There Will Be Flowers

Sadly, George Jones is now gone. Thank god we still got Gene Watson.

I’m probably in the minority believing that country music produced it’s most interesting body of work in the 1970′s. Yes: raw, early country forms were far closer bound to it’s haunted, hillbilly wellspring. And I do recognise how freeing it must have been to finally strip away all that rhinestone and cocaine gumming up the works, come the 1980′s. Still, the 70′s saw country music finally matching the success of it’s pop counterparts, step for step – often by the very same country artists who’d laid it’s foundations decades earlier. There was ample funding for a sensitive producer to get a distinctive singer to balance flashy excess with down-home constraint, and come up with real country magic. And this happened more often than most folks wanna admit.

Gene Watson was that singer, and thankfully Russ Reeder was also that producer. These two paired up for a series of great LPs on Capitol Records, starting with Love In The Hot Afternoon from ’75. The first six have since been reissued by Hux Records, two each on three separate CDs. I reckon the best pairing to be Reflections/Should I Come Home from ’78-’79, which contains his signature tune, “Farewell Party.” But all three CDs are consistently good and often really great listens.

Gene’ll forever be described as traditional country since he stuck to those weepy ballads and passive-aggressive honky tonk numbers that I’ve recently started to love so much. His producer Russ worked a delicate hand, never skimping on the fiddle or steel guitar as some of his contemporaries did. But like Billy Sherrill’s countrypolitan acts, Gene wore Nudie suits and sometimes sat comfortably atop the very same gospel choirs found on late-era Elvis records. So you’re really splitting hairs here.

What is unique about Gene was the honed talent underpinning his singing. Sure: George Jones’ voice cut closer to real life, Charlie Rich crooned with more soulful authority, and Willie Nelson could lay further behind the beat than just about anybody. But Gene’s natural vocal prowess – his range, his timing, that awesome sense of control – probably tops them all. He succeeded in elevating a simple Texas drawl into a strata reserved for quite refined artists, something rarely achieved in the realm of country music.

With Gene, there’s not much gossip to enliven things: he’s stayed married to one woman all his life, avoided drug/alcohol addiction, and continued to work at a Houston auto body repair shop after his recordings were hitting the charts. But the lack of backstory just allows his godsend voice more room for what it does best. And Gene ain’t lost it yet neither – check out his amazing version of Lefty Frizzell’s “I Never Go Around Mirrors” recorded in 2001:

I Never Promised You A Consistent Album

LYNN ANDERSON – Golden Classics Edition (1997, Collectables)

This was a straight reissue of a couple of her biggest selling LPs, Rose Garden from 1970 and You’re My Man from 1971, plus a few bonus tracks for good measure. The epitome of country-pop success at the time, Lynn Anderson and her big blonde hair hit massively with “Rose Garden” on both pop and country charts. This explains both her frequent guest appearances on The Lawrence Welk Show and the lame attempts at crossing over again cluttering up You’re My Man and many other LPs since. Indeed, it isn’t hard to imagine any of the insipid, strings-ridden covers included – “Joy To The World”, “Knock Three Times”, “Proud Mary” – dribbling out of crackly speakers at an out-of-the-way Texas pancake house, then or now. No doubt it’s this fluff the record company thought was the selling point, but it’s precisely those bits you’d be wisest to avoid.

When she steps back from all that, Lynn actually sounds really fine. She wields quite focused vocal technique not unlike that other big-hair queen, Tammy Wynette – though thankfully, without that woman’s proclivity for masochism. She sings Kris Kristofferson’s “Sunday Morning Come Down” as if those tough lyrics were handwritten for her; indeed they could be seen to foreshadow her more recent brushes with the law. Her tone remains clear-eyed and never maudlin, lending maturity to tunes like “Another Lonely Night” even when she’s backed with that perky girl-beat that infantilised other 60′s country singers (think Connie Smith). There will never be anything groundbreaking about her approach, but she’s savvy enough to remain her own woman, regardless of what she’s singing. It’s a neat trick in the face of so much Nashville machinery.

