John Cale 7: Helen Of Troy

The cover of Helen Of Troy depicts John Cale in a straightjacket, over a pair of leather pants and stylish shoes with clashing socks. It’s a good setup for the music within, mostly right in line with his last two albums, with contributions from Chris Spedding and Brian Eno. String and choral arrangements by Robert Kirby, now best known for his work with Nick Drake, add color.

One adjective that applies to this album is menacing, right from the opening “My Maria”. Between the keyboards, guitar, and choir, the arrangement recalls Lou Reed’s “Lady Day”, but it’s even more impressionistic and impenetrable yet haunting somehow. The title track is punctuated by mincing, campy commentary from one Alan Courtney, synth blasts that sound very much like Roxy Music saxes but aren’t, and Enossification resembling an outer-space bowling alley. The much sunnier “China Sea” is as jaunty as anything on Paris 1919, complete with Beach Boy harmonies and other Wilsonian touches. A compact portrait of insanity, “Engine” begins with just piano and his voice, which gets increasingly unhinged after the band kicks in. Soon he’s pounding keys with his fists and shrieking until everything just stops. “Save Us” seems to be a prayer for salvation, and he manages to keep things in check despite the desperate tone. Following the template set on “Fear Is A Man’s Best Friend”, his voice goes from weary to histrionic within the space of a verse and chorus throughout this album, and certainly on “Cable Hogue”, presumably inspired by the recent Sam Peckinpah film.

But he could also be tender, as demonstrated on the positively torchy “I Keep A Close Watch”, the loveliest thing he’s ever written, and a love song to boot worthy of Sinatra. The sentimental mood doesn’t last for “Pablo Picasso”, the Jonathan Richman classic originally produced by Cale but unreleased at the time of this cover. “Leaving It Up To You” is mostly straightforward, but he gets very worked up in the middle, going to far as to reference Sharon Tate, which caused the song to be pulled from some pressings. (The much more placid “Coral Moon” was the replacement.) Jimmy Reed’s “Baby, What You Want Me To Do” is also played straight rock as opposed to blues, though without the shuffle it tends to drag. So it is that “Sudden Death” fits the same slot as “Ghost Story” and other “nightmare” songs, but in this context it’s no more scary than anything else, just morbid.

Cale maintains that Helen Of Troy was unfinished, and rushed out by the label before he had time to perfect it. Considering how ornate the tracks are, it’s hard to imagine what was missing; could be he didn’t intend there to be so much reverb anywhere. Even so, it wasn’t officially released in the U.S. for decades, which he may or may not have appreciated.

John Cale Helen Of Troy (1975)—3

Tom Waits 10: Rain Dogs

Tom moved his new family to New York City, where he fell in with a set of unique musicians and recorded Rain Dogs. The album is nearly flawless, running the gamut from old ballads to rock songs, infused with the new carnival sound he’d started developing on Swordfishtrombones. Loaded with nineteen tracks, it’s one of his best.

“Singapore” stumbles in to immediately show off the latest weapons in his arsenal: guitarist Marc Ribot and percussionist Michael Blair, the latter of whom utilized hubcaps and industrial pipe over the usual congas and tambourines. “Clap Hands” is something of a fractured nursery rhyme, taken to an even further extreme on “Cemetery Polka”, with its litany of creepy uncles and their unappreciative offspring. “Jockey Full Of Bourbon” is a swampy little rhumba, a perfect match for its use in the film Down By Law. The broken-finger piano returns for “Tango Till They’re Sore”, something of a farewell speech in the middle of side one. “Big Black Mariah” sounds a little more standard, thanks in part to Keith Richards on guitar, before giving way to the spooky lullaby cadence of “Diamonds & Gold”. “Hang Down Your Head” is rocking yet mournful, just as “Time” is tender and sweet.

An accordion opens side two before bringing in the clatter of the title track. The minute-long instrumental “Midtown” perfectly captures the sound of the city in this or any decade. “9th and Hennepin” is a spoken visit to a donut shop somewhere in Minneapolis, before we go deep into the woods for “Gun Street Girl”. Keith returns to add guitar to “Union Square”, but he’s used to much better effect on “Blind Love”, as straight a country song as you’ll find here. “Walking Spanish” is a little on the ordinary side (for him) but who could have predicted that “Downtown Train” would become such a huge hit for so many other people? “Bride Of Rain Dog” is another instrumental interlude before we get the real farewell speech, New Orleans funeral-style, in “Anywhere I Lay My Head”.

With over 53 minutes of music, Rain Dogs offers a lot at once, but for the Waits newcomer, it’s an excellent place to start. Without the slightest hint of his drunken troubadour image, it sounds like nothing he’d done in the ‘70s, yet as ever, he wasn’t about to follow any recent trends. Best of all, the album hangs together very well as an album, making it a pleasure from start to finish.

Tom Waits Rain Dogs (1985)—5

Monkees 4: Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd.

The Monkees had managed to stay a viable commercial product even after the Summer of Love, which they embraced with nutty anarchy on TV. And having established their autonomy as a self-contained that could write, perform and record their own songs on Headquarters, what did they do? They started working as solo artists within the group context, before the Beatles even, augmenting their own sessions with handpicked professional musicians. From this anarchic setup came Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd., helped by songs recently heard on the show as well as a couple of hit singles.

