...voices ought not to be measured by how pretty they are. Instead, they matter only if they convince you that they are telling the truth.
Sam Cooke
Measure Tagaq as a truth genius.
Listen to her TedTalk performance (below). Note the dervish intensity and human-to-animal sound spectrum ratio. If you can absorb her assault without your eyes guttering with tears, then your heart’s far sludgier than mine. Next, go to her version of Rape Me.
Nirvana’s version – with Cobain’s lamentation on fame and as a victim of the zeitgeist – was the thesis; Tagaq writes the dissertation.
In Tagaq’s mouth, Rape Me describes suffering
that’s less existential and far more literal: her whispers channel the agonies of ancestral generations and tortured contemporaries. And her whispers don’t just speak for the indigenous – as tragic and well-documented as their struggle has been – but for all women. Hear the heartbeat and the quiet restraint that imagines a victim’s solitude, soaked in toxic memories. Add to that whatever other tinglings you may get: patriarchy, parentage, class, duty, fear, etc. But there’s much more than rage at work here. Her registers, her guttural modulations, her sweetness and rage, the emotionality – her voice may be the chaotic psyche’s ultimate delivery system .
Tagaq says she didn’t begin throat singing herself until college. Though her indigenous culture had no history of throat singing, she’d re-engineer it to such a scale, it sounded like it was. And her record collection must be eclectic and edgy. Her approach ranges from uninhibited to feral. She’d first be introduced to a broader audience by another fellow warrior and vocal innovator, Björk. Tagaq would follow similar paths as her mentor’s but in an entirely different way. Both are aggressively elusive and hard reduce to something as simple as a category. Both sing with an intensity and commitment that is truly rare.
In the first video, see Björk and Tagaq join another aggressively elusive singer – Mike Patton.
In her TedTalk, Tagaq only sings. Her voice arrives from another plane entirely. Her throat astrally projects the spectrum of human emotional experience. Like a shaman from another dimension, she drops into a trance, channels voices, personalities, shadows, light, and other species. This is the kind of ecstatic performance Pentecostals dream of hacking but get nowhere near. She collects the essences of Yoko Ono, Shirley Temple, Diamanda Galas, Meredith Monk, Nina Hagen, the B-52s, throat and overtone singers, Asian traditions, Ornette Coleman's saxophone, animal and outer space noises. Her vocal palette, the colors and sounds at her disposal, are expansive enough to be seen from space.
Bootsy's Rubber Band, I’d Rather Be With You (1976):
Sexy bass mud and the P Funk family are all over this classic joint. If being picked over by subsequent generations of sample vultures is cred, then this jam is a topper. Bootsy signed on to play with James Brown as a teenager and was an original J.B. In 1972 he joined P Funk and played on all of the classic-period albums. Bootsy’s solo version of the P Funk shizz is cooler, steezier, and is more restrained than the sometimes riotous P Funk. Still, it deserves to be considered a part of that impressive legacy.
Listen to this and admit that this may be one of the greatest backing bands in rock and roll history—special props to Bernie Worrell.
Childish Gambino, Riot (2016):
I’ve wondered on this blog as to where are the next generations of hybrid rock, funk, and soul artists to take up the edgy mantle that was P Funk, Sly and the Family Stone, The Isley Brothers, et. al. at their peak?
That long-awaited answer may be Childish Gambino.
I wanted not to love Riot just because Donald Glover already has his fingerprints over way too many successes as it is. But this piece is undeniable—the vocal, the groove, the vibe, and its jacked exuberance: What is there to say but Respect?
The Gap Band, Burn Rubber on Me (Why You Wanna Hurt Me)(1980):
Once, there was a boundary that stood like the Berlin wall between drums and drum machines. The tradition was too entrenched and few would dare to scale that wall. Then, the 90s, hip hop, and sequencers would tear that wall down. But even now, live drums with a Moog bass—and electric piano to twerk that fat bottom end—is a sound as funky as a gumbo left out in the summer sun. Stevie Wonder worked this signature to enormous effect. So did The Gap Band.