In the end, I appreciate the subtle craft she’s brought to something so mundane. And while I can’t find the reference now, I’m sure Eugene Chadbourne over at All Music once described Lynn as something akin to amazing. I’m not about to argue with that claim today. But whether you really wanna wade this far into the morass of country music for such mixed results is a matter between you and your god alone.

A Town West of Nashville

VARIOUS ARTISTS – A Town South of Bakersfield, Vols. 1 & 2 CD (Enigma, 1988)

I read about these two Pete Anderson-curated compilations (the first from 1985, the second from 1988) in the pages of SPIN magazine as a teen. And a quarter century had to pass before I’d get around to actually listening to them! Let us be clear: this ain’t nothing at all to do with cowpunk, that’s fr goddamn sure. Critics who bandied around that novelty term when talking about this are probably the same jokers who used it’s root punk to describe late 70′s Warren Zevon records. And we all know, them critics were morons.

What this actually was: a collection of traditionally-minded country artists who’d happened to build careers in the greater Los Angeles area in the mid 80′s. Being so far from the Southern U.S. cultural epicentre of their sound was isolating, and the lack of naturally-occurring support from their environs led some of these artists to develop post-modern chips of varied sizes on their shoulders. That aside, these folks were as pro and adept as anyone then hot in Nashville, and they were most definitely here to prove it.

The artists themselves were quite diverse. Katy Moffatt, Billy Swan, and Lucinda Williams already had well established careers, but were in the process of redefining themselves in more modern terms. Dwight Yoakam, Rosie Flores, James Intveld and Candye Kane belie more urban influences, turned on by the rockabilly revival of The Blasters a few years earlier. Still others, like the rootsy Lonesome Strangers and county-pop Tin Star, seemed to pop outta nowhere, fully formed and more than ready to headline the Palomino Club in a moment’s notice. Nothing here sounded anywhere near as wild or drunken as Tex and the Horseheads, but it’s uniformly strong and proud stuff. And remember, this was country music, not that longhair rock n roll crap.

Approaching this CD in 2013, you have to overcome a couple big hurdles. First, there’s Pete Anderson’s “hip” production. Now I will certainly give it up for that man’s spare, hardcore country arrangements and formidable gtr prowess, but the overall fidelity here is thin and tinny, like some 2nd rate Steve Lillywhite knock-off project. Amplified by state-of-the-art digital CD transfer circa 1988, and you’ve got some seriously brittle, bloodless sonics in your speakers.

It’s curious to compare this with the Don’t Shoot compilation on Zippo Records that came out around the same time. Similarly country-themed, Don’t Shoot focused on spin-offs & solo projects of LA bands like X, Green On Red, The Long Ryders, and Divine Horsemen – you know, guys with actual punker pedigrees. In fact, a full half of that rec was produced/engineered by ex-Flesh Eater Chris D, who understood the need to capture a fair representation of low, mid, and high frequencies. Accordingly, it sounds warmer and more naturalistic than either Bakersfield volume. But in terms of playing/songwriting, the South of Bakersfield cats ran rings around their Hollywood counterparts, telling me Pete Anderson and co. had Nashville in their sights all along.

And the work’s worth it, really it is, especially if you like your country rooted in history, but are turned off by the good-ole-boy chauvinism of some of it’s founding fathers. I reckon Jim Lauderdale’s “What Am I Waiting For” to be the absolute pick of the bunch, as he conjures up the ghost of a young Buck Owens as vividly as anyone I’ve yet heard. As expected, Dwight Yoakam deserves special mention with the inclusion of his great “I’ll Be Gone.” But less well known singers like breathy but tough Jann Browne (“Louisville”) and no-nonsense honky tonker George Highfill (“Waitin’ Up”) sound simultaneously commanding and at ease, no simple trick to pull off.

Whatever your fancy, just don’t call it cowpunk, ok?

