E: "Eyes of a Child" (mostly Part 1) - The Moody Blues

Listening to an early Moody Blues album is like getting clambaked through music. When the needle drops you can practically see plumes of pot smoke wafting out of the speakers. And that is not a criticism.

I've always been baffled by the derision The Moody Blues has faced throughout their entire career. This highly democratic band has contended with vitriol from the music press for decades and they are not held in the same esteem as many of their lesser contemporaries. One could criticize them for some shoddy production, “pretentious” poetry, or a tendency to take themselves way too seriously. However, The Moody Blues gave the world consistency excellent pop/rock music throughout five decades of activity. They continue to tour at a fever pitch and have weathered their critical tempest with a lot of grace and dignity. What gives world?

It took many years, but “To Our Children’s Children’s Children” has become almost universally acclaimed as the strongest of The Moody's “Classic 7” 1967-1972 albums. It’s consistently gorgeous, and one of the rare “concept” albums that actually kind of maintains its concept (more or less) throughout its running time. This is the LP where their refined psychedelic dalliances payoff the most. They hit their stride in 1969, dropping two incredible albums with this and “On The Threshold of a Dream”. Yet I believe, and many agree, that “Children’s” is their magnum opus.

The late 60s was a time of intense expansion and exploration. Society had shifted to wider acceptance, and our travels took us to the outer reaches of the planet, the atmosphere and beyond. Sci-fi, both realistic and fantastic, reached an apex in prominence. The influence of “2001”, “Star Trek” and Apollo 11 led to the conception of “To Our Children’s Children’s Children”.

“Eyes of a Child” stands out on the album both musically and thematically. The song truly manages to capture that that magical sense of enchantment that young, innocent minds have towards the world around them. Opening with a atmospheric layer of chimes, harps and mellotron, “Eyes of a Child, Part I” is quintessential Moodies, a perfect representation of their unique raison d'etre. It’s the track in which all their “isms” coalesce into the perfect Moody Blues experience. The harmonies are more divine than usual (they’re not bogged down by the occasional falsetto caterwauling on Lodge’s behalf). The build from the verse to chorus is spine chilling with a walloping emotional payoff, devoid of melodrama. The evocative lyrics capture the overwhelming sense of wonder and mystery that citizens of the world experienced as the universe was expanding; the human experience humanity being reborn and redefined in front of their, our, infant eyes. 

Of course, I say all this like I was there. I can only imagine. Maybe in some cosmic, philosophical way I was there. Damn Moodies got me thinking...

Part II was never quite as strong for me, possibly because it seems too short to be truly impactful. It’s certainly not bad, just half baked perhaps. And rock music in the traditional sense was not really their bread and butter.

If you are among the Moody Blues’ harsh critics, swallow your pride, close your mouth and your eyes, and open your ears and heart. You may just experience something positive. 

Sometimes it Snows in April. Prince- One year later

When I was young, Prince scared the hell out of me. He was dangerous. My older brother owned a number of Prince CDs, but never played them around me, likely at the request of my parents. They were never big Prince people, due to the content of the lyrics and the fact that my Dad’s first fiance dumped him for Bobby Z, bass player of the Revolution (a 100% true story. I often joke that I owe my existence to Prince). Whenever I stumbled upon a Prince album, his leering looks and brooding sexuality freaked me out, and the mysterious “numbers instead of words” thing was simply too weird for my little head to process. When he changed his name to a symbol, I was intrigued in a peripheral way, but the strangeness was beyond me. He lacked the warm embrace of my beloved Stevie Wonder. He seemed cold and stark and frightening.

As I grew up, the hits entered my consciousness by virtue of simply being alive, and some I enjoyed more than others. Prince was one whose artistry I respected more than loved. It wasn’t until college that I began to explore the world of Prince with a bit more conviction. His 2005 Super Bowl performance was my first real introduction to the Prince experience. A 19-year-old student at the time, I went to the campus SB party to watch it on the enormous screen in the Union, more as a social event, as I never gave a flying turd about football. Halftime came, and from the second Prince took the stage to the second he left, I was mesmerized, in utter disbelief that I never gave this man the time of day. Outside of the nature bestowed real life prop of real purple rain, he didn’t rely on anything but his own electricity as a performer and a musician to reach the world. It is easily my favorite halftime show of all time. Sadly, I was the only who felt that way, as nearly the entire room had cleared out during the performance, leaving me breathless and alone inside the massive lecture hall.

