Tag: David Bowie

Cover Version Showdown #6

The Beach Boys, “God Only Knows” – David Bowie v Claudine Longet

Probably the first Beach Boys song that I have a clear memory of hearing is “Surfer Girl”, which turned up on “Flashback Fever”, a 1975 K-tel compilation of 1960s songs that also included such classics as Jan & Dean’s “Surf City”, Ronettes’ “Be My Baby” and Bee Gees “(The Lights Went Out in) Massachusetts”, which is also possibly the first Gibb brothers track that made a real dent on my attentions. Over the nearly 50 years that have followed, I have heard a lot of Beach Boys music and saw them live a few times, though I never really got on board with the idea that they were anything special. They had a lot of really good singles, but it wasn’t an output that could stand comparison to the Beatles or Stones, and anyone that said otherwise was delusional.

After starting my Pazz and Jop project, I finally began listening to their albums, and my appreciation blossomed. This included “Pet Sounds”, which, while brilliant, also has a bit too much of a “Look at me, Ma, look at me!” vibe. Sure, it’s cool that you can do all this interesting stuff, but should you? It has “Wouldn’t It Be Nice?” and “God Only Knows”, which are two of my three favourite Beach Boys songs (“All Summer Long” is the other), “Caroline, No” and “Sloop John B” are also classics, and there really isn’t any dead air. It’s just very busy.

“God Only Knows” certainly isn’t free of Brian Wilson’s artistic fever dreams, but it’s the lyrics that have always pulled me in anyway. Though the opening line is “I may not always love you”, it’s framed in such a way – immediately followed by “But as long as there are stars above you / You never need to doubt it” – that you know instantly that it’s a lie, that the narrator is so besotted that there is no coming back from this. When he sings “God only knows what I’d be without you” it is both a declaration and an entreaty: please don’t let me find out. It is a song of undying love, and though he will carry on if she leaves, he will be a shell. It’s also a song that is deeply personal for me. I felt lost when I met my wife, not knowing what was coming next, and every time I hear this song – which was about 50 or 60 times today – I think of her and feel like she rescued me from an unknowable darkest timeline. So, of course, it’s not only my favourite Beach Boys song: it’s probably one of my 5 or 10 favourite songs period. Thus diving into cover versions was not without some risk, though I felt confident that my love of the original would preserve me in the face of whatever fuckery people got up to in the name of artistic expression.

Sometimes, finding two distinctive and listenable cover versions can be a struggle, but when it comes to “God Only Knows”, there are riches beyond the dreams of avarice. Not that all are created equally. Too many versions – Captain & Tennille (the Captain should have known better given his history with the Beach Boys), Neil Diamond, Michael Buble, Bryan Adams, Holly Cole, Joss Stone – slow it down and by doing so suck all the life out of the song. Yes, it’s a love song, but it’s celebratory, not the mourn-fest that these artists seem to think it is. Similarly, John Legend and Cynthia Erivo have lovely voices, of course, especially hers, but the orchestration is a complete slog. Other versions miss for different reasons: Andy Williams’ mannered and melodramatic singing ruins some lovely piano; Glen Campbell’s is pure cheese (though the opening appears to have been ripped off in 1978’s Superman movie tie-in “Can You Read My Mind”); Joey Hetherton is too bombastic; and Edith Whiskers is painful to listen to (though at least it’s sort of intentional). The backing track on Olivia Newton John’s version is annoying, and she seems to be trying to be sexy when that was definitely not the brand of pre-“Grease” Olivia. Brandi Carlile’s version is guitar forward, but it sounds like a guy in the corner at a party fiddling around with an instrument he’s still learning how to play. And, finally, Pentatonix are, well, Pentatonix, and you either like this overwrought a capella or you don’t, and I do not – it’s exhausting to listen to, all mannerisms and no subtlety, and no joy. Hard pass.

