Noted

The chick singer with understated sexy—if she were your girlfriend, she'd be the kind to break a bottle over a head to protect you in a bar fight. But a pin-up doll? Wouldn't have seen that coming:

Just, wow.

Wild? Not anymore:

Why won't they leave hipsters alone?

Magazine: The Elder Edition

Magazine, a band that once meant so much to me, is back and as is often the case it's not quite the band I remember.

Magazine has reunited after a 27 year hiatus with hairlines and two original members gone (the late, great John McGeoch and innovative bass player Barry Adamson [seen above, at right] who left after joining for some gigs in 2009). The remaining vestiges of the nearly geriatric band may offer something other than what it might've been—this is no Secondhand Daylight—still, those vestiges aren't half bad.

Before the hiatus and somewhere between the second and third album (ca. 1980), singer and lyricist Howard Devoto had already begun a transformation. Always one to take himself and the work a little too seriously, though it was part of his charm, Devoto's transformed vocal style yielded a softer, less edgy, more lilting, and at times histrionic approach: Think early Bowie (Laughing Gnome era) crossed with Anthony Newley without the vibrato or chops. I call it Devoto's dinner theater period. At the same time, keyboardist Dave Formula took more prominence as the band's sound sculptor, these two factors combined brought Magazine closer to the middle of the road, a dramatic departure from the band's earlier punk and post-punk incarnations. Eventually McGeoch would have enough (not agreeing with the lighter keyboard-laden sound) and would leave to join Siouxsie and the Banshees (helping to create some of the best Banshees material of their career, a point on which Siouxsie agrees), and later Public Image Ltd. Even before McGeoch's departure, the band began flirting with a more bubblegum sound. By the time of About the Weather, the band had slipped into a full retro AM radio splendor, especially Motown, which only two years before would've been unthinkable. As a fan, I'd follow them nearly to the end, albeit reluctantly. By the fourth and final album––a record still capable of the decent odd tracks––Magazine was over. (There'd be no tour.) Devoto would go on to pursue a short-lived solo career (Jerky Versions of the Dream, see Rainy Season below) and then follow that in a collaboration with future elder Magazine guitarist Noko in Luxuria. Both latter day iterations would be interesting, but neither would be close to classic period Magazine. 

With all that in mind, hearing the new album No Thyself (2011) it's understandable that one might be prepared for a grave disappointment. Instead, while the album does have its janky moments, it's an overall relatively impressive work, far better than anyone had a right to expect. When keyboardist Dave Formula, a highly skilled and gifted musician, takes the forefront it tends to pull things rightward. Things tend to go better when more space is given to guitarist Noko, in fact he may be the album's MVP. 

Readers of this blog know I'm always delighted when old guys do good. It's clear that Magazine's band of elder baldies still has much to say. Good on 'em: Hear No Thyself here.

The elders in 2009:

Post-Classic, post-McGeoch:

The younger lads:

May All Your Trains Be Milked

According to Wiki, in 1967, the year Jefferson Airplane hit with Surrealistic Pillow, the former model, erstwhile oboist, and first person to ever say "motherfucker" on live television, Grace Slick (née Wing) would become America's first and preeminent female rock star. Once in the spotlight, Ms. Slick proved herself articulate, courageous, outspoken, and politically motivated (as you'll see below). She also had the kind of spokesmodel good looks America demanded for its trending mistress of counterculture. Based in San Francisco, the Airplane also just happened to be at the movement's spiritual center.

Five years later in 1972, the Jefferson Airplane was preparing to land for the last time. Counterculture was more than a threat now, it was in full engagement. Part of the establishment's irrational fear of the counterculture was for its spectre of hedonist and non-marital sex. Following the repressive 50s and its skirmishes with atomic apocalypses and McCarthyism, sex in itself was a revolution enough. For the under 30 crowd it was liberation, defiance, and just a plain f**king goodtime. With Erica Jong's Fear of Flying on the bestseller lists and Last Tango in Paris and Clockwork Orange in the theaters, much of the cultural language of the time was in full drooling compliance. Slick reflected this language in the entendre of her own Milk Train:

I don't want to stop your milk train running 

I just want to ride it some of the time...I don't have to pay for your open mouth...

