Joseph's Picks Of The Week 2/10/12 - Tortoise and Sunn O))) Meets Nurse with Wound

As they inch ever closer to twenty years of existence it can be increasingly easy to forget just how unique Tortoise sounded upon first emerging onto the scene, and additionally that they weren’t instantly beloved at the time by the indie community at large. You see, the general state-of-affairs during this period had gotten so saturated in predictable band configurations featuring bucket loads of guitar distortion and vocalists emitting syllables pertaining to lyrical sentiments that the arrival of an all instrumental collective influenced by dub, progressive rock, jazz (the dreaded fusion in particular), electronic and experimental musics could easily inspire pocketfuls of naysayers to accompany the tide of appreciative listeners receptive to Tortoise’s fresh set of sonic possibilities. Upon the release of the band’s self-titled debut in 1994 the term post-rock had yet to gain any currency, and indeed Tortoise are one of the defining groups from within that thorny and debatable non-genre. I can distinctly recall a smattering of folks both in print and in person grumbling throughout the mid-‘90s that this band’s music was indulgent and non-punk in nature. Horrors!!! To tackle the second putdown first; yes, in the strict formal sense Tortoise has nothing to do with punk, but by ’94 this reality frankly lacked any of the minimal pertinence it ever held (please understand that deriding something as being insufficiently punkly has been a go-to gambit for sour sticks in the sediment since Stiv Bators first picked his nose in public). But if not punk in structural terms Tortoise was a helluva lot more invested in the spirit of the style than a bunch of tired, crusty bums maiming the life out of anything that was once great in the Buzzcocks’ bag of tricks. And regarding the subject of self-indulgence, well ditto; conservative crabs have been sourcing that term to decry attempts to advance beyond the established mainstream norms for the better part of the last century. But I’m not making any profound statements, for Tortoise rather quickly proved their detractors to be carping up the wrong tree. The evidence can be found in the grooves of their first two brilliant LPs, ‘96’s MILLIONS NOW LIVING WILL NEVER DIE and ’98’s TNT, a pair of discs that have subsequently come to define their creative high-watermark. That’s subsequently and also erroneously the case, since 2001’s STANDARDS, freshly reissued on vinyl by the band’s longtime label home Thrill Jockey, often gets belittled as somehow lesser than the obvious one-two combination wallop of MILLIONS/TNT. I suspect the reason for this boils down to familiarity. Once a big gust of unexpected newness, by the release of STANDARDS Tortoise had inspired a set of like-minded practitioners and instigated a handful of splinter projects (including Sea and Cake, Brokeback, and Isotope 217) while the ballyhoo of post-rock had crested and found itself the subject of critical conjecture as to what exactly the term entailed (the main complaint I’ve encountered is that unlike say post-bop or post-punk, the term post-rock is simply too broad and vague a term to be useful as a descriptor, an argument I understand but am ultimately indifferent about). Suffice to say that in contrast to just a few years previous, when STANDARDS first landed securely in the racks Tortoise was being held to a rather more stringent set of, uh, standards (groan). And this is quite alright, since it’s exactly the kind of healthy give and take that can occur between fans/critics and bands, producing a dialogue hopefully conducive to inspiring an even higher level of output. And while certainly underrated in their discography, the bands fourth LP isn’t exactly criminally misunderstood. Over the years their sound has been simultaneously open to variation and surprisingly consistent from track to track and record to record, so curious neophytes wouldn’t be erring a bit if they chose STANDARDS as their introduction into the realm’s of Tortoise’s vast sound-world. Opener “Seneca” surely doesn’t skimp on the by now trademark ability of the unit to travel a diverse landscape of sonic ideas, moving from Mahavishnu Orchestra-like guitar expansion to heady space-age techno-funk without hesitation and then blending seamlessly into “Eros” with its glitchy electronic veneer gradually turning icily and angularly rhythmic. From there the proceedings take a darkly retro-futuristic sci-fi turn with the first half of the NAKED LUNCH referencing “Benway” reminding me slightly of something Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark might’ve done in their early, less