There are also a lot of whimsical versions, picking up on the baroque side of “Pet Sounds”: She & Him’s version is lighter than air, and just what you would expect from a manic pixie dream girl; Imaginary Future slow it down but still have some bounce, and it feels like the husband and wife that make up the band are singing to each other; and Lilia Tracie gives it a sort of tinkly bossa nova take. There are also some versions that don’t try to reinvent the song but just do a stellar job of showing their respect and love for it: Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr., Avenged Sevenfold (which starts out quietly, and sort of low energy, like they aren’t really sure why they’re even playing this particular song, until the tempo picks up and they rock out the rest of the way), Jars of Clay (as wholesome as you would expect from a Christian band, but unexpectedly one of the more purely enjoyable listens), and Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, which is faithful, but with The Muppets, which has to be worth something. 

Finally, before we get to our contenders, three unique versions that stand out. The Nylons bring a joy to a capella that Pentatonix lacks, and while the song works well in this style, it does go on much longer than it should considering how repetitive it is. Although I love Elvis Costello, classical music is not my thing, so I rarely revisit his work with the Brodsky Quartet, and while their version of this, as Elvis says, old California folk song is lovely, I just cannot get into it. Finally, we have Daniel Johnston, whose singing voice is a taste I have not yet acquired, but it’s still charmingly minimalist, which is a real challenge with a Brian Wilson composition.

The first of these covers that I listened to was from David Bowie, who quickly established himself as the front runner. Bowie never waters things down: to call it epic may not do it justice. It’s like the centrepiece of a gothic musical: the Phantom crying over his Christine, a tortured soul howling into the darkness. He stretches the song out, slows it down, accentuates the pain and fear at its heart. Swelling strings, heartbeat drums, a gloom-inflected vocal that rises to despair. But, like the Phantom, a dark lord obsessing over an unreachable desire, there is certainly an air of creepiness, which Bowie also excels at. There is something of the stalker to its presentation, like a guy watching someone through slightly parted (stage) curtains.

So, who is he watching? Well, how about Andy Williams’ ex, Claudine Longet. Full disclosure: I did not know she was a “singer”, and the quotes are entirely in reference to this recording. What I knew about Longet came down to two men: Williams and Spider Sabich, the boyfriend who she may have murdered but escaped justice thanks to some dreadful police work. And while this is really talking musically instead of singing, it has the kind of breathless sexiness that never fails to charm (well, men, at least). Maybe it’s the accent, like a druggy “Zou Bisou Bisou”. The baroque feel of the original is retained, though subtly: you certainly would not have heard this playing in the court of Louis XV while Rousseau stood by waiting for his monarch’s response. The only problem is that you never really believe what she’s saying: you’d be fine without him, Claudine, but he’d be a mess. But the whole thing somehow works, drifting on a cloud of Gallic grace and charm.

The Winner: David Bowie

This was never a fair battle. While Longet’s version is a lovely distraction, Bowie’s has gravitas, and is a more worthy descendant of the original. If both songs were encountered without foreknowledge, I think it would take you longer to recognize the Bowie track as a cover, and that matters to me. But both are honourable, neither tied to the past nor neglectful of it, original without being destructive. 

The end of Brian Wilson’s time as a creative force seems to be close based on recent reports that he is suffering from dementia and being placed in a conservatorship. He has been part of that decision making process, so more music may yet come, but those days are certainly numbered. He has given the world a body of work that is breathtaking in both volume and quality, especially in view of the many interruptions to his career from challenges with his mental health. And his California folk songs will continue to brighten many a day in gloomier climes.

Favourite “New” Music – January 2023

The unveiling of the latest list of nominees for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame brought the usual outrage (“Willie Nelson is not rock and roll!”), confusion (“Is George Michael rock and roll?”) and disdain (“Sheryl Crow? Really?”, though I might’ve been the only one saying this). There’s definitely some weirdness in play. Is Cyndi Lauper’s brief but glorious run in the 1980s really Hall-worthy over, say, Beck, who isn’t even nominated this year? Joy Division and New Order are, despite the personnel overlap, two very different bands, yet they are nominated as a pairing. How is it that Warren Zevon was never nominated before?