The next day I went out and bought “The Very Best of Prince” album. The next semester I went out and found new friends.

Sadly, and stupidly, the album didn’t get heavy rotation. I didn’t have much interest in the Prince songs that saturated the radio waves, but whenever I would think of venturing into his catalogue, the sheer volume of music gave me anxiety. My brief interest in Prince evaporated almost as soon as it arrived.

Fast forward two years. I had landed my first “big boy” job as a computer lab assistant in a school for adolescents with emotional disturbances. The students came to work on educational computer programs that help support areas they may be struggling with, and every Friday students could earn X amount of free time depending on their behavior and work completion. Since most students chose to listen to music on Fridays, I got used to a lot of rap beats and metal riff white noise leaking out of the headphones.

Needless to say, it caught me off guard when a student asked me to find Prince online for them. I made a slight wise crack about listening to old music, but the student quickly retorted with “I want to remember my father.”

I froze and stuck my foot in my mouth. My heart dropped. “What song do want to hear?”

“Purple Rain”.

Being such a stickler about online streaming and availability, finding any Prince song has always been a challenge, and my students were slightly less than patient. As I was browsing the web furiously, she kept reiterating “I have to remember my Dad. I have to hear Prince…”

Ten minutes later, I found a crummy version of the video on some youtube knockoff. Beaming, she pulled on the headphones and belted the song beautifully at the top of her lungs, apathetic to the reaction of her peers. As I carried on with my business around the class, she stopped and muttered to nobody, “That’s Prince standing on a mountain, singing to my father”. I looked at her to see the smile on her face crumble. Tears had started to drip down her cheeks and the singing had now become sobs. Her cries crescendoed with the guitar music and decrescendoed with the fade out. When the song was over, she turned and smiled at me with glistening eyes, half a silent “thank you” and half a “now you get it”. “Purple Rain” will always be my favorite Prince song.

I’ve hemmed and hawed about sharing that story out of fear that others might think I’m exploiting that poor girl’s story for my own use. That is not at all my intention. The experience shook me to the core; I think about it every time I hear Prince. It was the impetus I needed to make that final emotional connection to his music. I’ve since bought and digested every Prince album. I’ve become a devotee. 20 years ago, I’d never imagine that Prince would be a go-to in times of personal hardship and difficulty.I won’t be breaking any new ground by acknowledging his brilliance and virtuosity. His richly rewarding body of work speaks for itself.  The beats, synthesizers, and processed sounds don’t mask the lust, longing, pain and humanity in Prince’s music. Somehow, the “dated” and mechanical sounds only enhance the emotional impact, a feat I could safely say only he has accomplished. Now that he’s gone, a new layer of melancholy hangs over his work. My appreciation can only deepen from here. When an figure of this stature passes, we walk a tense tightrope between lamentation of life lost and celebration of art left behind; the struggle between deep mourning for someone we feel we know so intimately, yet don’t actually know at all. I’ve made peace by imagining my former student’s father on that mountain with Prince himself, helping him heal those of us still here.

Hell, I owe my life to the man anyway.