commercial beginnings before the tune segues into a kinda-sorta hybrid of smooth Krautrock motorik and the sound of a mythical fusion band from around ’72 co-lead by pianist/survivor Herbie Hancock (he of SEXTANT, a key antecedent for Tortoise’s sensibility) and estimable vibist Bobby Hutcherson. So this is the perfect time to mention one of my favorite elements in Tortoise’s arsenal, specifically the vibraphone. And speaking of pleasing vibes of an entirely different sort, “Firefly” easily slips into a tense mood of neo-noir soundtrackery, displaying a powerful grasp on the sensibility of film composer Ennio Morricone without falling prey to the more obvious stylistic swipes that the less subtle disciples of the Italian master often dish out; instead they wisely choose to carry forward his methods into a  contemporary rock (or post-rock, if you will) framework. “Firefly” feels readymade to accompany some ominous character breaking into a vintage Lincoln Continental in an alley behind a dilapidated warehouse. What’s that car doing there and what’s he looking for? Something bad is going to happen, I just know it. "Firefly" makes me yearn to hear what these guys would do in collaboration with one of our more musically sensitive (and visually astute) current filmmakers. For example I think they’d be a great potential fit with Michael Mann. “Six Pack”, not a Black Flag cover (or [to my knowledge at least] a Kenny Rogers tribute) ends side one with a concise bit of their perpetually on-the-spot up-tempo fusioneering. And the five tracks on side two are up to the same level of quality, with “Eden 2”’s dirty funk rhythming, “Blackjack”’s impressively subtle dynamic and tonal shifts and “Speakeasy”’s solid and jazzy melodic progression standing out. But it’s “Monica” that ultimately steals the show, opening with a flurry of slow-jam talk-box guitar that could easily get any two amorously inclined individuals to commence with some of the ol’ lovey-dovey on a (hopefully) leather-upholstered sofa. Insert tiger sound here. True, “Monica” doesn’t luxuriate in this mode for all that long, but it surely lingers around the motif for a suitable enough length of time for you to get down to business, Casanova. So go to it, and don’t worry, for STANDARDS will be waiting on the turntable when you’re through. Go on and play side two again, frisky. I mean as R. so astutely sung, I don’t see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind.

Sunn O))), Stephen O’Malley and Greg Anderson’s nearly fifteen year excursion into the outer reaches of doom/drone metal has produced an impressive heap of quality work, indeed holding some the defining examples of the metal genre as admirable platform for pure sonic experimentation rather than as the well trodden zone for the pot-fueled banging of heads and pumping of horned fists. I mean, pump away if you like, for the urge isn’t a bit inappropriate as regards the sound of Sunn O))), but it should be quickly obvious to any alert listener discovering their work that its whole raison d’être  goes much deeper than simply producing a physical reaction expressed as ritual. Not that Sunn O))) disdain ritual; to the contrary, they partake in ceremonial activities such as the wearing of Grimm Robes and the use of fog to enhance the atmosphere of their powerful live performances. It’s just that ritual is less an expression of bodily motion (e.g. the headbang, the pogo, the pit, the pony or whatever dance/reaction you care to name) and far more spiritual or symbolic for this particular band. And Sunn O))) can be correctly considered a band, though they are more aptly described as that core duo of O’Malley and Anderson engaging in a multi-tiered collaboration with a shifting cast of musicians that’s included everyone from well established rock cats like Julian Cope, Joe Preston and Justin Broadrick to avant-exp-noise heavies such as Merzbow, Oren Ambarchi and John Weise. This interest in placing the aesthetic of Sunn O))) directly in the path of players possessing considerable talent was already apparent by the group’s second album, 2000’s superb excursion into glacial cascades of distorto-feedback textures ØØ VOID. On that record O’Malley and Anderson were joined by Scott Reader (ex-Kyuss, ex-Obsessed) on bass, Peter Stahl (of harDCore legends Scream and the excellently named doom metallers Goatsnake) on vocals and Petra Haden (ex-That Dog, ex-Decemberists and too many other projects to list) on violin and vocals. Not that you’d recognize them from the music. ØØ VOID’s four formidable tracks, the sum totaling nearly an hour in running time, collectively felt like being dunked into a gigantic cauldron of metallic riffs made