George Jones For Dinner

GEORGE JONES – I Am What I Am (Epic, 1980)

Last week I dreamt that George Jones and I were hanging out together in my kitchen. He looked exactly like he did in this sleeve pic: wide polyester lapels, bad Nashville haircut, crazy look in his eyes. He was showing interest in our back garden ferns, but all I could do was wonder who else still worked this sorta fashion in 1980 . . . retirees in Sun City, AZ? Cab drivers in Southeast Asia? Sheesh.

As much as I love every George Jones record I have heard, there is something a little ghoulish about this one. Inarguably, his life was at it’s absolute nadir then – a swirling cocktail of alcohol/cocaine abuse, mental illness, financial woe, and just plain fucking up. And it all threatened to capsize him here. This is the first time on record that you can really hear an alcohol thickness to his voice, which is saying something – he admitted in his biography to being drunk through most studio sessions he’d ever been in. So when George plumbs as deep as he does with these songs, you worry he might not find a way back up.

The tack producer Billy Sherrill took with the musical backing remains oblivious to all this. It’s tried and true 70′s countrypolitan: hillbilly fiddle and twangy gtr are relegated to barely-speaking roles, while piano, swelling strings, and wordless choruses lead the way toward crossover chart success. The only concessions to the new decade seems to be some effects on the pedal steel, and a striping away of the soft-focus, gauzy haze that once made George sound like he was crooning to you from beyond the clouds. So despite the sweetening, George the vocalist stands as clear, maybe clearer, than ever before.

Which is a problem, because clarity only intensifies the horror on parade. As great a performance as the infamous lead-in cut “He Stopped Loving Her Today” is, there are even darker places to visit before it’s over. Hearing George sing “with the blood from my body I could start my own still” on “If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me (Her Memory Will)” is pathetic and gut-wrenching, since not only does he sound like a vagrant wino – albeit one with an amazing voice – he was one at this point. Similarly, “I’ve Aged Twenty Years In Five” is as heartbreaking a life-down-the-toilet song as they come:

As I look in the mirror this morning
On some dirty old restroom wall
It took a while to realize it’s really me there inside
‘Cause I’ve aged twenty years in five

I suppose it’s not all grim – the final trio of songs are more energetic and try to be fun, though totally out of place given the context. The CD reissue, however, rectifies this by adding 4 bonus tracks cut from the same desperate cloth as what’s on the first side, thus bringing the emptiness full circle. So when he eventually asks “Am I Losing Your Memory Or Mine?,” it’s apparent to everyone except George what’s gone.

To be sure, his singing here still bests that of any of his peers. Hell, he’s singing better than just about anyone else going at this point, like his life depended on it. But I can’t shake that voyeuristic feel of listening to man tumbling headlong into the void. No, I don’t suspect I’ll be spinning this one too frequently, if only to afford ol’ George some measure of late-life dignity. Yet it is what it is: a truly powerful record of life at the bottom.

———-

I don’t remember much else about the dream, other than George raised an eyebrow when I told him my parents used to live in Jasper, Texas, not far from where he grew up. Interestingly, he didn’t appear drunk at all – in fact, he looked downright sober. Happy, even.

Christgau Country

. . . At which point I find myself in wholehearted agreement with noted Village Voice music critic Robert Christgau.

Coming of age in early 80′s Southern California, New Yorker Christgau was never gonna be the first name in music criticism, good or bad – that space was reserved for the LA Times’ Robert Hilburn, whose unflagging dedication to the heroic populism of Bruce Springsteen, U2 et al made for some particularly dull, predictable Sunday morning reading back then. Instead, I became conscious of Christgau a few years later, as the butt of indie-critic jibes by the likes of Thurston Moore and Mykel Board. It wasn’t until the 90′s that I’d familiarise myself with his books, if only to catch up with a record collecting buddy who made it his mission to acquire every record graded at B+ or above therein. This brief sojourn solidified my negative impression of Christgau going forward: he’s that snarky guy with no patience for hard/heavy rock, and therefore not the man for me.