-Josh

C: "Changes IV"- Cat Stevens

C: “Changes IV”- Cat Stevens

And we all know it's better

Yesterday has past

Now let's all start the living

For the one that's going to last

Yusuf Islam is a punk rock figure. The man is very high on my list of heroes, as both a musical icon and as a paragon of virtue while faced with some of the most ignorant and uninformed scrutiny the entertainment world has ever seen. People take issue with my opinion of him, but his fervent dedication to his beliefs is a refreshing challenge to industry pundits who think they have something to fear from his stalwart and unique religious identity. His abrupt career abandonment and subsequent devotion to Islam turned millions off, who interpreted this move as a “fuck you” to the fans. Most people still make the assertion that he simply “went crazy”. He has returned the music world over the last decade and released a series of decent albums, but it’s a heartbreaking reflection of our times and society that we still question somebody who has made their career out of promoting peace, out of concern for that which fulfills him spiritually. Never has Yusuf preached or judged, and outside of the dubious run-in with Salman Rushdie in the 80s that was manipulated against him, he has never put himself out there politically. This the man who wrote “Peace Train”, for pity’s sake. His religion is his political statement. Still, intentionally or not, Yusuf Islam has held up a mirror to our souls and forced us to evaluate our perceptions.

In fact, it's something Cat’s been doing since the 70s. While “Tillerman” is, unquestionably, the crown jewel of the Cat Stevens catalog, “Teaser” is the personal favorite for me. “Tillerman” has greater poetic nuance, but “Teaser” got me into his music first. Every song on “Teaser” is timeless. Listening today, “Changes IV” is a real sleeper gem. On the surface, it’s typical “protest song” fare, but what makes this song special its positivity. Joy is possibly the most difficult emotion to successfully convey as a singer-songwriter without sounding hokey or insincere. Stevens acknowledges our struggles and fears, but insists that we just have to keep marching on for these changes to come to fruition. Place this now into 2017, and I’m just as guilty as anyone for political and social pessimism. It is far too easy to piss and moan and harder to actually trudge ahead, keep your chin up, do something productive, and trust that your efforts aren’t in vain. Cliched, sure. Important no less.

Musically, this track cooks. The incessant use of wiggle-inducing claves drives the song. As tender as his songwriting was, Cat’s never received enough credit for his Herculean, powerhouse strumming on so many of his tracks. His passionate snarl doesn’t become overbearing as it tends to in some of his later recordings. Oh, dear Lord that burst of voices in the chorus...sheer jubilation, again, completely bereft of cheesiness.

We can take a cue from this song in the era of the current administration. Yesterday certainty hasn’t passed, and in many ways, it’s only beginning. Yet, I think we can at least live with the knowledge that our troubles can and will be behind us. We are the change, in any form that works for us, and the change will come.

Meow.
-Josh

B: "Both Sides Now"- Joni Mitchell

January 29, 2017

B: “Both Sides Now”- Joni Mitchell

When you're a kid, the world is color, sound, joy, music, energy, ice cream castles in the air, feather canyons everywhere.

Eventually, maturity clouds our naive bliss. Nothing is simple. Growing up is certainly not for the faint of heart, and it took the eternal wisdom of Joni Mitchell to help me understand this.

“Both Sides Now” found me at a time when life’s illusions began to erode my childhood innocence. I had known the song in passing from Judy Collins’s equally lovely rendition as a youngster, but I never truly listened to what it was trying to tell me until some time later. For me, "Both Sides Now" was/is a coming out anthem. Joni's masterpiece is unique in its self-discovery message. Finding yourself doesn't always mean things become clearer.

Coming out was not as liberating an experience as it is (and in theory should be) for many others. I was a ripe old 22 when I allowed myself to even acknowledge that I had a sexuality. When it was clear that gay was the way, reality was no longer avoidable. The story’s been told a million times before. My family took it just fine.

In a peculiar twist, my friends were generally terrible about it (not all, of course, but many). Granted, you can freely choose and lose your friends. Still, it’s difficult to experience those you’ve confided in so deeply betray my trust through a long spell of outing me to strangers, endless AIDS remarks, gaslighting, and a variety of other, far more damaging physical and psychological offenses that simply aren’t worth discussing here. I struggled, and still do, to find value in friendship and relationships, but that’s between my shrink and I. Joni got me through all that.