liquid with the consistency of molasses, the flavor of pure Tabasco and the aroma of engine exhaust, i.e. a truly great immersion. I just returned to the record after an absence of a few years and through a succession of back to back listens am pleased to find it simultaneously holding both an immediate familiarity and a level of abstraction that reveals new elements with each encounter. And while Sunn O))) could’ve been rightfully satisfied with ØØ VOID's level of quality and let it rest in the hierarchy of their discography as an impressive finished work, well they weren’t. For in 2008 the record was released by the Japanese label Daymare on CD with a bonus disc of ØØ VOID “remixes” courtesy of Nurse with Wound titled THE IRON SOUL OF NOTHING, a fascinating document that’s just been given an expanded and superior standalone 2LP vinyl issue from the imprint Ideologic Organ. For those not in the know, Nurse with Wound is essentially the byproduct of classic Brit obscurantist Steven Stapleton and whoever he chooses to work with, and since the dawn of the ‘80s the name has been synonymous with an intriguing and prolific outsider aura that’s been categorized as everything from drone to noise to industrial (in the early, pre-dance sense of the term). NWW featured a dark, experimental, extremely personal approach to music making that found the “band” rubbing shoulders with such disparate entities as Current 93, Coil, Organum, Whitehouse, Jim O’Rourke, Stereolab and Krautrock legends Faust. Suffice it to say that anybody wanting to bask in the full breadth of this globe’s legitimately underground progressions over the last thirty years needs to spend some real time getting acquainted with Nurse with Wound. Hell, just start with the debut, the still wondrously confounding CHANCE MEETING ON A DISSECTING TABLE OF A SEWING MACHINE AND AN UMBRELLA from ’79 (the record that included the now rightfully legendary insert dubbed the “NWW-list”, a collection of obscure influences upon Stapleton’s singular ethos that had legions of listeners salivating over its allusiveness for years until the internet finally allowed folks to actually hear much of what the fuss was about) and get gobsmacked but good. THE IRON SOUL OF NOTHING finds Stapleton reworking ØØ VOID so drastically that it becomes an entirely new sonic object that remains in consort with Sunn O)))’s considerable aims.  "Dysnystaxis (...A Chance Meeting with Somnus)" builds into a captivatingly eerie piece of drone reminiscent of certain foreboding pathways of Modern Classical or more tangibly the dark ambient genre as offered by names like Lustmord. This direction is further explored on both parts of "Ra at Dawn (Rapture, At Last, Numbered by Her Light)" (comprising sides two and four of the set), but it’s "Ash on the Trees (The Sudden Ebb of a Diatribe)" that stands apart; where the other three sides present soundscapes of creeping instrumental tension, “Ash…” is at least somewhat about the familiarity and release of language, bringing Stahl’s vocals, previously buried under the rumble and roar of ØØ VOID, to the forefront and then combining them with a collage of sounds that includes a startling barrage of shattered glass. THE IRON SOUL OF NOTHING ultimately moves so far beyond the template of remixing that it’s far more appropriate to describe it as a reimagining or even better as a reinterpretation, so it makes perfect sense that the finished work has been given not only its own title but has finally been distinguished with its own release. To consider it a curious digression in the work of Sunn O))) or Nurse with Wound is a mistake, for it’s loaded with the uncompromising spirit of both parties.

Joseph's Picks Of The Week 2/3/12 - A Winged Victory for the Sullen and Bare Wires

My main reason for pricking up the ears over the self-titled debut from A Winged Victory for the Sullen was specifically due to the participation of Adam Wiltzie, he who comprises one half of Austin, TX drone kingpins Stars of the Lid. I’ve been a fan of that duo for a long while now, with my appreciation spreading to previous Wiltzie “side-projects” like The Dead Texan and Windsor for the Derby. The other member of AWVftS is Dustin O’Halloran, and while I knew a little about Devics, the Los Angeles indie band where he works with vocalist Sara Lov, I was frankly clueless to the man’s solo output as pianist and film composer. Checking out O’Halloran’s first two plainly (you might even say Eno-esquely) titled records, 2004’s PIANO SOLOS and 2006’s PIANO SOLOS VOL. 2, I was pleasantly struck by the crisp, calm nature of his style, which fits snuggly into the genre of Classical, Modern. And yeah, that’s an awfully big corral