But apparently, I’m no longer the man I thought I was either, musically speaking. And in my recent awakening to country music, I’ve become aware of another, more useful side to the writings of the Dean of American Rock Critics. Way back during the Summer of Love, Christgau wrote that country music

is the last untouched reserve of popular music . . . frankly, I don’t know as much as I’d like to about the music because I find it fascinating but unlistenable. It is very insular, appealing mostly to the white, lower-middle-class adults, especially those in the South and West and away from the urban centers. The lyrics, which are much more inventive than the music, reflect this appeal; booze and sexual temptation are favorite subjects. Aside from Roger Miller, who defies the categories anyway, no C&W performer has broken into the pop of this decade for more than a freak hit, although in the Fifties C&W was almost as important as R&B. This is an index of the increasing withdrawal of the audience. Rock borrows constantly from country music, with good effect; when C&W borrows, and it does so more and more, it borrows from the corny accouterments of easy listening and outdated pop. Most of the songs are lugubrious, ridiculous, or both. But taken as a whole they form a fascinating folk music, and some even stand by themselves. (from Secular Music, 1967)

I like this Christgau bit. Not only do most of his generalisations still hold 45 years on, but he makes no secret that he’s approaching this music as an outsider, as a listener of rock and roll first and foremost. That’s an angle he’s kept in much of his country music writing ever since.

Peruse Christgau’s website and you’ll turn up dozens (hundreds?) of insightful if still sometimes snarky reviews about a diverse range of country artists. Taken in total, it’s eye-opening reading. Few other schooled, urbane liberals have ever bothered attempting to delve into – much less appreciate – the width and breadth of this sorta music. And he gets it right more often than wrong.

It would seem that Christgau, like me, is fascinated by the closed-off nature of Nashville: this bizzaro music world running parallel to the mainstream of rock/pop, one with unique standards and trends that evince logic all their own. While he incorporates lateral political analysis a bit too frequently for my taste, cut him some slack – the prominence of lyrics in this peculiar form and the noted conservatism of some of it’s artists lend itself to such diversions. But what I’m most impressed by is that Christgau, indeed, does love clever Honky Tonk phrasing, commanding Southern singer/stylists, and sweet, sweet country songs. That’s something I can relate to these days.

Here’s a few examples of Christgau’s writing on country artists over the years:

On George Jones

“Smiling corpse or committed cuckold or drunk peering over the edge of the wagon, a sinner is what he am, and he’s never sounded so abject or unregenerate — the twenty-years-in-five thickness of his Epic voice only intensifies the effect.” (review of I Am What I Am, 1981)

On Melba Montgomery

“George isn’t just being polite when he claims Melba was a better match than Tammy — anyone who counts that Birmingham beautician deep country should check out the hollers near Iron City, Tennessee. Montgomery is less original than Jones, as is Pavarotti. But she’s so downhome that she never got her druthers or her just deserts. And she’s also so downhome that Pappy Daily didn’t even think about countrypolitanizing her.” (review of Vintage Collections, 1997)

On Randy Travis

“I can now hear, for instance, why many prefer Storms of Life –don’t matter as much as what holds them together: the voice, the voice singing. If this seems perilously close to the canary fancying that’s given the world so many Mariah Careys, let me note immediately that John Anderson versus George Strait is still no contest by me. Frazzled though Anderson’s drawl may be, it’s artist versus craftsman–he’s funny, he’s soulful, he’s avid, and he moves. Anderson versus Travis, however, now seems a close call. We always knew, sort of, that over and above material and production that outclassed his immediate forebears, what made Travis new traditionalism’s breakout artist was an ache that invoked the pantheon–Jimmie and Hank, Lefty and Merle.” (from the essay Striving For Ease, 2002)