During that time, the last two verses of "Both Sides Now" put me in a chokehold. I'd looked at love from both sides now. Old friends said I'd changed. Something was lost, but something was gained. I remember nights of laying on the floor, looping this song ad infinitum, and absorbing the velvet of Joni’s voice, which took me by the hand and guided through rough terrain. Her uncanny ability to reach into my brain, siphon my emotions, reassemble them and express them in words I couldn’t formulate allowed me to decipher those feelings, and more importantly, accept them. Still, having come out, I didn't necessarily feel better or more fulfilled. I was, in fact, riddled with greater fear and doubt. 

I still knew it was right.

I've looked at clouds from both sides now.
Look up at the sky that Joni refers to often in the song. The intricacies of the world below reflect in the clouds and sun, the tensions between light and dark, the occasional luminescence. Both sides, up and down, Earth and sky, are complicated beyond binaries and comprehension and resolution. Pain is complex. Desire is complex. Joy is complex. Biology is complex. Simplicity is one of life's illusions. The uncertainties of the world give us balance.

There's a tender hopefulness in Joni's voice as she sings "I really don’t know life at all".

Maybe it’s better if we don't.

- Josh

BOTH SIDES NOW

Rows and flows of angel hair 
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done 
But clouds got in my way

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's cloud's illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and ferries wheels 
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real 
I've looked at love that way 

But now it's just another show 
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know 
Don't give yourself away 

I've looked at love from both sides now 
From give and take and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all

Time to Girl up: Songs of Empowerment on Women's March weekend

January 21, 2017 is already in the books. The Women's March was a profound moment of activism in world's history. Though my participation was in a very small scale local march, the experience was still electrifying and moving. I can't imagine how incredible this must have been in the major cities.  No matter what your stance or purpose for marching, anyone who had even a microscopic involvement in the Women's March should be proud. Our elected officials need to start having accountability for their words and their actions. It's long past time for honest voices to be heard.

Here are five songs that were on my mind all weekend and will help us keep fighting the fight. All songs are written by women and sung by women. Happy Women's March weekend.

1. Joan Armatrading - "Join The Boys"

("Are you in? Are you out?")

Taken from her wildly underappreciated 1976, Glyn Johns produced debut album, this funky track empowers female musicians to saddle up and join the boys club. Yet, taken out of context, the words remain stirringly relevant to the cause. And it's got a damn good groove.

2. PJ Harvey - "The Glorious Land"

("Oh America. Oh England. How is our glorious country sewn? Not with wheat and corn.")

Polly Harvey flies under the radar for many. She is an indisputable musical genius, with a rather patchy catalogue of albums spanning these last 25 years. Her 2011 album, "Let England Shake" is a masterpiece of the highest order, one of my favorite albums of this decade. Harvey used numerous outside sources to form the lyrical context of this work, including Russian and Middle Eastern folk songs, and poetry written by various anonymous soldiers during WWI. Not as flagrantly optimistic as my other choices, this song, and the entire album as a whole, is perhaps more cautionary tale than empowerment anthem. But the impact is undeniable.

3. Laura Nyro - "Save the Country"

("I've got fury in my soul...")

I'm bothered by people who feel Laura Nyro does not belong in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. She is responsible for a staggering number of 60s classics for many different artists and every one of her albums is breathtaking. Her influence is felt in nearly every female songwriter around today. Of course, there are countless other women who deserve to be in the Hall as well, but should we remove such a genius on account of them? Certainly not. And, how anyone can say she's less deserving than Jimmy Cliff (whom I love, but whose induction no one ever complains about) or Bill Withers is curious to me.
Soapbox aside, Laura is the real deal. That bold, brassy voice is too much for some, but her songs have a raw, earnest, even flamboyant quality that defy pigeon-holing. I was obsessed with her in college and she occupies a very special place in my heart. "Save the Children" is the centerpiece of her "New York Tendaberry" album. Her music speaks for itself.  It's some of the most arresting pop music ever recorded.
This video is a treasure, as it's one of the only videos (along with the Monterey Pop film) of Laura performing that exists today.

4. Judee Sill - "Soldier of the Heart"

("Soldier of the heart, I'm marching with you...")

