The week’s listening. I was ending my tenth semester at Stephens College with students doin’ the final exam wig-out all around me, and the chaos was catching. I also road-tripped. This playlist catches that:
Plucked from History’s Dustbin (best recent purchase of an old record): William Faulkner Reads from his Works (featuring selections from The Sound and The Fury and Light In August; procured for me by the gents at Hitt Records!).
Grower, Not a Shower (old record I already owned that’s risen significantly in my esteem): Rhiannon Giddens’ Freedom Highway; The Rolling Stones’ Some Girls (I already loved it–I just fell even more in love with it, by learning to more fully accept and appreciate “Some Girls,” “Faraway Eyes,” and “Shattered.” Um, it was already showin’ — plenty.
Encore, Encore! (album I played at least twice this week): The Go-Betweens’ 1978-1980; The Rolling Stones’ Some Girls.
Through the Cracks (sweet record I forgot to write about): Sleep, The Sciences; Van Morrison and Joey DeFrancesco, You’re Driving Me Crazy; Salim Washington, Dogon Revisited.
Coming Attractions (Sunday’s Children): Aretha Franklin, Young, Gifted, and Black; Professor Longhair, Crawfish Fiesta; Z.Z. Hill, Greatest Hits.
I road-tripped to my parents’ home in Monett, Missouri, to celebrate my brother’s birthday–he was home from Dickinson, Texas. Unfortunately, my ace-boon pavement podnah Nicole was under the weather, so I was driving solo.
Also, my vehicle is a ’93 Ford Splash with 88,000 miles on it–I don’t entirely trust it, but it does have a nice stereo that masks those worrisome noises. So I selected some special, time-tested records to keep me fully engaged, and to “study” in “The Lab”–my nickname for the truck cab.
Neckbones: Souls on Fire
If the Rolling Stones were from Oxford, Mississippi, fronted by Richard Hell, and drunk on LAMF. Oh yeah: and cut loose with a week’s pay in a casino. But let me pull your coat on lead singer Tyler Keith. I hate to keep making comparisons, but this is true: if you, like me, are a fan of Jeffrey Lee Pierce and The Gun Club, there’s no reason for you to miss Tyler’s work with The Neckbones, The Preacher’s Kids, and The Apostles. It’s got the same fire, the same sense of spiritual hauntedness, the same immersion in the blues-based rock roll verities with a cerrated edge. What it doesn’t have, I think, is Pierce’s doomed aura–and that’s a good thing. Not something you wanna root for, you know?
I’m getting off topic, but proceed thusly through Mr. Keith’s oeuvre:
To prove I’m somewhat objective, I’ve never warmed up to The Preachers’ Kids’ The Devil’s Hitlist or Keith’s kinda-solo Alias Kid Twist, though the cassette-only The Apostle is worth the search. To recap, and I will not have stuttered: Tyler Keith and his projects equal to, if not better, than Jeffrey Lee Pierce’s.
The Rolling Stones: Some Girls and Tattoo You
A few weeks ago, I was having fun making fun of Mick Jagger’s garb and minstrelsy as modeled in videos from these records. Since then, I’ve come back to the videos, then to the records, to just joy in Charlie’s cracking drumming and Keith’s lewd, thick, buzzing guitar lines–sounds of the gods! Played both albums all the way through, loud, with nothing but a smile–and re-re-replays of “Lies,” “Respectable,” “Hang Fire,” “Start Me Up,” and “Neighbors.”
The Go-Betweens: 1978-1990
Yeah, I only listened to this comp THREE TIMES this week. Simply, the cats from Brisbane are my uncontested favorite romantic pop group–the music can rock or be sensuous and luxurious, with constant surprises: spring rain, pool draining, men o’ sand v. girls o’ sea, white witchery + poetry that’s Irish and so black, getting back up on the pony, period blood, cattle and cane. If this album ended after its first 11 tracks, it’d be an A+; as it is, it’s a solid A. Note: I love Grant, but I’m a Robert guy.
Oh, yes, I did. I needed to feel the breeze blowin’ up me, and be reminded what a moon can do (though I was driving into Monett in broad daylight). I also needed to get in touch with the real me before coming all the way home, and the china pig snuffles? They center me.
Short-shrift Division:
I am strange. I grade research papers at midnight to these sounds.
Dennis Gonzales and his New Dallas Sextet: Namesake–Fabulous, passionate, energetic, long-form jazz, from the genre’s most underrated living composer (and one hell of a trumpeter). Secret weapon: on horns and flute, Douglas Ewart!
Roscoe Mitchell: Discussions–The septuagenarian jazz sensei shows no signs of slowing. Playing puts me in a focused, contemplative, unsentimental mood–perfect for scoring freshman essays.
Living To Listen 