Mike dominates the proceedings on the album, beginning with the not-so-ambiguous “Salesman”. “The Door Into Summer” is a nice folky lope, with its fairy tale imagery and great high harmonies from Micky. He’d go further towards country with “What Am I Doing Hangin’ ‘Round”, which he didn’t write, nor are the Byrds playing on it. “Love Is Only Sleeping” simmers with a bit of psychedelia, while “Don’t Call On Me” predicts the MOR sound of 1968.

Despite Micky’s competent drumming on Headquarters, here he’s content to let somebody else handle it, and sing whatever’s given him. “Words” is a re-recording of a Boyce/Hart song from the first season, the lead vocals shared with Peter, who only otherwise appears on a spoken piece shortly before the phenomenal “Pleasant Valley Sunday”. (Mike’s playing that infectious riff, by the way.) Micky’s biggest contribution to the album is the debut of the Moog synthesizer, which chirps all over “Daily Nightly” up against his own histrionic vocal. He also added another, more musical embellishment to “Star Collector”.

Despite such strides, the band would always be seen as a teenybopper group. Truth be told, it wasn’t their own musicianship (or lack thereof) that denied them respect from their peers; rather, it was Davy. The songs he chose as his showpieces tended to be so corny they’d make Paul McCartney blush. “She Hangs Out” is a rerecording (again) of another leftover from the Kirshner days, but “Hard To Believe” came from the little guy’s own pen. “Cuddly Toy”, a Harry Nilsson composition, has something of a vaudeville approach, but at least all four Monkees play on it.

The occasional wince nonetheless, Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd. still qualifies as a “good” Monkees album, but the schizophrenia that would soon dominate their recording sessions has already begun to emerge. Each of the Rhino reissues was bolstered mostly by alternate mixes of the songs, with the only really welcome extra being Micky’s breathless James Brown-styled showpiece “Goin’ Down”, a contemporary B-side.

The Monkees Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd. (1967)—3½
1995 reissue CD: same as 1967, plus 6 extra tracks
2007 Deluxe Edition: same as 1967, plus 25 extra tracks

Ben Folds 4: The Unauthorized Biography Of Reinhold Messner

It’s always tough when a band that’s built its reputation on wackiness puts out material that’s anything less than hilarious. The Unauthorized Biography Of Reinhold Messner certainly sounded like the Five all the way through, but its grandiose presentation suggested they were trying to tell some kind of dark, impenetrable story that flew right over our heads.

“Narcolepsy” opens with a fanfare lasting nearly a minute and a half, before paring back to the basic melody for the song to actually start. “Don’t Change Your Plans” allegedly had a lengthy intro of its own that was lopped off at the mixing stage. If that’s the case it would be great to hear what we’re missing, because the song that’s left is a sadly exquisite look at (again) the end of a relationship, complete with another Bacharachian bridge. By the time “Mess” comes in, the protagonist of this particular rock opera is coming off as somewhat of a jerk, despite the tasty electric piano bridge. “Magic”, written by drummer Darren Jessee, is a melancholy farewell to either an ex or the recently deceased, juxtaposed by the interior monologue in “Hospital Song”.

Things finally pick up with “Army”, an easy crowd favorite due to its snotty, cursing lyrics and do-it-yourself horn section. A reference to a redneck past provides a strange foreshadowing of the song of the same name, wherein more skewering of modern pop culture is shackled to a noisy, pounding arrangement. “Your Most Valuable Possession” sets an answering machine tape to a jazz backing. More reminiscences from an unreliable narrator make up “Regrets”, which rotates around the same changes until the three-minute mark where Wings meets the Flaming Lips. Speaking of odd influences, “Jane” owes a little something to Steely Dan before turning into another mellow Ben Folds Five song. The finale comes in “Lullabye”, a dream constructed so well you can almost see the credits rolling on the imaginary screen.

The Unauthorized Biography Of Reinhold Messner is certainly a daring album, and it has its moments, but it falls off halfway on its journey to becoming something truly important. As the band’s last album, it wasn’t the best swan song either.

Ben Folds Five The Unauthorized Biography Of Reinhold Messner (1999)—3

Lou Reed 6: Metal Machine Music

Speed and alcohol are a dangerous mix, so we’re told, and perhaps it took a well-read individual like Lou Reed, who purported to keep a copy of the Physician’s Desk Reference around to consult on what he was ingesting, to survive such fuel and maintain a career. Being a staunch contrarian, he also seemed determined to deflect any false praise that came his way.

Metal Machine Music helped to accomplish that. Over an hour of multi-tracked guitar feedback filling four sides of vinyl, this album was either a middle finger to his label and the unsuspecting public, an advanced musical experiment that said public was too stupid to comprehend, or an expensive joke. (Actually, considering that the recording costs amounted to whatever the master tape cost plus the electricity consumed, it was easily his cheapest album to produce.) At various times, both upon release and in retrospect, Lou insisted that classical motifs were hidden within the frequencies, and that he wanted it to be released on Red Seal, RCA’s classical arm.