But Beck, and his exclusion from this year’s list, is what I’m most interested in. He was a nominee last year – did he get worse somehow in a year in which he didn’t release any new music? Or what about Mary J. Blige, a first-time nominee in 2021 who didn’t make the cut in 2022, released her first new album in five years to good reviews (and an Album of the Year Grammy nomination), then was left out again this year. Then there is the Susan Lucci of the Hall, Chic, repeatedly left off the list since their 11th nomination in 2017. Finally, New York Dolls, who were nominated in 2001, disappeared until 2021, hung around in 2022, and are now off the ballot again. No shame in that, though: they’ve done better than Fela Kuti, who finally got to share the ballot with them the last two years and is now in purgatory again.

This isn’t like the Baseball Hall of Fame, where getting onto the ballot means 10 tries to get in, unless (1) you actually get elected or (2) your vote total falls below a certain defined threshold. The Hall’s yearly ballot is put together by a committee, and the shifting interests and loyalties in such a process guarantees flux. The committee is a pretty impressive roster of music industry luminaries: Steven Van Zandt has been on it since time immemorial, and Questlove, Dave Grohl and Tom Morello (and, in the recent past, Robbie Robertson) have multiple years of service, plus there are some excellent music journalists like Amanda Petrusich. These people know music: just some years (2012, for example), it appears, they love, say, Eric B. & Rakim, and other years (every year but 2012), they don’t.

In any event, fans can vote, even if our collective total equals but one measly ballot). George Michael and Joy Division/New Order were no-brainers for me. I love Cyndi Lauder but am uncertain whether she should be immortalised, and definitely not before (in addition to some of those mentioned above) the likes of Gram Parsons and The Smiths, let alone acts like Barry White, Television, The B-52s, Kool & the Gang, Diana Ross, The Commodores, The Guess Who, The Pet Shop Boys, INXS and Nick Drake who, collectively, have a grand total of zero nominations among them. (How is this even possible?) Most of the others I either don’t know well enough, or have never been much impressed with. That left me with The Spinners (tons of underrated hits and serious longevity), Warren Zevon (“Werewolves of London” should be enough, damn it) and Kate Bush (a reward for a 40-year commitment to her own idiosyncratic vision). Here’s the link for you to get some skin in the game.

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January was a crappy month for me, and if that hadn’t been obvious from how I was feeling (I ended it by getting COVID – ugh), my lack of interest in listening to new music and retreat to familiar aural comforts was further evidence. There’s nothing wrong with that – I could play old Elvis Costello albums all day and still hear things I’d never noticed before. But nothing beats the joy of hearing something fresh that makes you take notice. The volume was thin this month, but there were still plenty of gems that caught my attention.

  • Leon Russell – Carney (1972)
  • David Bowie – Young Americans (1975) (Bowie’s disco album, I don’t understand why this wasn’t met with the acclaim of its predecessors and immediate successors, although perhaps the phrase “Bowie’s disco album” offers a clue.)
  • Dire Straits – Communiqué (1979)
  • Fun Boy Three – Waiting (1983)
  • Lloyd Cole and the Commotions – Rattlesnakes (1984) (Shoutout to my friend Robert Barrie for putting this on my radar.)
  • Brian Wilson – I Just Wasn’t Made for These Times (1995) (Stripped down reimaginings of some classic Beach Boys tunes.)
  • The Vines – Wicked Nature (2014)
  • Leisure – Leisure (2016)
  • The Longshot – Love Is for Losers (2018) (I don’t find a heck of a lot of difference between Green Day and Billie Joe Armstrong’s side projects, but since I really like Green Day, that isn’t exactly a problem.)
  • Grace Ives – 2nd (2019)
  • Anyway Gang – Anyway Gang (2019) (The notion of a Canadian supergroup seems pretty un-Canadian to me, but the result is a delight.)
  • Vacation Manor – Vacation Manor (2021)
  • Tegan and Sara – Crybaby (2022)
  • Death Cab for Cutie – Asphalt Meadows (2022)
  • Why Bonnie – 90 in November (2022)
  • Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Cool it Down (2022)
  • Charles Stepney – Step on Step (2022) (A fascinating collection of home recordings from a long gone master, curated by his family.)
  • Father John Misty – Chloë and the Next 20th Century (2022)
  • Blackstarkids – Cyberkiss* (2022) (Just nutty fun.)
  • July Talk – Remember Never Before (2023)

