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Archive for April, 2018

“Echo”

Posted by purplemary54 on April 23, 2018

I’ve got Tom Petty on the brain.  I’ve got my dad on the brain, too; it’ll be five years since he died in a couple weeks.  I’ve been having weird anxiety dreams lately.  I’m writing poems again, although not as much as I’d like to be.  I’m a little worried about one of the cat’s health.  I’ve had a little wine tonight.  A little too much, maybe.  Or not enough.

Needless to say, I’m feeling a little melancholy.

So this is kind of the perfect song for me right now.  It’s all echoes, jumbled feelings of sadness and grief and happiness and peace and anger bouncing around in my head, back and forth, over and over.  “It’s the same sad echo comin’ down.  It’s the same sad echo all around in my ears.  It’s the same as the same sad echo around here.”  I don’t feel bad or depressed, really.  Just kind of unsettled.  Kind of lost, even though I’m not.  Just one of those funks.

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“Wooden Heart”

Posted by purplemary54 on April 16, 2018

I watched the HBO documentary on Elvis Presley The Searcher last night (and I highly recommend it; here’s the trailer to whet your appetite).  I had read beforehand an article about Tom Petty’s contribution–a fine interview made all the more melancholy by Petty’s death last October, so I was even more intrigued than I would’ve been anyway.  Both parts covered Elvis’ career in a way that was both familiar and revelatory.  I already knew most of it, but it was such a joy to watch and listen to the interviews with his contemporaries and others analyzing the work itself instead of the garish personal details of his life.  Elvis the man wasn’t ignored, but his personal life was only covered in respect to how it affected him as an artist.  I came away with an even greater dislike of Tom Parker and the damage he did to Elvis’s career.  (Yeah, yeah.  Without Parker, Elvis might not have become an international superstar so quickly, but those godawful movies in the 60s and all the ways he stifled his recording & touring were just too fucking heinous for words.)  But I was also struck by, as I always am, by what an amazing performer and singer Elvis was.  Watching the old footage of him, even the 70s jumpsuit years, showed why he was so phenomenal.  It was kind of heartbreaking

Of course then the closing credits happened.  Tom Petty’s interview for the documentary came just a few months before his unexpected death last year, and as noted in the article I read, it was incredibly insightful and one of the final ones recorded.  As a fellow Southerner and artist, I think Petty got Elvis in a way others interviewed didn’t; he understood where Elvis came from far more intimately than a lot of scholars and critics ever could no matter how much research they might do.  But that was just kind of melancholy, like I said earlier.  What killed me, made me cry out loud, was the tacit dedication the filmmakers made to Petty over the closing credits.

“Wooden Heart” is from G.I. Blues, the first movie Elvis made after being discharged from the army in 1960.  The soundtrack was like that of most of the music from Elvis movies: mostly forgettable with a gem or two tucked in.  The version of “Wooden Heart” in the movie is pretty wooden, too, except for Presley’s irrepressible charisma.  But this gentle cover by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers is so lovely and quiet; you can genuinely believe the plea for love and compassion he makes.  And I thought I had never heard it before.  When I finished sobbing and pulled myself together, I hit iTunes to see if I could download it.  It was available on the doc’s soundtrack, along with a whole lot of great Elvis and some other fabulous blues & rock used to tell the tale (and considering how many tracks there are, it’s kind of a bargain at $39.99 is you’re looking for a starter Elvis collection).  But looking around the web for more information and something for this post, I found out I already owned Petty’s cover of “Wooden Heart” and had most likely listened to it at some point.

Back in the 90s, Petty & the Heartbreakers released a damn good box set called Playback.  It’s six discs worth of some of the best music from one of the best acts ever in Rock & Roll.  The first three discs are all great tracks from the various albums up to that point; the second three are b-sides, rarities, and demos.  “Wooden Heart” was nestled in near the end of Disc 6 titled “Nobody’s Children” for the fact that these were tracks that were essentially orphaned–recorded but left off of any other albums for whatever reason.  I remember listening to the entire box set when I got it, although I’ve mostly neglected it since.  I don’t why I ignored or dismissed “Wooden Heart”; I guess I just wasn’t in the right head space for back then.  But now, after Petty’s death and watching the sad end of Elvis’ life and career, this song really hits home.  It’s nice to discover (or rediscover) treasure like this.

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“Play in the Rain”

Posted by purplemary54 on April 8, 2018

Lindsey Buckingham has always been my favorite of Fleetwood Mac’s long line of weird and brilliant frontmen.  And as a musician/songwriter/producer, he’s always been the oddest of the oddballs.  He never met a sound effect, vocal distortion, or production trick he didn’t like and frequently employed them on both group and solo albums.  In 1984, he released his oddball masterpiece, the aptly titled Go Insane.  It is arguably the strangest mainstream recording outside of a deliberate novelty album ever.

It also sounds like Buckingham was going a little bit insane when he made it.  Since Go Insane came out almost ten years after the big Mac’s seminal Rumors, I’m not sure any of the obvious turmoil here can be blamed on the emotional upheaval that made Rumors so phenomenally good (and popular).  It also employs to fuller effect some of the musical trickery that he’d begun employing with Tusk.  One of the best tracks on the album is the repetitive (but never boring) “Play in the Rain.”  There’s a rage and a passion to this collection of riffs and noise that is only hinted at in many of his other songs.  Smashing glass, pouring water, instrumental swirls and cacophonies dance around each other while Buckingham croons the limited lyrics over and over.  It’s a little ominous, frankly.  I’m not so sure I’d have said yes to his repeated “Can we play in the rain?”

Now my very first copy of this album was on cassette–vinyl being the other main choice since CDs weren’t yet the preferred format (let’s not even discuss how this might have played out had Go Insane been released digitally in its first incarnations; I’ll just say I’m not so sure it would’ve been better that way).  As you oldsters out there know, cassettes and vinyl have limited space on each playable side, so there was only so much music you could put on each side.  Presumably as a way to tie the opposite album sides together, Buckingham opted to split “Play in the Rain” into two parts.

The last track on the first side fades out with a sitar riff, you get up and flip over your LP/cassette, and pick up right where you left off.

It’s really kind of awesome.  Sure it’s an otherwise unnecessary interruption in the beautiful droning weirdness of the song, but it had the effect of showing the listener that this was not just some random collection of songs; this was a narrative, a story, a chain.  What was the story being told?  It seems to me to be the story of someone obsessed with another person, or another persona.  A story of someone teetering on the edge of madness, a nightmare of love and lust.  It’s fantastic.  This song is the centerpiece of the madness.  These days, you can get the song as one piece, but I don’t think it adds anything to it to be a whole song instead of two parts.  Part of what makes it compelling to me is the way it connects the two halves of the original album.  In these days of easy downloads, it’s harder to get a sense of the wholeness of a work.  I could get into a whole “get off my lawn” type rant about this, but I won’t; it’s just something I miss about the way we used to consume music.  The days when you would just put on an album and listen to it as a thing in and of itself, one track after the next.  Even CDs, which made things like the break between the two parts of “Play in the Rain” kind of useless, gave you a clear sense of an album as a complete work, something conceived as a piece of art and deliberately arranged in a certain way.  “Play in the Rain” (parts I and II) remind you that there was once a time when the structure of an album mattered just as much as the content.

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