of sometimes restless cats, so please let me elaborate; Dustin O’Halloran’s music possesses the same sort of quiet, relaxed intensity that’s absolutely perfect for rustic, backstreet antiquarian bookshops. Picture this, won’t you? While browsing the Fiction section’s pricey but pristine first edition hard-covers of Borges, Barth and Barthelme (aka the three Bs), the music’s unobtrusive assertiveness first catches the ear. Briefly the thought tangles on the tongue tip to ask from whence the music derives, but the college-aged counter clerk appears completely engrossed in a tattered copy of AGAINST INTERPRETATION and likely doesn’t want to be bothered. Shades of Arvo Pärt, Olivier Messiaen, and even Morton Feldman become briefly explicit, but the music swirling about the shelves of major volumes obviously doesn’t belong to the oeuvre of any of those heavyweight names.  And yet it’s exactly that kind of sound, i.e. just right for taking the highly caffeinated, sleep-deprived edge off an extremely sunlit morning; it’s relaxing, yet possessive of a strong backbone. And that’s just O’Halloran’s first two records. I haven’t even heard all of his most recent, highly touted stuff (though 2010’s solo live VORLEBEN is after a half dozen listens proving to be a true killer), mainly because I’m sorta stuck on this A Winged Victory for the Sullen collab. Frankly, it’s proving a disc as strong as its name is wordy (which perhaps influenced my bookshop scenario up above, heh). My first impression upon sitting down with this record (and while not exclusively a “sit-down” [or “lie-down”] LP, I can’t imagine it appropriately connecting with non-stationary listeners without the aid of headphones) was that without hints I’d likely never guessed Wiltzie’s involvement. And yet the tangible difference in sound doesn’t register as disconnected from the general evolution of Stars of the Lid’s impressive dronescapes, mainly because SotL’s numerous flights of extendedness, while occasionally abrasive and agitated, were more often inclined toward spacious, relaxing and borderline ethereal motifs. Like the best of Stars of the Lid (and I should mention that Brian McBride is an equal part of that duo’s considerable success), A WINGED VICTORY FOR THE SULLEN’s seven pieces lend themselves quite easily to the possibility of soundtracking the bold non-linearity of experimental film. But where movies employing SotL would ideally be projected onto a large wall during a hip, smoky gathering in some saucy boho’s loft, AWVftS feels far more suited for exhibition in a smart museum’s program of new film or even in the hallowed halls of academe. Indeed, during that first listen my thoughts did occasionally turn to Eno’s MUSIC FOR FILMS, a comparison still worthy of mention with the big caveat that while AWVftS’s music is pointed in the approximate direction of the ambient zone it never really gets there. Instead, it generally examines an appealing three-way split between gestures of ambient motion, the unique depth of feeling that’s sometimes achieved by chamber classical, and a string section driven post-rock sensibility that’s loosely related to groups like Sigur Rós and Godspeed You! Black Emperor. And this is cool since A Winged Victory for the Sullen, the nature of their moniker aside, smartly avoids repeating the melancholic bombast of those two bands. Again, the post-classical aura of O’Halloran’s piano really sets the tone here; while “We Played Some Open Chords and Rejoiced, For the Earth Had Circled the Sun Yet Another Year” (did I say something about wordy?) opens with a slow wash of tough string ache, by the one minute mark the piano has begun establishing that AWVftS is disinterested in reaching for emotional extremes in favor of cultivating an atmosphere of gentle, if occasionally tense and even sometimes subtly ominous beauty. But please don’t infer that fans of Sigur Rós and Godspeed won’t find AWVftS right up their alley. Anybody into the more un-rock side of post-rock should certainly queue this record up for inspection. Same goes for those into the more un-rock side of vintage Krautrock (say Cluster or Popul Vuh) or even Fripp and Eno’s EVENING STAR. ‘Tis true that my younger self would’ve surely derided A WINGED VICTORY FOR THE SULLEN as so much New Age hoo-hah, but back in those days I was far more prone to making shortsighted and even inaccurate statements. Please don’t fall prey to the same mistake. Adam Wiltzie and Dustin O’Halloran have crafted a fine and thoughtful debut album smartly co-released by the imprints Kranky (US) and Erased Tapes (UK). In fact, I can claim with confidence that it’s one of the best new records to hit my ear canals in all of 2011.