I'll give you a free milk tongue bath. 

Cost you nothin'...  

Milk Train was the heretofore relatively unheard of POV of the highly motivated and self-empowered, shall we say, service provider—not unlike the voice of the later Butter Boy. This is not Peaches girl-on-girl dominance, or Melanie's coyish Brand New Key, this was a woman shamelessly waving the flag of her inner slut and taking it to the lucky tool of her choice. Even now, songs like this are far too rare indeed.

Come-ons aside, the music of Milk Train—written by latter day Airplane member Papa John Creech—is what makes this Train roll. Creech's prominent violin jousts with Jorma Kaukonen's guitar and that great opening riff quickly take this train from steam chug to rocket fuel. Jack Casady shows why he's rock's most underrated bass player and Grace Slick shouts more gospel than she ever did before. She belts with her characteristic muscle: no pyrotechnics, no mad parlandos, melismas nor hyperglottic warbling around the notes and no hammering screams, just pure blasts of wind through those well shaped chords. A voice capable of blowing birthday candles out from across a room. It's a chesty power and when it's heaving about milk trains, it's very, very sexy.

Milk Train comes from the last proper Airplane album (1972's Long John Silver) and for a brief moment this smutty little masterpiece actually made it to the radio. Within two years the Airplane would dissolve and rebuild as The Starship, and the arch-psychedelic 'Frisco sound would transform into the mega-platinum yacht rock of the Reagan '80s. By then, Milk Trains had become friends with benefits and entendre would become virtually a lost art.

A smutty masterpiece:


Download: Jefferson Airplane, Milk Train

Ms. Slick on the Smothers Brothers show in 1968 performing in blackface and gloves. The raising of her fist at the end is a show of support for the Black Panthers.



Establishment rep Dick Clark interviewing the band in a minute and a half and showing why he's Dick:

Julie Tippetts: Golden Aged and Still Golden

As I've argued before, while musical longevity has its exceptions, it's rare. And I don't mean acts trotting out their catalog of evergreens on some nostalgia cruise for aging boomers, I mean true artists still capable of producing quality new material, e.g. Cohen, Cave, Dylan, and Bowie. To this list of grayhead warriors add Julie Tippetts, 60s Brit "Northern Soul" singer ("with distant blues and jazz roots"), fashion vanguardist, and poet. (I've argued her virtues before when when her name was still Driscoll.)

Tippetts' recent collaborations with Martin Archer tend toward the ambient with shades of RenFair blown through with a jazzy phrasing and "experimental music." But damn, the 66 year old chanteuse can still hit the angelic high notes, nearly breaking escape velocity into whistle tones. Below are highlights from her last two albums with Archer. They may not be everyone's thing but give her props doing the hard work. She could've chosen the path of playing Vegas-y retreads of weather-beaten standards (like, say, Nina Hagen) and safely padded her pension fund, but she didn't. This old bird is still on the vanguard: props to her.

Greenpot Bluepot: Joni Mitchell in an Opium Den

This weekend I've been attending a conference for the Society of Children's Books Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI). I've listened to various writers, agents, and editors speak on what they're looking for and what might possibly get a prospect out of the slush pile. When sending material they advise a quick and specific log-line (one or two sentence description) that immediately gets the author's idea across. To wit: For a picture book manuscript I've written, an apt description might be a Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs meets a Fischer-Price Gabriel Garcia Marquez on a playground. I've been told it needs work but you get the idea.