Tom Browne: Thighs High (1980):
At the apex of disco’s full cultural assault in the mid-70s, jazzers like trumpeter Tom Browne were in a life and death struggle for existence. Not that disco had anything to do with it—interest in jazz, in terms of market share, was on a serious wane (a trend that has since only worsened), and jazz musicians were forced to adapt or die to keep their livelihoods. Either retool with a rock beat a la rock fusion, funk, or disco—or find a day job. As it turned out, disco seemed like the best option for many. Pandering to the throbbing 4/4 wasn’t a humiliation only felt by jazzers—rockers were also feeling the pressure. Take note of singles from The Rolling Stones and ZZ Top at the time. But as history shows, jazzers adapted to disco with a ferocity unlike any other genre.
Despite the apparent pandering, it wasn’t all bad. Hot and plucky bass lines were essential. A clavinet was good. A steppin’ horn line and porn suggestive lyrics were also a bonus. Tom Browne threw it all together in this smooth-thumping dance floor-filler. Produced by film and television scoring great Dave Grusin, this dirty little ditty would climb to #4 on the charts.
George Duke: Reach for It(1977):
As another disco refugee, jazz nerds gave Duke much grief for “abandoning jazz” at this career stage. As a veteran of the bands of Billy Cobham, Cannonball Adderly, Jean-Luc Ponty, and Frank Zappa, for the case of “Reach for It,” Duke’s betrayal would win him a #2 single. The bass fury is the propulsive work of Charles Icarus Johnson.
F**k jazz: if this was a devil’s bargain, the devil was a good negotiator.
Gil Scott-Heron, Me and the Devil (2010):
Though considered one of the progenitors of rap, Gil Scott-Heron’s work is a bit more academic than the hip hop we’ve become accustomed to—aggressive yet jazzy, more streetwise than street, and far more measured than the spittle-machine gun style of latter-day gangstas. The fangs of his social commentary were about far headier things than mere boasting. Heron himself called it bluesology.
Me and the Devil, a reworking of the Robert Johnson classic, would be released less than a year before his death and the self-conscious specter about a life about to end too quickly is all over this. Like Billie Holiday’s late-career period, every bit of Heron’s hard life is embedded in the lyric and vocal. It’s equal parts confessionary plaint and an artist‘s raging last will and testament, delivered as a desperate howl against the unbendable schedule of the universe.
Heatwave, The Groove Line (1978):
Heatwave was an eclectic mix of American and European, white and black players and would most significantly become the résumé builder for Brit Invisible Man—songwriter, musician, vocalist, and record producer—Tod Temperton. Out of Heat Wave, Temperton was recruited by Quincy Jones and others to work for a roster of artists including Michael Jackson, Donna Summer, The Brothers Johnson, Lionel Ritchie, and Herbie Hancock. Most famously he was the songwriter of Jackson’s megahits Thriller, Off the Wall, and Rock with You.
The Groove Line has a kind of New Wavey disco vibe—which had more influence in the UK than in the US—to go along with its flurry of melodic invention that seemed to spurt in all directions. As far as disco goes, this may have been among its peak.
Funky Destination: The Inside Man - Soopasoul Remix (2013):
Funky Destination is the nom de funk of Croatian musician Vladimir Sivc. While the sound is not untypical processed ProTools hobo stew, it comes fresh with the use of mostly live instruments. Bandcamp describes Sivc’s retro groove thusly: broken beat, breakbeat breaks, dub funk, nu disco; nu funk; nu jazz; rare groove, soul—whatever any of that means. The track may not break new ground but it smacks hard and that trombone line might just kick Fred Wesley’s ass.
Everyone in the world is made up of nothingness. While that may sound grim, it's the truth.