Gonna go uptown so I can get myself straight

Gonna go see my mama see if I got myself a date

Time is runnin’ out I’m comin’ right down to the wire

Gotta go do something to get myself higher

Lou Reed- “I’m Gonna Move Right In”

The music of Bare Wires requires a certain nonchalant swagger. And with a few exceptions, most of them from New York in the ‘70s (see above), I tend to think this blend of attitudinal rocking is best exemplified by bands hailing from the American West Coast, particularly it’s southernmost state. Yeah, if you have a jones to itch some post-Stones, post-“Search and Destroy”, post-Dolls expressions of trashy white-boy cool replete with cheap shades, cigarettes perpetually smoldering and dangling, and maybe even a scarf or denim jacket to help sell the strut, then indeed California is the place you ought to be. Some will quibble with this idea, and that’s more than alright. It’s in no way a stone tablets kind of concept. But here are three examples in favor of my thesis; The Dogs’ KBD-classic “Slash Your Face”, a big helping of mid-period Red Kross, and Dream Syndicate’s atypically silver-tongued “John Coltrane Stereo Blues”. Bare Wires are from Oakland, though they originally formed in Memphis, and the reality of this coastal commute only adds to the allure of the band’s glammy, power-popish early punk goodness (The Dogs also left Detroit for Los Angeles). Now lots of folks dismiss this particular strain of rock as the regressive stuff of posing and dilettantish small-scale rockstar-ism, but I frankly disagree; smarts in rock music shouldn’t necessarily equate to intellectualism or in lieu of that to an explicit punk-derived non-arrogance. I’ll acknowledge that stepping into this harry playground without the needed songs or chops is a recipe for disaster. With the right sound, this sort of approach harkens all the way back to the true badassery promulgated by the original R&R impulse (Berry, Lewis, Little Richard, Presley), but without it the whole endeavor will quickly become besieged with a whole lotta emptiness that inevitably leads to the catcalls of preening and poserism. That’s why to this day so many bad memories linger over ‘80s glam-metal (and to be fair, lots of those bands had okay songs, it’s just that hackneyed delivery and overzealous production sank most of them like an, um, lead balloon). But Bare Wires thankfully hang out on the unabashedly punk side of the street; on their debut, 2009’s ARTIFICIAL COLOR, they did a great freshman job of alternating a hyperactive melodic tendency with the gusto of streetwalking cheetahs with hearts full of if not napalm then some unidentified but surely harmful fluid. Nothing exceeded the three minute mark, often barely eclipsing two, and its 12 songs formed an assured and concise statement of purpose. Their second full-length effort, 2010’s SEEKING LOVE did nothing to mess with the program, though it was quickly clear that bandleader Matthew Melton was hitting his stride as a songwriter; instead of the tunes vaguely alternating between the poles of power-pop and punk, he was becoming far more adept at integrating those elements into each track. Plus, the guitars were fuller and loaded with gnawing riffing, and the rhythm section continued to be unfalteringly on the spot. Well, last year found Melton and co knocking out a 10 song 10-inch titled CHEAP PERFUME (the best kind, natch) on the South Paw label and the results besmirch the Bare Wires name not a bit. In fact, I’m ready to crown ‘em as one of the best unheralded straight-up rock units currently on the scene. And PERFUME really helps underscore the casual shrewdness behind Melton’s mode of operation. Not only has he gotten even more able at blending the power pop and the punk chug, but it’s suddenly clearer than ever that maybe Melton’s slickest trick is how he successfully grapples with the brazen and addictive insubstantiality of glam-rock’s more doofus side (think Slade or Sweet, not Bowie or T. Rex) with the everlasting depth of goodness from names like Arthur Lee, Alex Chilton, Johnny Thunders and Richard Hell. Those four names hopefully make it plain that Bare Wires are tapping into a direct rock tradition; there is nothing twisted or tweaked or ironic about them, and that’s refreshing. I also really like how this band blatantly cribs/quotes from previous songs like it ain’t no big deal (and you know what? ‘tis not). On ARTIFICIAL COLOR it was a sly variation on Devo’s “Gut Feeling”, on SEEKING LOVE it was the grand unlikelihood of The Drifter’s perennial “Under the Boardwalk”, and on CHEAP PERFUME it’s a nab from ABBEY ROAD. Which song? Not telling. Some things you just have to find out for yourself. Anybody that’s ever been blissed-out by some paunchy shop clerk’s selection of The Records’ “Starry Eyes” while flipping through titles in a dank but delicious basement wax shack shouldn’t hesitate to check out Bare Wires. And any ears equally slain by the first batch of KILLED BY DEATH volumes and Numero Group’s YELLOW PILLS: PREFILL compilation should find this band a real peanut butter and chocolate combination. Even if you “just” dig pre-crap Replacements I’d say give them a shot. It’s rare for a band of this ilk to knock out three long players of such high quality; that CHEAP PERFUME is Bare Wires’ best one yet only increases the impressiveness of their achievement.