In describing Natalie LeBrecht, AKA Greenpt Bluepot, you might say she's a Nico meets Indian

opera imagined by Mel Blanc (see 5 below) by way of Ellis Island (she's lived in both Williamsburg and the Lower East Side). Vocally and stylistically I hear some Jarboe and even a touch of Joni Mitchell in an opium den: Indianesque with a solid Western pulse and a voice way closer to Brooklyn than Mumbai (all right, opium is more China than India but I liked the way it sounded). She seems to hover between the sacred music and the profane sounds of Bollywood. She also favors traditional analog sounds (a big plus, I think) and though one could accuse her of a musical tourism, her music seems created out of a genuine affection and respect for the traditions she's appropriating. She also stakes a good amount of musical real estate that is refreshingly her own, and for this she earns a few gold stars. At best you could say she's attempting to shift boundaries, mix East and West, and expand a musical language in the process. Or maybe she just digs yoga and patchouli. Whatever: She's worth your attention.



She does get a little pitchy at times but her heart is in the right place.

On a side note: Recently I was visiting my neighborhood big pharma peddler (Rite Aid in this case), and noticed this on the shelf:


I have the great fortune to live in a progressive enclave in Westside Los Angeles. In this era of wars against women, pharmacists twisting Gospel into denials of birth control, and a candidate for governor who promises to make oral sex a crime, it warms my heart to see the open sale of marital aids at my corner drug store.

And events like the one captured in LeBrecht’s Royal Parade. Ah, to live in an open and free(ish) society. Dwellers of the two islands of civilization in the U.S. (NY and LA just to be clear), you are truly blessed. Be grateful and indulge. It's your right and duty.


Royal Parade from Greenpot Bluepot on Vimeo.

This one, a Gregorian anarchy:

Grayhead Does Good Dept: David Bowie's Deranged (Unreleased Version)

His head wasn't all that gray quite yet, he was a mere 48, still, most rock stars are in full wither at such a point. Bowie, for his part, was reinventing himself yet again. As a cat who began playing in bands in the early '60s, finding new relevance in the '90s as something more than a curious relic is no small accomplishment. Some critics were less than enthusiastic (Rolling Stone gave it 3 out of 5 stars), but as is often the case, time has proved them wrong.

I'm Deranged was another collaboration with Brian Eno (cowriter) and jazz pianist Mike Garson. It's a good one.



In 2013, with head considerably grayer, Bowie released yet another: The Next Day. Ever wanted to see Gary Oldman as a Catholic priest punch a homeless beggar? Plus, as is it our mission at Jelly Roll to bring you the finest in explicit music videos, here's one with unclothed breasts, splattering stigmata, and trenchant religious satire: What else could you want?



He also did another one for the album with Tilden Swinton.

This is what evil sounds like. Well, evilish.

The band is Psyclon Nine. They're from the San Francisco Bay area. Labelers call the sound aggrotech/industrial metal. The singer's name is Nero Bellum and that voice (it is a guy)—is the sound of the worst, off-the-meds, end-of-a-relationship, dish hurling argument you've ever had. A song that sounds like an argument—such a concept. Could be the soundtrack to inspire teenage shootings. (Let's hope not.)



The video has been called bizarre but that may be overselling its merits. That synthesizer certainly takes it down a few notches. It's like a game show theme leaking in from a television someone left on in the studio. It sucks the evil wind right out of the sails. The song's intro is pretty spooky, with the looped banshee wail and the seizure camera style but even that's spoiled by the straight-to-video caliber Satanic voice. Combined with the synth sound, if it's evil it's topped with a melting block of processed cheese. You do have to wonder how Mr. Bellum can keep up the scratching vocals for the four minutes needed to get through this much less a whole live set. He's going to have nodes on his vocal cords the size of cobblestones. 

But Bellum is only one of legions in the genre that all sing exactly like this, rasp for rasp—with all the diversity of ancient Egyptian painting. It's kind of oppressive. Though there's one advantage: if a singer leaves, replacing them is much easier.

Take caution when watching, the visuals might induce overstimulation. Keep out of reach of small children.

The song is catchy, though.