And on recent Nashville chart-topper Brad Paisley

“Complete with the rowdy male choral farewell “You wear the pants/Buddy good for you/We’re so impressed/Whoop-de-doo,” “The Pants” is a typically sidelong gambit from an artist who knows how to sell simple truths to a resistant audience — a master of the catchy chorus, the phrase ratcheted up a notch, the joke only a teabagging jerkola could resent. And though that’s easier with marriage songs, those soppy country staples that sometimes come as well-honed as Loretta Lynn’s “One’s on the Way” or Garth Brooks’s “Unanswered Prayers,” no country artist has ever been sharper about what connubial bliss entails.” (from the essay Paisley’s Progress, 2009)

Almost Jack Daniels Drowned

JOHN ANDERSON – 2 LP (Warner Brothers, 1981)

A big name in 80′s Neo-Traditionalist Country, John Anderson was, and maybe the best of the bunch. Along with George Strait and Dwight Yoakam, John was one of the first to carve out a career using songs & sounds identified with older, fading styles of country music at the beginning of the 80′s – when limp, crossover country-pop ala Kenny Rogers ruled the day. So not only does he ring in here with great, faithful covers of Lefty Frizzell’s “I Love You A Thousand Ways” and Norro Wilson’s “July 12, 1939″, but he’s found new songs like “I’ve Almost Jack Daniels Drowned” and written his own (“Mountain High, Valley Low”) that exude deep understanding of honky-tonk and bluegrass traditions.

John has a casual, off-hand vocal style with a blue streak particularly suited to ballads. It gives him real underdog character, the kind that trumps the overly-confident vocals of well-adjusted Strait every day of the week. And since John utilised no-nonsense production still common to country recs at the time (Nashville didn’t have to endure New Wave synths for another half decade) his band sounds more naturalistic than Yoakam’s, who occasionally tried too hard to re-create lost hillbilly aura.

Yes John ought to avoid rocking up his sound as he does on “Chicken Truck” – the band just ain’t made for that kinda action. But even if novelty numbers like “I’m Just An Old Chunk Of Coal (But I’m Gonna Be A Diamond Some Day)” are silly, they hit precisely because they meld the old – longtime sessioners Jerry Reed and Pete Drake sound like they’re having fun for the first time in years – and the new with seamless ease. This LP’s more consistent than either his first or third, but if like me you get addicted to John’s lugubrious vocal style, you’re gonna want to search out those too.

Ladies’ Choice

DOLLY PARTON – Jolene LP (RCA, 1973)

“What about the ladies of country?” a friend has asked. And yes, I gotta admit: I failed to mention a single woman in my post about Country Music yesterday. Which is a grievous oversight, at least since Kitty Wells succeeded at being the first female artist to chart some 60+ years ago. So right off I’d thought I’d make amends by talking about this classic DOLLY PARTON LP I picked up recently in Leeds.

Jolene is a great example of just how powerful Dolly could be, prior to her late 70′s pop makeover out in Los Angeles. As on most of her records, she’s written most (all but 2) of these songs herself. And while the All Music website has taken issue with a perceived weakness in the lyrics, that criticism completely disregards the social realities faced by women in early 70′s, especially in conservative Nashville. It would also seem its author doesn’t understand the conventions of traditional country songwriting, in which Dolly is most certainly writing here. No – these lyrics are often bittersweet, sometimes angry, occasionally hopeful. But never weak.

In musical terms, there’s only strengths on display. The production eschews Countrypolitan excess, relying predominantly on Nashville A-Teamers to play tight, supporting roles. Despite their country pedigree, the band consistently flirts with less-traditional territory, mirroring Dolly’s own diverse interests. You can hear this in the urgent, minor key chord changes on the awesome title track, the muffled drum rolls on “Early Morning Breeze“, and that uncredited hand percussion that pops up more than once.

Dolly, herself, is as haunting as ever. Her Smoky Mountain soprano has that willowy flutter in it, turning an earthy and rhythmically compelling voice into something way more ghostly and ethereal. While I realise most of you never wanna hear anyone sing “I Will Always Love You” again, Dolly wrote and recorded it here first. Rather than overkill, her version relies on gorgeous understatement. 40 years on, it remains the definitive version.