Joseph's Picks Of The Week 1/27/12 - Charles "Packy" Axton and MISSISSIPPI BLUES 1927-1941

With a subject as wide as music, it should come as no great surprise that a ridiculous number of indispensible volumes are currently stuffing library shelves and cluttering up the coffee tables of connoisseurs all over this tirelessly spinning globe. But on top of that mountainous stack of worthy texts sits a few select titles that simply inhabit a class all by themselves; Robert Palmer’s DEEP BLUES, Nick Tosches’ UNSUNG HEROES OF ROCK ‘N’ ROLL, A. B. Spellman’s FOUR LIVES IN THE BEBOP BUSINESS, Peter Guralnick’s FEEL LIKE GOING HOME and SWEET SOUL MUSIC, Valerie Wilmer’s AS SERIOUS AS YOUR LIFE, Greil Marcus’ INVISIBLE REPUBLIC (aka THE OLD WEIRD AMERICA)and Clinton Heylin’s FROM THE VELVETS TO THE VOIDOIDS are amongst the books in this stratum all possessing the three essential ingredients, namely depth of knowledge, controlled passion for the subject and an abundance of prose skill, that ultimately combine to form a very rare and valuable thing. Another entry in this singular zone is IT CAME FROM MEMPHIS by Robert Gordon, a sort of celebratory alternate musical history of the city that covers everything from blues survivor Furry Lewis to lunatic DJ Dewey Phillips to southern hipster/musician extraordinaire Jim Dickinson to horribly underrated post-bop pianist Phineas Newborn to u-ground rock scene mainstays Alex Chilton and Tav Falco. Charles “Packy” Axton also gets essential documentation in the book, and in fact the pages of MEMPHIS served as my introduction to this true outsider legend. But it’s a cinch that millions have been touched by the guy’s sphere of influence even if the majority of those listeners haven’t a clue to the significance of his name. For starters, tenor saxophonist Axton’s mother Estelle and Uncle Jim Stewart founded Stax records, one of the cornerstones upon which the foundation of 20th Century music is based. And anybody that’s grooved to the delirious instrumental nutriment of “Last Night” by The Mar-Keys has heard the quality of his horn. A notoriously hard drinker (dead in ’74 from cirrhosis of the liver) with a difficult temperament to match, a big part of his posthumous reputation is how he relegated himself to the margins of a musical legacy, but an equally interesting aspect of his story is how he played a role in the demolition of the barrier of segregation through everyday associations across the color line and did so with nary a trace of saintliness or righteousness. People like Charles Axton are often retroactively assessed with the descriptor “colorblind”, but that sort of rubs me the wrong way. I can’t help but feel it proposes many integrationist individuals (both well known and marginal) as being somehow unable to really identify cultural and racial differences in their fellow man. In the case of Packy Axton however it’s pretty obvious that the dude was simply out searching for the life-affirming variety (also known as kicks) that is so often desired by young, open-minded, artistically inclined individuals; he wasn’t trying to change the world or make a statement, he was simply grabbing life by the horns. But Axton did actually end up making a statement (of sorts), and it’s just been issued by the fine folks at the Light in the Attic label as LATE LATE PARTY 1965-67. Its 17-songs add up to a huge sum that serves as essential augmentation for any right thinking individual’s collection of ringers form the vaults of Stax and Hi. Featuring tunes released under the names Martinis, L.H. & the Memphis Sounds, The Pac-Keys, Stacey Lane, and The Packers, with this last a rapidly assembled band whose “Hole in the Wall” was Axton’s second brief collusion with chart success, reaching #5 R&B (and #43 Pop) in 1965. As his second most popular song, “Hole in the Wall” sheds important light on Packy’s performative range; recorded in Los Angeles (where Axton had bailed after tiring of the difficulties with Uncle Jim) with Steve Cropper, Al Jackson and Booker T. hisself (all out touring with the Stax Revue), the song toes a suave line between the M.G.’s and the sort of non-crap pop-jazz proffered during this incredibly fertile period by guys like Ramsey “The In Crowd” Lewis. And I’m happy to report that “Hole in the Wall” sticks out not a bit qualitatively on LATE LATE PARTY, the album cohering into a very satisfying package. The Martinis and The Pac-Keys (featuring members of the superb Bar-Kays of “Soul Finger” fame) take up over half of the LPs tracks and to fine effect, with the former group leaning somewhat toward M.G.’s style riff as groove as eternal love and the latter hitting upon the horn based gorgeousness that later defined the post-Axton Mar-Key horns (who backed up Otis dontcha know). But there are all sorts of twists in store; “Hung Over”, a tight little frat-party intsro by The Martinis holds some of the goofus spirit of fellow Memphis weirdo Travis Wammack, L.H. and the Memphis Sounds shoot for a Motown-esque vocal group dynamic and score with ease, The left-field kazoo solo on The Pac-Keys’ “Hip Pocket” just oozes a post-4AM in the studio screw it let’s do it verve, and singer Stacy Lane rumbles like Edwin Starr on the locomotive “No Ending”. LATE LATE PARTY 1965-67 is simply a no-brainer acquisition for serious soul collectors but it’ll more than spike the juice of mere dabblers. In fact, it might just turn those dabblers into flat-out aficionados. What a nice possibility.