Sill is one of the most tragic figures in all of Rock and Roll; the stuff of urban legend. While she's never exceeded that of a cult figure, much more has been written about her foibles and troubled background, rather than the unique passion and haunting baroque complexities of her music. Yes, her story is fascinating, through all the drugs, crime, mental illness, and untimely death (look it up). But not enough people are familiar with her two landmark 70s albums, "Judee Sill" and "Heart Food". Her voice is just the right combination of twang and tenderness that makes songs like "The Kiss", "Jesus Was a Crossmaker" and "Crayon Angels" eternally moving.
This gospel-tinged song may be the most up-tempo track in her catalogue...complete with a guitar solo! It's 70s production seethes. But God, that melody. Coupled with those fun lyrics. Perfection.
If you've never heard of Sill, get both her albums now.

5. Patti Smith - "People Have the Power"

("People have the power to redeem the work of fools.")

An obvious (and fairly cheesy) choice, but a necessary one. Never into Patti that much, but she's an important figure. Throw your fist in the air, march down that street and let this song ring in your head.

Love to all.

- Josh

"Space Oddity"- David Bowie

My relationship with Bowie was never as robust as I always felt it should have been. My introduction came at age 9, though not in the usual “Labyrinth”-ine ways. This was around the time I’d presumed to have seen and heard it all musically, thanks to the scouring of my father’s exhaustive record collection. MTV and VH1 were all but banished from the house until I was a teenager, so to satisfy my ongoing quest for a visual aid to my beloved tunes, I settled on the bottom-rung alternative, MOR Music. The QVC of music television, producers would intersperse classic music videos with “hosts” pleading you to call the number below and order the corresponding album. The channel was short-lived, but its influence on my music formation prevailed.

Tangent aside, I would watch MOR Music every morning while getting ready for school. While usually imbued with likes of the Bay City Rollers and David Cassidy, I took pause at a random, unfamiliar name uttered from the host’s mouth, a new David.

My curiosity quickly turned into captivation as the usual fluff was replaced by antiquated computer symbols, and a gangly looking guy with no eyebrows, feathered, multicolored hair and a sequined shirt singing to someone named Major Tom. As a burgeoning queer kid, the cryptic flamboyance was almost too exciting to bear. As a Trekkie, the sci-fi atmosphere was totally compelling. And as an already established music snob, the music was damned powerful.

That night, I asked my Dad about this Bowie character and why he doesn’t have any of his records. His response threw me.

“Never cared for him much. His voice doesn’t really do it for me.”

And that was that for about 15 years, until I voluntarily took the plunge into the world of Bowie albums somewhere in my early 20s. Some I loved (“Hunky Dory”, “Heroes”), some I hated (“Pin-ups”, “Diamond Dogs”), and most I merely liked. While I was absolutely rewarded by the experiencing of his albums, part of me felt as though I missed the Bowie train during my formative years, and that perhaps Dad was right all along. His brazen challenging of gender roles, often through the filter of science fiction is everything I ever dreamed of. But I often find much of his music impenetrable, and its elusiveness was a mystery to me. Perhaps that’s point of it all. Sometimes genius needs to be taken in smaller doses.

“Space Oddity” is certainly not my favorite Bowie song. It is not even my favorite space-themed Bowie song (both of those honors go to “Life on Mars?”). However, it is certainly important to both myself and the world at large for bringing attention to this challenging, enigmatic and still somehow accessible artist. The story resonates, the structure is entirely unique and effective, and it is a sheer masterpiece of mood. Listening to it in 2017, the sound holds up, despite the layers of mellotron and clunky sound effects. Bowie achieved an ambiance that has never successfully been duplicated.

David Bowie is not an immediate go-to artist for me. However, I find myself ceaselessly rewarded by the soundscapes and melodies whenever I take one of his discs for a spin. As the years progress, I'm gradually catching up. It’s impossible to truly process how many barriers he broke as a visual artist, and his genius for instrumental music, composition, lyrics, singing, and even acting is as far-reaching as the galaxy.

Happy 70th birthday, David. We really miss you back here on the ground.

- Josh

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYYRH4apXDo