The LP clocks in at barely 25 minutes. But then, what self-respecting country rec sticks around any longer? Dolly’s got other great records too (check out The Fairest Of Them All from ’69) but this one works a subtle witchcraft she rarely sought to achieve elsewhere. A keeper fr sure.

Cowboy (Re)Boot

It’s been a transitional time here at Chez Recon, musically speaking. I’ve noted my flagging interest in rock and roll here before, but what I haven’t mentioned is that I’ve been listening to a steady diet of Country Music over the past few months. Yes, this is indeed an odd turn of events. Not unlike Jake and Elwood Blues, I’d previously reckoned C&W to be overly sentimental, kinda cornball, and pretty forgettable music at best.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. Fired by Nick Cave and Chris D. in the later 80′s, I once went through a phase ferreting out eerily captivating murder/prison ballads by guys like Johnny Cash, Eddie Noack, and David Allen Coe. I also spent a fair bit of time in the early 90′s rediscovering the flow n twang of formative West Coast country rock bands like The Byrds, The Burrito Brothers, The Dead and their ilk. But last year, whilst combing through yet another shitty, 70′s singer-songwriter record vainly searching for that elusive, song-to-end-all-songs, I experienced an epiphany of sorts. It hit me, clear as a ringing bell: if you want a good song, you gotta go down to Nashville.

Since then, my ears have been filled to the brim with country music, more country music, and still more country music. From the 40′s western swing of Bob Wills, through Owen Bradley’s Nashville Sound and Billy Sherrill’s Countrypolitan in the 60′s/70′s, on up to 80′s neo-traditionalist hat acts like Dwight Yoakam and Randy Travis, I’ve been trying to digest it all. Which is no mean feat; taken in total, country music is one thick-cut, juicy steak with all the fixings. It’s an endless feast that I could be tucking into for decades.

Recently I’ve spent a lot of time with the erudite proprietor of York’s Rebound Records disecting dysfunctional honky-tonk logic, weighing the relative merits of syrupy string sections and bellowing gospel choirs backing ornery hicks, and querying why country artists have often been overlooked in the CD reissue frenzy of the past couple decades. I’ve also had heated debates with my long-suffering wife about my interest in irresponsible drunks such as George Jones and Johnny Paycheck, which often devolve into accusations that I am either a) turning into a particularly sick, perverse bastard, or b) lapsing gradually into senseless stupidity. Needless to say, it’s all grist for the mill for some renewed Pig State Recon action.

So I am back to set the record Strait – er, straight. Expect blog posts to appear here in the near future by an unreconstructed rock and roll fan as he tries to get his head around a new found love of Country Music.

Mad Yodel

There will always be another amazing record you haven’t yet heard, but it’s also true that a wealth of unreleased recordings exist that would blow minds, if only somebody ever saw fit to release em. This is what Nigel Cross at Shagrat Records has made a career of: mining the archives for aural documentation worthy of serious reconsideration. Since I last checked in with Nigel a few years ago, he’s released previously unheard, early 70′s jazz rock jams by American ex-pat Londoners FORMERLY FAT HARRY, post-MOBY GRAPE twang by THE DARROW MOSLEY BAND, and amazingly fluid psych sessions ca. 1971 by Brit master musicians HORACE. Now, hot on the heels of a 10″/book by late 60′s SF ballroom kings MAD RIVER, Nigel gives us the Presumed Lost CD by ex-MAD RIVER multi instrumentalist Lawrence Hammond. And what a confoundingly great, sincerely stellar record it is.