In fact, everyone currently on earth, all 7.6 billion of us, we could all fit into the room you're in right now. The entire human race, every single person, could all be compressed into a solid cube with the equivalent size of a sugar cube – all because we are made up of nothingness.
So, to extend the metaphor, space can be as significant—or more, even—as the material, in both matter and art. It’s often the very place where the most interesting things happen.
To wit: Swedish singer Stina Nordenstam’s reworking of an album’s worth of severely reductive and nearly unrecognizable covers, including her arduous filleting of People are Strange (from her 1998 album of the same name). On Nordenstam’s Strange, the formula brings new and uneasy layers to the sound while adding dimensions to the lyrics—larding even more onto the original’s ethereal dread and intrigue.
On The Doors’ original, the vibe was that of a kind of Weimar Republic cabaret, much of that launched on it’s mid-century striding rhythm and what one contemporary critic called “whorehouse piano” (actually a tack piano), the sci-fi tremolo on the Vox “Connie,” and the guitar’s unrelieved tension fade-out on the finale. Nordenstam takes the whorehouse and adds some David Lynchian surrealism and ladles on even more dream space and whatnot. For the listener, it’s an utterly barren landscape to be dropped into, leaving them to make whatever archetypal jungle out of it they may.
And while she may be adding to the ambient nothingness, her nothingness seems only to make the whole even greater.
You think genius has to be big? Like, a singular theory of everything or totally disruptive art? Sometimes, genius is just a matter of seeing that thing that was right in front of you all along and seeing it suddenly anew.
And for that, this completely qualifies: this is genius of the everyday. To Valentin Coronado: Props, sir.
Once, I did a lot of time with this book. A lot of kids’ books parents will come to dread, but this one was a classic. I’d take my daughter’s toddler hand and drum on the book for the dum ditty dum ditty dum dum dum bit. She loved that. (*Sniff, sniff*)
The Premise: Boomer dude—he/his/him—attempts to move away from the music that made his high school and college years more bearable and sexier. Instead, he spins joints created in the last 10 years (or so) to see what he can find. When he finds stuff he likes, he yuks it up like a used car salesman. His great hope is to bring new stuff to old ears, and maybe – in his wildest dreams – hookup some of the kiddos. In the process, he hopes to bridge the yawning divide with Zoomers and Millennials for the damages his decrepit generation wrought on the world—and bring world peace. Another 10 to add to the list: 31) Brittany Howard, History Repeats (2019): Howard led the Alabama Shakes, of which I know little—the name puts me right off—is a former postal carrier, and has created music worthy of striking gold from the Grammy establishment. And this from her solo record of last year—classic level stuff: 32) Sofi Tukker, Drinkee (2016): Of this new phase of musical minimalism, I’m a fan. (I’m not ashamed to admit an affection for some Billie Eilish also.) This duo may be too pretty by half but the groove is sickly sticky, from the Portuguese signature to the vapor-light guitar filagrees. 33) Graham Coxon, Bus Stop (2018): Coxon, a founder of Blur, offers nothing new here. In fact, the song sounds as if it were built on the platform of Devo’s Gut Feeling. But no matter – what’s good is good. If you saw the series, the song fit perfectly. 34) The Plastics, Stereo Kids (Reprise) (2012): Influential Japanese “technopop,” name-dropped by Polysics, Pizzicato 5, and Stereo Total for their short stint in the late 70s and early 80s. They also made fans of Talking Heads, Devo, and The B-52s. Disappeared shortly thereafter but must’ve decided in the early 10s that working day jobs was no way to live, and have recorded 4 albums since 2011. Unlike what usually happens—and if this song is any indication—they got far better with age. 35) Everything Everything, The Night of the Long Knives (2017): This Mancunian outfit birthed in 2007. Described by Wiki as art-rock but I don’t hear it. A lot of time was invested in cool synth sounds and the intricate vocal harmonies—those are the elements that lead the circus here, but it’s the production that takes the most turns in the spotlight. Someone really labored over twirling the knobs here—and the result is a sound they’ll never recreate live. But the song’s ultimate booby trap is that sweeping wall of electronic clangor that erupts for the choruses. That orgasmic sound is the one that’ll make you hit Repeat again and again. 36) Kiev, Rational Animal/Layered Line (2010): The band’s been banging around Orange County (i.e. the one in CA) since 2007 and by The OC standards, they’re practically legend now. (They’re Orange County Music Award winners.) (I, for one, couldn’t wait to leave OC. But good for them.) Their sound schtick was described by tour mates Bad Suns as “metropolitan techie hi-fi nerd guys.” It sweeps dreamy with funky touches and academic flourish (a couple of members have music degrees). Their sound is expansive with a fastidious technicality – note how it comes off as both tight and airy.