It’s fitting that the Mississippi blues, a form largely born from severity and often performed as a means of emotional survival in the harsh Jim Crow environment, should be one of this county’s most lasting cultural artifacts. And many folks automatically equate the blues of Mississippi with the region of the Delta, which is easy to do since the dominant innovators from the state (Charlie Patton, Son House, Skip James, Robert Johnson) all hailed from that region, but this associative jump doesn’t accurately encompass the sheer bounty of what transpired within those borders in the early portion of the 20th century. For a strong taste of the state’s diversity of style please investigate Yazoo Records’ 1967 compilation MISSISSIPPI BLUES 1927-1941, a truly mind-blowing document that’s just been given a fine repress on 180 gram vinyl. Yes, each of the abovementioned heavyweights is included here, with the mesmerizing and iconoclastic styles of the four being simultaneously buffered and accentuated by a sweet slew of lesser known but crucial names. The proceedings start strong and suitably uncharacteristically with “Gang of Brown Skin Women” by Harvey Hull and Long Cleve Reed (aka the Down Home Boys), playing a tune from ’27 that’s described in Bradley Sweet’s liner notes (through the source of Skip James) as spanning as far back as the early 1800s, though the song is boldly outfitted with a then up to date (if still decidedly rural) veneer replete with scat-singing gestures and a general good-time post Vaudeville atmosphere that feels more in line with the general M.O. of Memphis. The song is an obvious and delicious bit of lively fantasizing that would’ve fit right into the songster repertoire of Cannon’s Jug Stompers, the Memphis Jug Band, or even fellow homeboys the Mississippi Sheiks. In other words, great stuff for parties and barbeques. Fiddle-man Henry “Son” Sims’ is best known today for being a key accompanist for Charlie Patton (and later for pre-Chicago Muddy Waters), but on the buoyant if keening “Be True Be True Blues” it’s Patton backing up Sims to beautiful result. Over the years I’ve been unable to shake the song’s unschooled street-corner vibe from reminding me of unpolished pre-blues glory as peddled by such legends as Henry “Ragtime Texas” Thomas. You however might feel differently.  It’s with “I’m Leavin’ Town” by William Harris that things start to take a turn for the familiar. With guitar assistance by Joe Robinson this masterful duet is at once among the greatest and most slept on of all prewar blues cuts, a loose, raw, shit-talking beast of a tune that’s justifies the price of MISSISSIPPI BLUES all by itself. That Harris is essentially a historical cipher has undoubtedly kept his legacy loitering out in the margins of blues history, and that’s a damn drag. He doesn’t have enough tracks to fill out a full release under his own name (only seven of his sides remain with us), and while his material is suitably tough it does lack the doom-laden starkness that’s turned those lingering four names into such mythic legends. One great reason for reissuing an LP with tracks that have subsequently been filtered onto hundreds of releases (at least) since this inaugural compiling way back in ’67 is how it gives Harris a fresh chance to be heard by as many people as possible through simple association with far more prominent artists like House and Johnson. That Harris is followed by two ass-flaying tracks by Skip James is just gravy. With his strained and stressed and at times harshly feminine vocal delivery weaving through the threatening aura of his playing style, James has long been one of the most fascinating and stylistically extreme artists in the vast sphere of the blues. Once the ear has adjusted to his unique delivery and emotional heft his work can become absolutely entrancing; it’s the epitome of Robert Palmer’s concept of “deep blues”, and it could easily be used as the dictionary antonym of “easy listening”. The music of Skip James requires attention and commitment, but it also offers a huge reward. Even in a genre that always seems to flirt with the monochromatic (which is frankly part of the music’s appeal), nothing else sounds like him. What a rare and wonderful thing. The three tracks included here by Delta behemoth Charlie Patton are characteristically varied, for he was a consummate performer slash entertainer and simply one of the most important names in all of American Music. The Delta blues basically starts with him. Just think of it this way; without him there would’ve been no Howlin’ Wolf, and without that raspy