Secret Bar of the Stars




Last weekend I visited Muscle Shoals Sound Studios. Above is a hidden bar accessed via a panelling cut-out. The county was dry back in the day, so it had to be hidden. Twenty-mile drive to the Tennessee state line for restocking. That’s an old video player on the counter for, um, “films.” Original furnshings. The picture on the wall is of Jerry Wexler and Willie Nelson. Some huge talent relaxed in that little room, along with the Swampers, of course. I still find it very funny that musicians came from all over the planet to work with those “black musicians” who played on Staples Singers and Wilson Pickett (and 100 others) records, just to find four white guys who looked like they worked at the local Tractor Supply.

An interesing fact (of many) about that dumpy little building: it’s slightly twisted. No parallel surfaces, so no standing waves. You can place a mike pretty much anywhere without issues.

The tour guide was knowledgeable. Unlike a few years ago when I toured nearby Fame Studios (where the Swampers worked for Rick Hall before striking out on their own). The guide was a young ignoramus whom I tormented with corrections and questions. Sorry, but if I’m paying for a tour, the guide should know more about the place than I do.

Endurance

I need to read the book, it’s all anyone talks about in the comments.

Though I have not yet become the sort of History Dad who has devoured every single book and article ever written about Shackleton’s expedition, it is a story that has fascinated me ever since I first learned about it in grade school. Beyond the gory details about frostbite and shifting ice floes and starvation, what has always stuck with me is the supreme sense of alienation that the story first filled me with. The year 1915 wasn’t that long ago, geologically speaking, and yet to read about what Shackleton and his men experienced is to be confronted with the inconceivable. It gets how cold in Antarctica? Those guys walked how many miles? Pack ice can do what to a ship? I am able to imagine exploring the arctic in the early 20th century no easier than I can imagine exploring Mars today, the only difference being that real human beings actually did the former. The courage (lunacy?) it must have required to journey into such a brutal unknown is something none of us will likely ever be able to understand.

– Tom Ley

Speaking o’ Memphis

Here’s a radio show of some 60’s-70’s rarities.  I love the ones by the Breakers and Flash and the Memphis Casuals.  I bet they kicked ass live (I’m not old enough to have seen them, although I did see about half of the others on this list).  Unlisted after the Tommy Hoehn song is a pretty terrible cover of “I Walk the Line” by a band called Hot Dogs, who had some good songs;  why on earth was that chosen?  I find Chris Bell’s acoustic version of “I Am The Cosmos” too slow, sludgy, and depressing–which I guess makes sense, as he was chronically depressed.   It’s the sound of Quaalude abuse.  The official single version moves along better, although there’s still about as much sludge as I can endure.

Suckers Wanted

Julian Lennon will auction NFT’s of some of his prized memorabilia: John’s black cape from Help, a Les Paul ( I guess Yoko owns the Epiphone Casino), Paul’s handwritten notes for “Hey Jude,” and some other treasures.  He’s keeping the originals.  In Julian’s words,

I actually felt very bad about keeping all that stuff locked away, and I just felt that this was a unique way to continue dad’s legacy and show people the collections I have…

Aw, how nice.  John’s legacy needs so much  help these days.  And I’m sorry he feels bad, but the money should help that.

You can’t have your cake and eat it, but with NFT’s you can have it and sell it!

There’s a sucker born every minute.  –PT Barnum

Never give a sucker an even break.  –WC Fields

Oh, Not Whoa

Sometimes aesthetics call for an “oh” instead of a “whoa,” as in the chorus of this forgotten Wings song.  This overlooked album track is pretty good, with a good guitar riff, a decent enough hook, and some Stax horns.  Far better than this album’s single, “Listen to What the Man Said,” which is just dishwater.  The post-Beatles careers of Lennon-McCartney revealed that they needed each other, or at least assertive bandmates.

Musician?

I was bored at a relative’s home over the weekend and noticed a copy of the Neil Young biography, Shakey. I started reading random passages and ran across something interesting. Someone (I forgot who) recalls a meeting between Stephen Stills and Bob Dylan. After the meeting, Stills mentioned to the narrator that although he admired Dylan very much, he didn’t consider Dylan a musician. The narrator was horrified. The great Bob Dylan, not a musician?

Stills was correct.  Let’s look at the facts. As a guitarist, Dylan doesn’t display much that you couldn’t teach anyone. As for the harmonica (barely an instrument really, but let’s be thorough), his playing reminds me of why I hid our harmonica from my two sons when they were very young. As for his singing, you could argue that the younger Dylan’s voice gave an appropriate tone to some of his songs. But we’re talking about musicianship here, and his singing has never been good in purely musical terms. And as for his “mature” voice, it reminds me of the noise my stomach was making a couple of weeks ago after I ate too many ribs.

Then there’s songwriting. I won’t deny he’s written some good ones (hard not to do when you’ve written several million). At best, they are effective support for the main ingredient, his lyrics. Musically, there isn’t much going on in them. You can find great instrumental parts, but they’re the work of others such as Robbie Robertson, Al Kooper, et al.  Well-known covers of his songs are always better than the originals. Well, maybe not always.

So is Dylan a musician?  Nah.

Dylan’s talents lie in lyrics and self-promotion. But as a lyricist, he is not the infallible god of his most ardent fans. It’s been pointed out elsewhere that you can’t be “along” a watchtower. You can be in, on, around, or even buried under one (which might have been a better premise), but not along one. Nit-picking perhaps, but it has a reputation as a great song, and great writing must be precise, even where the meaning is obscure. Then, there are some real clunkers. “Mr. Tambourine Man” is just plain dumb. But to be fair, everyone has bad days, and you can’t write as much as he has without misfiring. I find the protest songs to be overly earnest and boring, but my anti-folkie bias might disqualify me as a judge of those.

His real genius has been in nurturing the cult of his own genius. I can’t think of an artist who has more deftly used aloofness and contempt to rope fans into a sort of narcissistic codependency. It has enabled him to carve out a career on his own terms, so good for him.  It has also worked so well that there will be no clear-sighted reassessment of Dylan until most boomers have downsized to the cemeteries.

That said, I’ve always liked his Live 1966 album where he gave a middle finger to the folkies by going electric. There’s real rock’n’roll tension there, and The Band play like gods. I also enjoyed his Theme Time radio show back in the aughties.