It’s easy to understand why a cut-up rocker with one foot in metal and the other in Vaudeville like David Lee Roth would break out of Van Halen and go solo with a faithful cover of Louis Prima’s version of “Just a Gigolo”/”I’m So Lonely.”
Listening to a straightforward, blues/gospel-drenched comping session like this reminds you that jazz has lost its soul today and aims mostly for the head. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s good to get back to the essential, visceral nature of the genre. This set, recorded in New York at an unidentified studio or studios on three days during the summer of 1963, let’s you know why.
When this record was issued in 1976, 47 year old Betty Carter (born Lillie Mae Jones) had already sang with Dizzy, Miles, Lionel Hampton, Sonny Rollins and many others.
Not that many years ago, it seems, every sound crew in Hollywood and around the world recorded production sound using a compact, open-reel analog tape recorder made by Nagra. The first iteration of the Swiss-made machine appeared in the early 1950s. Shortly thereafter, with the addition of an inaudible recorded tone that allowed easy syncing to picture, the Nagra recorder became the industry standard, and remained so through the 1980s. To this day, Nagra's line of audio products retains the look of those early recorders.
In the nervous, jumpy, wiry world of guitar-driven late ‘70’s-early ‘80’s post-rock intellectual punk, popularized by bands like Gang of Four, Buzzcocks, early XTC and (more broodingly) Wire, Mission of Burma was America’s premier practitioners. They probably accrued more legend than record sales, though.
Reminiscent of what Carl Jefferson was doing at Concord back in the 1970’s, this reissue of a French Black and Blue release recorded March of 1978, keeps alive the straight ahead tradition that seemed to be passing into jazz history back then.
Memories can play nasty tricks on the mind. Events long since past that once seemed sublime can turn out to be anything but when the time machine slides them into the present.
Legendary, much sought after and barely in print when first released on the obscure International Artist label, both the original mono and stereo versions of Roky Erickson’s psychedelic scream and surf fest fetch big bucks.
The famous motorcycle accident in 1966 that disabled a rising music starthen mired in a now long-forgotten controversy of folk-versus-popsetting the stage for an extended period of seclusion and retreat. It’s an episode that continues to intrigue tellers of the star’s story (a recent article in American Heritage magazine, for example, can’t help introducing it as “The Bob Dylan Motorcycle-Crash Mystery”).
And for many chroniclers, it remains the central event in the Legend of Bob Dylan, the before-and-after moment, the durable frame for the-young-and-the-old, the-rise-and-the-fall, the Icarus-inflected storyline of the-burning-meteor-and-the-fallen-angel cautionary tale.