giant there’d be no Rolling Stones or Beefheart, and that’s just for starters. A truly scary thought. Patton’s “Hang it on the Wall” ( a redo of his earlier “Shake it and Break it”)  is a pure throw-down of party-time tomfoolery that surely raised many a house into pure rocking frenzies all over the region, his “Mean Black Moan” features the high-pitched bow of “Son” Sims along with bucket loads of surface noise (just think of it as ambiance, okay?) and the man working through some typically intense love-ache, but it’s the perfect balance of mood and dynamics resonating throughout “Pea Vine Blues” that really cooks up the gusto in my crib. Though her discography is scant (a mere six sides) Geeshie Wiley nonetheless ranks as one of the greatest female singers/players in the entirety of the rural blues. Beyond her actual recordings little is known of her beyond rumor; she might’ve came from the city of Natchez, maybe she was involved with Papa Joe McCoy, perhaps she married Casey Bill Weldon, etc. What’s indisputable is the quality of her work. On “Eagles on a Half” Wiley combines crisp, percussive guitar with a relaxed vocal style that gains emotional resonance through her ease of delivery. To elaborate, she eschews the often piercing tones of many early urban blues singers, with this lack of urbanity ironically making her sound far more modern. If almost nothing is known of Wiley than Mattie Delaney is a complete blank. Obviously influenced by Charlie Patton, “Tallahatchie River Blues” shows her wielding a strong, smooth guitar hand and a voice that while more assertive than Wiley’s (as befitting her range) still integrates quite well with her instrumental ability. 12-string guitarist John Byrd comes from the songster tradition and unsurprisingly for that lifestyle he moved around the country quite a bit. The majority of his work was documented in Kentucky, and that’s where this album’s “Billy Goat Blues” was recorded. This marks him (along with William Harris who moved to Chicago in the 30s) as one of the first Mississippi blues transplants. That his style differs so stridently from the Delta mold is an appealing complication. Bobby Grant’s “Nappy Head Blues” from ’27 is so reminiscent of Son House that its existence as a supposed case of parallel development is somewhat confounding (House apparently had no idea who Grant was). As a brilliant bit of undiluted Delta science, it makes total sense to follow it in the playing order with House his own regal self, heard here circa 1941 with “Delta Blues”. The jump in time is illustrative. This is the only track on the record to feature harmonica (superbly rendered by Leroy Williams) and shows the big jump the Delta style had made before taking another grand leap into the city of Chicago in the tail end of the decade. At the point of “Delta Blues”’ recording Muddy Waters was still on Stovall’s Plantation, and to play these tracks by Grant and House immediately before Muddy’s “Walkin’ Blues” from 1950 (a standard first recorded by House) is to get hipped quick to one deep stream of country to city developments. But another marker of rural to urban transmogrification is represented through the figure of Robert Johnson. The dark mythic aura that persists in surrounding this most famous of Delta artists continues to somewhat obscure the fact that he was simply an amazing one-man synthesizer of the form. Initially a protégé of House, he was also undoubtedly influenced by the more citified guitar playing of Lonnie Johnson for just one example, and this blend of styles can be clearly heard on this LP’s closer “Dead Shrimp Blues”. If Johnson was vital in the alchemy of down home and uptown modes (keep in mind that John Hammond wanted him for his first “From Spirituals to Swing” concert in December of ’38 [where he would’ve shared the stage with amongst others The Count Basie Orchestra] but unfortunately he was already cold in the ground), he wisely knew better than to soften the dark swagger of the Delta; the “shrimp” of this tune refers not to tasty crustaceans but to what Bradley Sweet describes as harlots, a term of slang already archaic at the time of Johnson’s recording. That makes the line “woke up this morning/all my shrimps was dead and gone” rather menacing to say the least, and it’s a particularly apropos way to end the album. MISSISSIPPI BLUES 1927-1941 isn’t the last word on its subject (check out Yazoo’s MISSISSIPPI BLUES MASTERS 1927-1935 for a more extensive look and with almost no overlap), but for many ears (like mine) it essentially was the first word. It’s great to have it back in the racks.