop an almost intellectual attraction to — in a way, I believe I did, which ex­plains the thumbs up reaction better than simply saying «hey, nice groove».

Amon Düül (UK): Fool Moon

AMON DÜÜL (UK): FOOL MOON (1989)

1) Who Who; 2) The Tribe; 3) Tik Tok; 4) Hauptmotor; 5) Hymn For The Hardcore.

Four years later, long after the sympathetic, but unfortunate Menmachines has been completely wiped out from the memories of those few who happened to have it rubbed in, «Amon Düül» are back — as usual, uncalled for, unexpected, and unwelcome. But most likely, they knew it, and this time, there are no rational calls for accessibility or fitting in with the times. Instead, in order to find new inspiration, they recruit the assistance of former Hawkwind partner, the crazy sci-fi poet Robert Calvert — and try to come up with a record that would combine the classic «Teuto­nic coldness» of Amon Düül II with the surrealistic/cosmic aura of classic Hawkwind. Two re­cords, in fact, both released the same year; but I have been unable to determine which one came first and which one came next — the UK incarnation of Amon Düül is not exactly an Elvis Pres­ley-level act, to have every aspect of their discography easily available to the public through re­liable, uncontroversial sources. So let us begin with Fool Moon because I like its title more.

Of course, combining the spirits of Amon Düül II and Hawkwind is the kind of goal that would be surmised from such a pooling of talent. And, to a certain extent, that is the kind of general sound that Fool Moon gives the listener. The feel of its psychedelic jams does somewhat remind of Yeti, even if the sound is much thinner and the recor­dings feel far more pre-planned. And Calvert's trademark sci-fi recitals do recall the spirit of Hawkwind, at least as far as the «ridiculous» aspect of Hawkwind is concerned (because Calvert's presence on the band's albums, with a few spontaneous exceptions, generally contributed to the effect of teenage-style silliness rather than overwhelming admiration).

Unfortunately, one thing Fool Moon is rather poor on are ideas — particular ideas, ones that form the backbones of individual tracks and, when the stars are right, turn them into masterpieces. There are but five tracks altogether, and, of the 43 minutes that they occupy, at least 10-12 are gi­ven away to the proverbial nothing, a.k.a. noise. The industrial percussion clanging on 'Who Who' and the endlessly annoying clock ticking on 'Tik Tok' (Dark Side Of The Moon made its point far more briefly — and far better) are bad enough, but worst of all is 'Hauptmotor', which begins with six and a half minutes of «hot summer day sounds»: birds chirping, flies buzzing, and somebody quite busy sawing up logs in the backyard. Not only is it utterly pointless (why not go out and buy a Nature Sounds CD instead?), but, I must add, having to listen to this in the dead of winter, with -20 Celsius outside the window, is not my perfect idea of assimilating an important artistic statement.

However, even once these 12 minutes fly out the door, the listener is still stuck with a surprising paucity of tricks. 'Who Who' only exists to show how fun it is to play with spooky echoey vocals over industrial-bluesy cling-clanging (now we raise the volume — now we lower it!). 'The Tribe' is probably the best of the lot, a sharp, aggressive guitar jam with convincing blast-offs from Weinzierl, but even that track does not get too far along, and it certainly represents nothing that we already haven't heard before. 'Tik Tok', once the instruments finally take over the clocks, be­comes a decent blues jam with one excellent riff and lots of complementary wanking. The musi­cal part of 'Hauptmotor' is just one musical line repeated over and over again, over which Calvert half-sings, half-recites something in German. And 'Hymn For The Hardcore' (I suppose that is a fairly tongue-in-cheek title) is four minutes of... sitar noodling (and rather primitive at that — like some talentless fan's tribute to 'Within You Without You'; again, I fail to understand why I need to be listening to this when I could choose Ravi Shankar instead, or Alice Coltrane at least).

In short, Fool Moon is one of those quintessential records that solemnly try to make a point by being utterly pointless. The riff of 'Tik Tok' and the solo on 'The Tribe' should be amputated and saved for future generations who might want to put them to better use in a context that makes more sense. Everything else is, at best, a curiosity, especially for its time: one thing I will admit is that not many acts sounded like that in 1989. (Quite a few acts sounded like that fifteen years ear­lier, though, which might explain their not wanting to sound like that in 1989).

Check "Fool Moon" (CD) on Amazon

The Beach Boys: Summer In Paradise

THE BEACH BOYS: SUMMER IN PARADISE (1992)

1) Hot Fun In The Summertime; 2) Surfin'; 3) Summer Of Love; 4) Island Fever; 5) Still Surfin'; 6) Slow Summer Dancin' (One Summer Night); 7) Strange Things Happen; 8) Remember (Walking In The Sand); 9) Lahaina Aloha; 10) Under The Boardwalk; 11) Summer In Paradise; 12) Forever.

Since this album, like its predecessor, is now out of print, and even the few surviving copies are going on Ebay for suspiciously low cash figures, it is clear that even Mike Love, not to mention the few other surviving Beach Boys, would prefer to forget about it like one forgets about a parti­cularly nasty bad dream (to each his own). But history is history: in the digital age, it no longer forgets anything. Besides, the fifty years of penance required for a crime like this are far from over — so take it like a man, Mr. Love.

The most awful realization one can make about Summer In Paradise is that — yes, I know it is very hard to believe, but here goes: The Beach Boys (at this point, consisting of Mike, Carl, and Bruce) were not consciously trying to make the worst pop album ever recorded. On the contrary, they were trying to make an album that would garner commercial success by combining healthy nostalgia, modern production va­lues, and a soulful punch. Had this been intended as a corny self-parody, we would all just laugh and go home.