Despite the rock star pose, the cover proclaims it to be “an electronic instrumental composition”, and lists the equipment involved on the back. But make no mistake: this is an album of feedback, recorded at various speeds and mixed in stereo. Of all the people on the planet who have claimed to have listened to the whole thing—and your humble correspondent has, if only to complete this review (thanks, Spotify!), and we did notice something like a classical melody seven minutes into side three—the only two claims that cannot be refuted are those of Lou himself, though he could’ve left the room at any time whilst recording or mixing, and Bob Ludwig, who had the privileged task of mastering it for release.

There are much more palatable recordings that incorporate feedback than Metal Machine Music, and noise rock remains a viable genre today. Just ask any fans of Sonic Youth or Limp Bizkit. The album has its fans, not least of them Lester Bangs, and it was even given an official CD release on the occasion of its 25th anniversary. Sadly, digital technology could not replicate the original fourth side’s locked groove, which kept the sound going ad infinitum, or until the needle was lifted.

Lou Reed Metal Machine Music (1975)—1

John Cale 6: Slow Dazzle

Having found a sound he liked, John Cale kept going. Slow Dazzle presented another set of mature, obscure rock disguised as pop, with the help of Roxy refugees Eno and Manzanera, but notably brought guitarist Chris Spedding into the fold. The result is a mostly straight-sounding album that lists steadily toward madness.

With just a hint of the Philly sound, “Mr. Wilson” acknowledges the influence of the head Beach Boy without aping him in the slightest. “Taking It All Away” recalls the chamber pop of Paris 1919, and is the first hint of remorse over a failed romance. The irritated narrator of “Dirtyass Rock ‘N’ Roll” uses onomatopoeia to convey how it soothes his soul, while “Darling I Need You” is greasy ‘50s rock right down to the sax solo and “Rollaroll” could easily be sung by Bryan Ferry, but he might not have taken Cale’s lead, which was to start to howl as the song fades.

Such an unsettling sound is carried over onto side two, where Elvis Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel” is transformed into the soundtrack to a horror film. By comparison, “Ski Patrol” would appear to be a celebration of the fine workers who perform such a task at the world’s resorts, but there’s a good chance it could also be cocaine. “I’m Not The Loving Kind” would be an obvious cover choice for any adult contemporary crooner worth his salt, if only for the lovely wordless melody that makes up most of the choruses. The opening line of “Guts” makes plain why his marriage was currently in the toilet, and his anger increases over the end of the track much like “Fear”, except that the band keeps going. None of this can prepare the listener for “The Jeweller”, a Kafkaesque short story recited even more unsettlingly than “The Gift” over droning and controlled feedback.

Slow Dazzle is not an easy listen, but it’s right in line with his then-current trajectory. Chances are most people diving in without warning would swim for the ladder as soon and as fast as possible, but those who can take it will find possibly his most consistent album yet.

John Cale Slow Dazzle (1975)—3

Joni Mitchell 9: Hejira

Depending on what source you read, a hejira is defined as a “migration” or “flight from danger”. Both can be similarly described as “escape”, which itself can be taken as running for one’s life or just getting away from it all. Much conjecture has been made of what exactly inspired this collection of weary road songs; the facts are that she had spent some time on Bob Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Revue, she’d done a brief tour supporting her last album, she started and ended a variety of love affairs, and she took a cross-country car trip.

That feeling of movement, of being conveyed somewhere is apparent throughout Hejira. Some of the L.A. Express are still here, but there’s more Larry Carlton on lead guitar in the mix (a counter to Joni’s own electric rhythm, still in tunings of her own design). The biggest contribution comes from Jaco Pastorius on bass, giving the album as a whole—and particularly the phenomenal title track—a distinct ECM feel.

“Coyote” might be most familiar to people who’ve seen her perform it in The Last Waltz, a teasing tribute to another rugged man who’s stolen her heart. It takes a few listens before understanding that “Amelia” celebrates Amelia Earhart, another female pioneer who left a trail few could attempt to follow. Next stop is Memphis, where an encounter with a blues musician inspires “Furry Sings The Blues” and Neil Young adds an atonal harmonica. Yet she still finds herself drawn to “A Strange Boy”, despite his immaturity. The title track, again, is an absolute masterpiece, ringing with her retuned guitar and Jaco’s bass wandering this way and that.

An open letter to a childhood friend who supposedly has the life Joni thought she’d lead provides the basis for “Song For Sharon”, a lengthy, time-hopping reflection. The most experimental track is “Black Crow”, with very jagged rhythm guitar providing the rhythm while Jaco and Larry Carlton dance amid her vocal. With “Blue Motel Room” she’s finally written her own Annie Ross torch song. Listen for how her voice perfectly imitates a group of muted trumpets on the instrumental break. “Refuge Of The Roads” is a wonderful conclusion, wherein she almost seems to accept her position, if not her fate.

Throughout the album she sounds more tired than ever, and that’s much of the point of Hejira. As stated so perfectly in “All I Want”, she is, after all, always going to be on a lonely road, traveling, traveling, traveling.

Joni Mitchell Hejira (1976)—4