Up front I should admit I’ve never been a diehard fan of MAD RIVER’s schizo, acid rock cut-ups. The BEEFHEARTian jaggedness of their first LP and cowpoke trippiness of their later Paradise Bar & Grill record do have wiggy moments, moments I once savoured deeply when courting “altered” states of mind as a young adult. But MAD RIVER also had a perverse knack of changing the psychic flow without warning, often at the most inopportune of times. And more than once, I’ve pulled that first rec off the deck mid-tune, as the music therein was threatening to sour my trip, bigtime. Clearly though, group leader Lawrence Hammond had some serious talent, and long after he’d left the SF Sound behind he recorded an album that illustrates those strengths beautifully.

From the outset, Presumed Lost announces itself proudly as unabashed country & western, free from most California country rockisms proliferating at the time. Originally recorded for but unreleased by the then-waning Takoma label in the late 70′s, Lawrence’s songs alternate between lilting, southwestern country/folk and a kind of ambitiously composed, spit-shined country pop popular in Nashville then; indeed, his “John Deere Tractor” would later be covered famously by THE JUDDS. He proves himself master on a half dozen instruments (gtr, piano, fiddle, mandolin) while sidemen like banjo player John Hickman and renowned fiddler Byron Berline are consistently sympathetic and always ring in with nimble, biting precision. It’s true that all of this has as much to do with acid rock as Marty Robbins does, but if you can’t sit still for a Pete Drake pedal steel solo . . . well, that’s your loss, partner, not mine.

At heart this is a vocally-driven record, and Hammond’s voice! Good God, what pipes. Few others this side of FAMILY’s Roger Chapman – or even THE FLESH EATERS’ Chris D. – have possessed a voice so divisive as Mr Hammond’s. While I can empathise with reactions noted in Eugene Chadbourne’s review of Lawrence’s first solo LP, Coyote’s Dream, to my ears his mad yodel here is utterly captivating. His lyrics, too, are also fairly unique in the field of C&W: bittersweet narrative punctuated with naturalistic imagery and western colloquialisms, it’s erudite but ornery stuff that gets me believing Lawrence could’ve founded a High Lonesome School of Cowboy Romanticism all his own.

Two songs do bear noting for their peculiar magic: “Papa Redwing Blackbird” is a gorgeous falsetto psych folk number that’ll send chills down your spine every spin, while “Love For The Hunger” is the sort of dark and brooding tune THIN WHITE ROPE might’ve covered to great effect a decade later. But as amazing as those tracks are, they are but diversions in a central, more powerful journey, one where Lawrence nudges country music in a profoundly soulful direction few have ever tried to. A trip worthy of serious reconsideration, indeed.

Lane Steinberg: Pop’s Stunt Double

Writing this post pains me. And it will pain you too, deeply, if only you’d let it. It pains me because I am not sure all Pig State Recon readers – or even PSR family members – will agree with what I have to say. But say it, I must.

It is clear that not all music lovers pine for a return of the popular Tin Pan Alley showtunes of NOEL COWARD, or the lush Brill Building pop confection of BURT BACHARACH and HAL DAVID, or even the sensitive, piano-driven singer songwriter stuff of CAROLE KING. And precious fewer of you have recorded so many low-budget tributes to such derided aesthetics as Lane Steinberg has over the years. But this is why I love the guy. Let me elaborate:

THE WIND – The Best of The Wind 1979 – 1986 (EM Records, 2002) Let’s get this straight: Lane Steinberg’s THE WIND was one seriously messed up band. These boys largely eschewed the reigning 3 chord Power Pop paradigm at the dawn of the 80′s and instead were drawn to elaborate chord progressions that made JOE JACKSON’s “Steppin’ Out” sound underwritten. They took a devilish glee at shoehorning witty, syncopated lyric lines into slowburn lounge-pop numbers, if only to irk lazier listeners. And not only did they occasionally play soulful piano vamps that would’ve made BILLY JOEL proud, apparently they wore tan sportcoats straight out of The Piano Man’s wardrobe. As I said, messed up.