Not the Pazz and Jop 1973 #20

David Bowie – Aladdin Sane

And so we end our journey through the “best” music of 1973 with David Bowie. This is the third of his albums that I’m writing about, and that would normally concern me. Since what I write is as much memoir as music commentary, I only have so many stories to tell about my connection to any artist. After all, I ran out of things to say about Jeff Beck after one paragraph.

Bowie, chameleon that he was, is the antidote to such woes. Each record (so far) has been so unique, so distinctive from its forebears, that it invites a fresh eye, and the stories just tell themselves. I don’t need to personalise “Aladdin Sane”: I need only to swim in its delights, and the pen takes over.

In places, it’s Bowie embracing his inner pop star, producing crowd-pleasing, danceable music that, after the experimentation of “The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars”, invites you to love him. And it works – if you don’t love Bowie after this record, then you probably never will. It’s more accessible even than his much bigger later hits, because those records – especially “Let’s Dance” – are comparatively soulless, the work of a slumming master.

But, because he’s Bowie – or at least 1973-version Bowie – he can’t just make a pop record. Over his radio-friendly melodies he has to lather up off-beat vocalisations, janky pianos, fuzzy guitars, and oddball lyrics. His voice is often low in the mix, fighting against the music.

“Drive-In Saturday” and “The Prettiest Star” are something of a pair, the sound of an early 1960s doo-wop band, their genre slipping into obsolescence as they try to figure what to do next to stay relevant. The latter is more his updated version of such a record, all bop bops and jazzy horns and honky tonk piano, but with the distorted guitars of a garage band reboot. The former has my favourite line on the record: “She’s uncertain if she likes him / but knows she really loves him.”

That piano keeps coming back, including on “Time”, parts of which make me wonder if Tim Curry was trying to channel this version of Bowie in “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”. A grander, more epic use of the instrument is found in the title track, including a completely unhinged bit of playing around the middle of the song, and the haunted “Lady Grinning Soul”. 

An almost staccato at times cover of “Let’s Spend the Night Together” is playful, not sexy. It’s the Sheldon Cooper version of sexual attraction, so matter-of-fact that it seems carefree when it’s actually laden with mountains of insecurity and confusion. He then does his own take on a Stones tune with “The Jean Genie”, which sounds like a bluesy glam version of southern rock. And I would be remiss if I failed to mention the conga drums setting the beat on “Panic in Detroit”.

This one ranks behind “Ziggy” for me, but well ahead of “Hunky Dory”. After over 50 years of people writing and thinking about his work, there is probably nothing much new to be said about Bowie, and if there is, it won’t be me saying it, or at least not yet. Luckily for me, he (probably) won’t reappear in this space until I get to 1976, which buys me some time to think something up.

Not the Pazz and Jop 1972 – #1

David Bowie – The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars

For reasons unknown (to me – Robert Christgau certainly knows), there was no Pazz & Jop poll in 1972 or 1973. I was going to skip these years, but instead hunted down an alternate source – Best Ever Albums. It isn’t ideal, since it doesn’t match the zeitgeist feel of Pazz and Jop and has a heavy non-critic component, but we work with what we have. For comparison’s sake, had I used this source for 1971, I would have been spared Jeff Beck and Mahavishnu Orchestra (but not, sadly, Jethro Tull), but would have missed out on Joy of Cooking, Janis Joplin and, most tragically, the Kinks. I think I came out way ahead (even with having to listen to Jethro Tull – I can’t slam these guys enough).