A live in-studio performance:
37) Caleb Landry Jones,Flag Day/The Motherstone(2020): Texan Jones is better known for acting (he was in an X-Men, Get Out, and episodes of Twin Peaks) than for his time as a musical mastermind. His affection for Tin Pan Alley song smithery, via George Martin’s Beatles’ orchestrations, and his cop of Lennon’s psychedelic era voice are both obvious. Flag Day/Motherstone spared no expense on arranging, charts, and orchestral puffery and the results are impressive. His toe dips between the pools of music hall and prog. I also hear early Split Enz, The Divine Comedy, Monkees ca. Head, the histrionic scale of Queen, bits of Esquivel, and a number of contemporary bands namechecked on my Beatle Juice post. If his work meanders it’s only part of the fun. He’s getting his due: this is some sh*t. 38) Anderson.Paak, Come Down (2016): From Oxnard, CA—where agriculture meets the sea (and all that it entails)—a place where no one has ever come from, least of all sounding like this. Paak is a hyphenate musician so sure his of the walk his music talks, his website doesn’t even offer copy. (Besides, judging from his website photo gallery and collaborations, he’s well hooked up.) His 70s record collection, particularly the funk, is all over this and his ’20s update is deft—like a household where multiple generations live. Can’t we all just get along? Paak’s loaded grooves say we can. 39) Soko, Just Want to Make It New with You (2013): On her debut album, I Thought I Was an Alien, French singer and actress Stéphanie Sokolinski made music raw, unschooled, and understated to a level of near pathology – her arrangements and production sound like a homeopathic version of The Velvet Underground. The songs are butterflied versions of scars – laid on a table, lit, and ready to be mapped. She’s needy and exposed and sings of depression, mental health, and self-mutilation. She was willing to shovel up the kind of sludge that’d surely scare off the swipes-right on Tinder. Though she was 28 at the time, it has a refreshing teenaged awkwardness about it. Altogether, it’s the kind of shambolic sound and stories of someone still new at love—a seedling preparing to reach for the sun but soon to be crushed underfoot. Her more recent material has taken on a more produced and polished sound. The Alien record offered a diary level of intimacy and a sound that could’ve been recorded in a bedroom. Soko shares a rare and startling nakedness that reveals a profound vulnerability, even for a confessional of one’s own self-abuse. 40) A.A. Williams, Love and Pain (2020): The song begins in a whisper. Give it two and a half minutes and, as her Bandcamp page explains, it’ll go from serenity to explosive drama. Those Smells Like Teen Spirit operatic sweeps can be cloying in lesser hands but they’re done with proper finesse here. Dig into her; she’s onto something. Bonus! Supergrass, Road to Rouen (2005), Mary (1999): When the band debuted in the mid-90s, they were met with a lot of unctuous clamor. Their first album was at least as worthy of anything Blur or Oasis were doing. Since, they’ve plugged along, wrote strong material with consistency, throwing up the masterful gem here and there. It seems they stopped in 2008, but their legacy, IMO, has been tragically overlooked.