In amongst all this, they somewhow penned the best early BEATLES knockoffs I’ve ever heard, wrote a grip of catchy tuneage that beat TODD RUNDGREN at his best LAURA NYRO impressions, and rocked an awesome Samba-pop romp called “Sushi Bar” I just can’t seem to stop humming. That THE WIND’s chosen form – an oddball sort of Extreme Pop – seemed untouched by then prevailing Punk, New Wave or even Garage/Paisley revival trends is testimony to a powerful, peculiar vision. THE WIND were devouring the entire scope of 20th century pop songform and spitting it back at us in a ZAPPA inspired, everything-but-the-kitchen-sink kinda way. This made for a not always comfortable but thoroughly mindblowing listening experience, and I recommend this compilation wholeheartedly.

TAN SLEEVE – Bad From Both Sides (The Bus Stop Label, 2003) TAN SLEEVE was a 90′s/00′s reunion of Lane with his ex-WIND songwriting partner, Steve Barry Katz. While their pop genius was still completely intact, the gee-whiz fire of THE WIND had mellowed somewhat, and the tempering presence of Katz results in a more NPR-friendly sound than Lane might’ve come up with alone. Still, these two sound like they’re hurrying down dark North London alleys looking for RAY DAVIES on “Destruction,” sneaking a peek at ROGER MCGUINN’s stock portfolio on “Maria Bartiromo” and examining BRIAN WILSON’s middle ear on “Breakfast At Tiffany’s.” Which some of us will reckon are great, great things.

Others of you will be tempted to deride these songs as THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS smarm, or perhaps kinda cloying in their wordiness ala JON BRION. And you will be wrong. This is because unlike THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS, TAN SLEEVE never ever grovel for your love. Plus it’s obvious that neither Lane nor Katz have the big motion picture industry connections a JON BRION has. No: this remains pop from the outside looking in, played by guys that might well leave a turd in your Hollywood punchbowl if you don’t watch em closely.

LANE STEINBERG – Cheeks Are Blooming (no label, 2012) For me, Lane’s solo work is where it’s really at. Unbridled by the necessary concessions one makes in collaborations, here Lane can ride the wild, contrary hoss of his musicality where ever he sees fit. And that covers a heck of a lotta terrain.

Part of the fun of this guy’s work has always been in the train-spotting: hearing the myriad of diverse musical influences, picking out just who/what/where he’s referencing in any given song. So the old timey piano playing, upper register vocals, and battlefield lyrics in “Wyse Fork Showdown” conjures up images of Big Pink-era THE BAND, while the deliberate, neo-classical decorum of “The Mistrial” lets me know PROCOL HARUM are somewhere in the general vicinity.

But as on every Lane rec there are other songs (like the half dozen co-written by the King of Ageing Pop Weirdos, R. STEVIE MOORE) which are like nothing else: subtly beautiful, oddly strange, and really wonderful. It’s for moments like the gorgeous opener “Theorem” that you’re gonna find yourself returning to this, over and over. Heck I’d be spinning this album nonstop everyday, if only my wife didn’t throw shoes at me when I do.

MUSTAFIO – The Family Bastard (Cheft, 2008) Who is Mustafio? First and foremost, Mustafio is a man with a distinctive accent who is not shy of using it. He likes to muse on random topics – a mouse that wears coats, a veterinarian that revives dead animals, how much he hates Tom Shipley – spinning off exponentially into dozens of other random topics with scant regard for linear narrative. Finding linguistic connections where sane men ought not stick their tongues, Mustafio moves tirelessly between dissociative non sequitur the way a New York pickpocket works a crowd of hapless Japanese tourists.

Throughout, a backing soundtrack segues from woozy electronic moan to gristly percussion clatter with the ease of post-coffee bowel movement. Yes it’s queasy-making but also mesmerizing, and after a few minutes listening, you will no longer care – you will simply be Mustafio. This is why, when Mustafio notes “I don’t even remember my teeth; they had been loose and falling out for some time,” I reach for my dentures.

I realise all this has absolutely nada to do with any music mentioned elsewhere in this post. But in fact Lane Steinberg is Mustafio too. Go figure.