So we begin with Bowie, whose 1971 offering didn’t overwhelm me. Consider me now overwhelmed. You know that feeling when you finally do something you’ve been putting off and it turns out great and now you’re full of regret that you didn’t do it sooner? That’s how I feel about this record. Like, WTF was I thinking by never even once giving this a spin over the last 40+ years? I am now on my fourth listen of this record and it won’t be my last. All is forgiven – even Little Drummer Boy. (Well, maybe not that.)

This is a sort-of concept album – Earth has five years left and Ziggy is coming to save us – but that’s really just a pretty wrapping for individually great songs. Piano is still prominent, with some serious rock guitar familiar to anyone who knows the “hits” (because there weren’t any at the time of release) like “Suffragette City”, “Moonage Daydream” (forever linked in my mind to “Guardians of the Galaxy”) or “Ziggy Stardust”. Starting with a simple drum like a heartbeat, the anthemic “Five Years” sets the tone – this is not your older brother’s Bowie, assuming your older brother was cool enough to notice an artist who’d had limited commercial success to this point. I love the line “All I have is my love of love” from the deceptively sad “Soul Love”. I have a new appreciation of “Starman”, which is a great listen with the car windows down on one of the first warm days of the season. “Star” is mostly a romp, but it has nothing on the next track. “Hang on to Yourself” is a blast, a cleaned-up precursor of what the Sex Pistols and other punks would get up to 5 years later. I nearly broke out dancing on the boardwalk during my morning walk, which would have been awkward AF without someone else in my company. If I hear nothing else I like on this journey (spoiler alert: that ain’t happening), it would be worth it for having finally “discovered” this jewel. And now I’m excited to hear more Bowie.

(Originally posted on Facebook, May 15, 2021)

Pazz and Jop 1971 – #10

David Bowie – Hunky Dory

I’ve never been much of a Bowie fan – loved the singles but rarely felt compelled to buy the whole album. Maybe it was a hangover from his Christmas duet with Bing Crosby sticking in my ear when I first became a serious member of the record-buying public: the man couldn’t be trusted since he might just do something that would annoy me enormously. Bowie’s vocals are never gentle, his lyrics (even on the singles) not easily accessible, and his style shifts from track to track.

I can’t really see myself playing this end-to-end again – too many tracks ended up not sitting right with me in one way or another – but there was a lot here that I loved. It starts with “Changes”, still great, of course (“Breakfast Club” shoutout), and the other single, “Life on Mars?”, never fails to move me with its swelling chorus. “Oh! You Pretty Things” mixes gentle verses with a rollicking chorus to distract from the Nietzsche-inspired notion of the new casually brushing away the old. (Check out Peter Noone’s uninspiring version for the sad answer to the question “What if Bowie had been in Herman’s Hermits?”) The vocals on “Kooks” (dedicated to his newborn son) first brought to mind Robin Gibb, and it’s a sweet, thoughtful tune with gentle strings and horn and a sort-of ragtime piano. The piano usually stands out, lending a jaunty barroom feel, especially on “Fill Your Heart”, despite the often eccentric vocal stylings. I really like the guitar sound on “Andy Warhol”, until the last minute when it becomes an assault. “Queen Bitch” is a frolic, the one true rocker on here, and, outside of “Kooks”, the only song here that I would label as fun. It closes with “The Bewlay Brothers”, an acoustic guitar forward, lyrically nonsensical epic that feels like it would fit in just fine on a Pink Floyd record.

Spotify does this thing where, when an album ends, they continue into what their algorithm thinks is a comparable artist. When “The Bewlay Brothers” ended, I was treated to The Cure’s “In Between Days”, followed by Roxy Music’s “More Than This”. These are two bands that I’ve listened to a lot more than Bowie, though I suspect I’ll be seeing more of Ziggy than Robert and Bryan on this journey. Since the point of this is discovery (with a touch of nostalgia), I’m okay with that.

(Originally posted on Facebook, April 3, 2021)