Granted, time has healed the wounds, and what, in 1992, could only seem the utmost horror to all purveyors of good taste, now comes across as a bizarre curiosity — and by now I mean «when Baywatch is no longer the regular benchmark for trash culture». But it is still worth one and only one listen, exclusively for educational purposes. For starters, the album was almost entirely com­puter-generated (Pro Tools!), with all the rhythm sections pre-programmed. The only Beach Boy to actually play an instrument on these tracks was Bruce Johnston. The only Beach Boy to actual­ly write songs on this album was Mike Love, and even then he mostly supplied lyrics to Terry Melcher's «compositions». The only other Beach Boy to take an active part whatsoever was Carl Wilson, taking lead vocals on a couple tracks, overseeing the vocal harmony recording process, and adding pathetic «credibility» to the product as a «Beach Boys» creation.

As for the album's general purpose, one look at the tracklist is quite sufficient to understand what was going on. Unfortunately, the titles alone do not let one see the true scope of disaster. To do that, arm yourself with forgiveness and listen to the new «re-recording» of 'Surfing', replete with crashing electronic percussion and muscular Def Leppard-influenced RIFFAGE: a new look for surf-rock, targeted at the recent generation of morons, which, fortunately, was far less huge than could be expected (alas, a whoppin' 10,000 people still bought this re­cord back in the day, heed­less of everything). If you need more, a couple blocks down the line comes 'Still Surfing', a nos­talgic toss-off that steals vocal harmony lines from several genuine Beach Boys classics and tries to make them serve the idea that nothing much has changed in thirty years. No dice.

Amazing, unbelievably effective lowlights on the album include 'Summer Of Love', on which Mike is impersonating a cocky beach-goer with a little rap chant (the most offensive thing about it is, of course, not the «sexism» of the lyrics, as critics frequently complain, but the utter fake­ness of the sexism — at least a guy like Steven Tyler, with all his flaws, still knew how to invite a lady to his «love vacation» in 1992 sounding like he really means it); the title track, which begins like a corny nostalgia trip and then quickly, and for no apparent cause, transforms into an even cornier eco-anthem; and the «reinvention» of 'Remember (Walkin' In The Sand)', which genuine­ly should rank among the top three or so worst covers ever attempted by anybody — the idea of doing the kind of deed they did to the word "remember" could only come from a mind so perver­ted that I wouldn't trust the person in question with a baseball, let alone a baseball bat.

As for the not-so-impressive tracks, they are simply forgettable — boring adult contemporary crap, for the most part. The fact that this whole thing was recorded in 1992, at least one year after the grunge revolution, in an age when the long-burgeoning underground scene was finally co­ming out to meet the masses, just shows how utterly, thoroughly clueless the «Beach Boys» were about the musical scene of the time, judging it exclusively by MTV standards. But that's only half of the crime — then comes the pathetic part, because even by those standards they could not come up with a glossy enough, convincing enough, commercial enough piece of product. What more can be said about an album that hypocritically ends with a cover of Dennis Wilson's 'Fore­ver' — with the lead vocals given to John fuckin' Stamos, the star of Full House? If that ain't reason enough for Dennis to stage a vengeful comeback from the grave, nothing is, and the dead will stay in the ground until the end of time — coincidentally, just like Summer In Paradise. The only consolation is that at least Brian had nothing whatsoever to do with this senseless self-humiliation. Thumbs down — all the way right to the toes this time.

Billie Holiday: Velvet Mood

BILLIE HOLIDAY: VELVET MOOD (1956)

1) Prelude To A Kiss; 2) When Your Lover Has Gone; 3) Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone; 4) Nice Work If You Can Get It; 5) I Got A Right To Sing The Blues; 6) What's New?; 7) I Hadn't Anyone Till You; 8) Everything I Have Is Yours.

Not a lot to say here, since, apparently, all of the songs date from the same session as Music For Torching — same players, same type of repertoire, same level of inspiration. So much the same that, apparently, the album has not been re-released since its original market venture, even if, all things considered, it could have constituted a tremendously strong double-LP package on one CD. But, in any case, all of the tracks are out there on Complete Verve.

Re-recordings here include 'Nice Work If You Can Get It' — another of the lady's old Columbia upbeat rocking horses, and, consequently, another odd choice on an album dominated by smoky melancholy blues; 'Everything I Have Is Yours', which she'd already cut for Verve two years ago, but essays here once again in a slightly higher register; and the Commodore years classic 'I Got A Right To Sing The Blues', taken here at a slower pace, ornated with a pompous trumpet backing and featuring a long guitar solo from Barney Kessel — in other words, treated as «blues-de-luxe» rather than a brief aggressive outburst. Not very convincing, but passable.

Although, as usual, the record is very even, and its predictability is only disrupted in the subtlest of ways (e. g. Jimmy Rowles playing celeste on 'I Hadn't Anyone Till You'), my own tastes choose the 1931 standart 'When Your Lover Has Gone' as the outstanding high­light (a choice in which, surprisingly, I happen to coincide with the late James Dean, who declared it his favorite song). There is just something utterly mysterious about her phrasing on the title line — Billie may not be the master of complex technique, but she is the master of tone and pitch. The 4:32-4:58 segment of the song is, like, the ultimate benchmark in high quality choice of wavelength, if you know what I mean. More thumbs coming up.