Changes(Black Sabbath), 1972: Charles Bradley (2012)
Charles Bradley (1948-2017) hadn’t heard of Black Sabbath. But once he heard the song—Changes, originally recorded by Sabbath in 1972—he heard it. The song bit into his own grief and complicated relationship with his mother as he explains below.
The lyrics aren’t profound but they’re felt, in this case, through both performances. Ozzy’s face seems to be haunted by something in his rendition; for Charles, it’s clear his mother was still very much rattling chains in his head.
You could say his she sang it for him.
As to his mother: After abandoning Charles at eight months old, she reclaimed him from his grandmother at eight years and took him to live in Brooklyn, NY. By 14, Bradley would escape his poor living conditions—his basement bedroom had a sand floor—and sleep in subway cars for 2 years. He wouldn’t live with his mother again until the 1990s.
Bradley would work as a chef, part-time singer and James Brown impersonator. He signed with Daptone records at age 55 but didn’t take to music full-time until his debut solo album in 2011. It’d be a brief career but an impactful one.
In 1937, music archivist Alan Lomax recorded a 16-year-old miner’s daughter, Georgia Turner, as she sung an early a cappella iteration of what came to be known as House of the Rising Sun. She called her version Rising Sun Blues. As was common of the era and her locale, Georgia had likely learned the tune from her parents or grandparents. (Two years later, Lomax would record another take by Tennessean Clarence Ashley. Ashley had also learned the song from his grandparents.)
Many early generations of Rising Sun recordings were first made by Lomax. (An earlier version of the song was often misattributed to African American bluesman Texas Alexander for his recording of The Rising Sun in 1928. As it turns out, the two songs have nothing in common.) The version Georgia sang had origins going back possibly hundreds of years, making it older than the New Orleans itself. Musicologists say that it was based on an epic of the broadside ballad tradition, a musical form popular from the 16th to 19th centuries. (It most resembles The Unfortunate Rake—which musicologists date to around 1740—a lamentation on a dead man that’d succumb to syphilis.) Songs with similarly difficult-to-trace origins are called floating songs—songs with a long history of being passed around that transform in the process. Much has been speculated about the significance of the name “Rising Sun”—suggestions include a prison, a brothel, and a gambling house.
The melody was likely from a traditional well-known English ballad, but the song would gain popularity in the US as an African-American folk song.
To the brothel theory: Legend says the local bordello name-checked in the song would’ve been run by a madame known as Marianne LeSoleil Levant (LeSoleil=Rising Sun in French). Her establishment would’ve opened for business in 1862. It closed in 1874 due to neighbors’ complaints.
The Vox “Connie”
Lomax also claimed that “Rising Sun” was the name used for a bawdy house in two traditional English songs. As the eminent American collector of folk songs during the 20th-century, Lomax suggested “Rising Sun” was also a common English pub name. In addition, the location may have been changed from England to New Orleans by American white southern performers.
As for the age of House of the Rising Sun lyric, by using the song’s internal clues, such as “blue jeans,” a railroad that would’ve served travelers arriving into New Orleans at the time, and the gambling houses of New Orleans, musicologists date the lyric from around 1895—the earliest printed version being 1925.
As to how it came to the ears of our contemporary pop culture, it could’ve been among a number of likely sources, sung with musical or lyrical variations: Woody Guthrie, 1941; Josh White, 1942; Leadbelly, 1944 and 1948; Glen Yarborough (a popular folk singer of the 1950s), 1957; Joan Baez, at age 18 in 1960; Bob Dylan (stealing an arrangement from Dave Von Ronk), 1961; Nina Simone, 1962.
And this: Clearly, Griffith had a cool record collection—a version from 1959:
This is most likely the version most of us heard first, from 1964. It would become a number one in France, the UK, and the US:
The indelible Vox Continental (“Connie”) hook heard on The Animals’ version had its vibe pinched from, according to organist Alan Price, Jimmy Smith’s Walk on the Wild Side from 1962:
