Everyone's A Winner

Welcome back to my Grateful Dead and RuPaul's Drag Race blog. Today, or as we say in the UK "yesterday", marks the 45th anniversary of another of my favourite Grateful Dead shows.

https://archive.org/details/gd1970-05-06.sbd.gans-hall.95.shnf

Essentially a warm-up for the following night's show, this jam session on Kresge Plaza at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology was part of a student demonstration on 6 May 1970. Just two days before, soldiers had opened fire on peaceful protesters at Kent State University, killing four students and wounding nine more.

This performance marks a rare political statement for the bunch of hippies, who were never activists. Unless you consider having LSD for breakfast a form of activism. This was a time of massive cultural upheaval, embodied by the Dead more than anyone.

The show, relatively short for the Grateful Dead, is full of anger, passion and energy. This recording is a historical document, as well as a blisteringly exciting 90 minutes of music. It opens a few seconds into one of their best renditions of Dancing in the Street, and the show fizzes spectacularly on from there.

After Jerry Garcia's announcement about a lost kid named Frank who's probably about 50 now, the band launch into one of my favourite Dead songs, China Cat Sunflower. The recording then cuts out before rejoining the action at the start of I Know You Rider. What this tape lacks in completeness, it more than makes up for in raw quality.

I'm the first to admit that the band's vocal harmonies aren't always, you know, in tune. But Jerry and Pigpen totally nail it for the bluesy Next Time You See Me. Then comes arguably the greatest version of Morning Dew, which is surprisingly heavy and completely beautiful.

Good Lovin' starts with a brilliantly unique drum intro, and the drumming is so tight that you forget there's two of them. Apparently Bill Kreutzmann was once asked how they were always so in time with one another, and he replied that Mickey Hart had been hypnotising him. 

In any case, it's a great version of Good Lovin'. Mostly because Pigpen shouts: "This microphone over here don't work so fuckin' good you guys!" Then Casey Jones rips along, and the crowd go justifiably crazy.

The set ends with a barnstorming St. Stephen into Not Fade Away, and the whole band is on fire. Bob Weir closes the gig saying: "We're gonna split, and we'll be playing for you tomorrow night but it's just too fuckin' cold."

One of the Dead's most electrifying performances, this show comes towards the tail end of their scorching, psychedelic, acid phase. As opposed to their heroin phase. As the Vietnam War sparked mass demonstrations across college campuses, this was and remains an invigorating musical protest. Particularly on the eve of an election where we have the chance to not elect a bunch of warmongers. No prizes for guessing how that works out.

As a slight change of pace, I'll leave you with my favourite Hot Chocolate song in memory of Errol Brown who passed away earlier. Yes I have a favourite Hot Chocolate song.

There's Mosquitos on the River

As you know, I love everything in the world, with the exception of three things. One of those things that I love is the Grateful Dead.

The only reason I'm still writing this blog is an obsessive need to keep posting once a month, so I might as well do the inevitable and turn it into a Grateful Dead appreciation blog - after all, on this day in 1977, the Dead played one of my favourite shows.

https://archive.org/details/gd1977-04-23.mtx.seamons.97596.sbeok.flac16

23 April 1977 was a rainy day in Massachusetts - I wasn't there (or born), but I have been to Massachusetts and I've experienced rain, so close enough. The Grateful Dead walked on stage (again, this is all speculation) at the Springfield Civic Center Arena, now called the MassMutual Center - named after an insurance company, like all good rock venues.

The band kick off with a beautiful Sugaree, and the Matrix recording (above) strikes the perfect balance between crystal-clear music and excited crowd sounds. Straight away, the audience are having the time of their lives, and I hate them for that. Then it's time for a stunning Cassidy - say what you like about Donna Jean Godchaux (and Deadheads often do), but her harmonies with Bob Weir are gorgeous.

The next song is arguably the highlight of the show - the best version of Loser I've ever heard. The painfully slow tempo, that desperately low groove, Jerry Garcia's electrifying solo... perfection. When it comes to evoking the Old West, the Dead are up there with Sergio Leone - you can almost feel the dust on your skin. 

I won't mention every song, though I easily could. Let's skip to the phenomenal Scarlet Begonias, whose ka-ka-ka intro is one of the best ways to start any song (see also The Joker by the Steve Miller Band). The segue from the upbeat party sound of Scarlet Begonias into the spaced-out majesty of Fire On The Mountain is a thing of beauty.

After a break (and a round of America's favourite game, "Take a Step Back"), Keith Godchaux rolls his fingers down the keyboard into a transcendent Estimated Prophet, whose deep bass and unusual time signature envelop us entirely. 

Bertha is at once dancey and laid-back, a seemingly incongruous combination that characterises the Dead's unique style. This continues in the disco-inflected vibes of The Music Never Stopped - though no disco song ever started with the lyric "there's mosquitos on the river."

Then comes the centrepiece of this second set - Help On The Way > Slipknot! > Franklin's Tower. The rhythm section drives this mini musical journey, from the locomotive effect of Bill Kreutzmann and Mickey Hart's drumming, to Phil Lesh's basslines winding all over the place but somehow holding the whole thing together.

The show rocks to a close, ending with One More Saturday Night as an encore (it was a Saturday - stop me if I'm getting too technical here). It's a song that shows the Dead's ability to cease their psychedelic jamming and a deliver punchy rock 'n' roll number. 

1977 is generally considered the peak of the Dead's powers, moving so effortlessly between psyched-out jazz, cowboy songs and sometimes even rock music. Whatever it is, they make it look easy - and on more drugs than Rob Ford at a disco. Most people that high would struggle to even find their guitars, but the Grateful Dead played the roof off theatres every night.

Festival Time Part II: Kanye Believe It?

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is Glastonbury. Again.

Last year, I wrote a blog on the Glastonbury telecoms festival, and how furious everyone was about Metallica headlining. Well, they'll be pleased by the announcement that this year, the headliner is none other than God's Vessel himself, Kanye West. So everyone's happy. What's that? They're not?

Oh, apparently there's another petition, this time to stop Kanye West - ordinarily something I'd gladly get behind. But I'm baffled by the illogic of buying (very expensive) tickets for an unknown lineup, and then complaining when it's announced. You might as well get angry about a tombola prize. "Radox?! Fuck off."

I'll shut up now, because I'm boring myself. The point is - and this may come as a shock - you don't have to go to Glastonbury. And you certainly don't get to pick the lineup. If you can't accept that, then maybe a festival isn't for you. What you want is a Mumford & Sons gig.

Everybody's Got A Thing

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is advert music.

Believe it or not, the worst thing about adverts isn't the nauseating sentimentality. Nor is it banks pretending to be our friends. It isn't even the exploitation of human tragedy for corporate gain. The worst thing about adverts, it turns out, is the music. Here are three examples:

1. 

This VW ad embodies everything that's wrong with adverts; it's twee, it makes no sense (Woofwagen??) and it features the worst song ever written. Never before have I felt such a strong urge to beat a singing man to death with his own guitar. Me and you, just bleeding from the brain / me and you in agonising pain.

2. 

Here's my impression of a lazy advertising person: "Let's just use another soulless cover of a recognisable song *snort*." Speaking of cocaine, it's hard to miss the point of Kiss. Smirnoff, however, have managed to do so in spectacular fashion, with this hopelessly drippy cover of Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Crazy Nights; a song essentially about having crazy nights. Apparently advertising people's idea of a crazy night is sunsets and confetti. A crazy night with Kiss is more a case of: "How am I going to get home?"

3.

Using the most commercial rock band in the world to sell alcohol (or ALCOHAAAWWWWLLL as Paul Stanley would say) is one thing; exploiting '70s funk is another matter entirely. Funkadelic's I Got a Thing, You Got a Thing,  Everybody's Got a Thing is about overcoming our differences to help one another; Levi's version is about selling jeans made in sweatshops. Everybody's got a thing, and my thing is a burning desire to kill those responsible for this ad-rock cover of a song I love.

Tools of the Trade

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is people with two first names.

You've seen them, hogging all the first names while some poor bastards (like Tempestt Bledsoe) don't even have one. Look at David Cameron. Go on, I dare you. He struts around with more than his fair share, while others have nothing. Right guys?

But for once I'm not going to just whinge without offering a solution. I'm not Russell Brand. I'm proposing a Swap Shop style system, mercifully without the involvement of Noel Edmonds, who only has one first name but that's still one more than he deserves.

Under my groovy new collectivist system, someone with two first names could trade with somebody in need. For example, David Cameron and Tempestt Bledsoe could swap. So she's Cameron Bledsoe (and we know Cameron can be a girl's name because of Cameron Diaz) and he's David Tempestt, making him infinitely more electable.

My friend Harry Graham, the first name-hogging idiot, could swap with CNN host Wolf Blitzer. So he'd be Harry Wolf or Harry Blitzer (I'll ask him which he'd prefer). That would make the news anchor Graham Wolf or Graham Blitzer - both of which sound much more like the respectable name of a serious journalist, rather than a Power Ranger.

And I know what you're thinking - what about Ron Howard and his brother, the actor Clint Howard? Why should they be punished? What if they want to keep the familial link of the Howard name? Well, I admire your support for the Howard family, but I've thought of that.

The solution to the Howard Question, as it's known, lies between Channing Tatum and Stockard Channing. If Clint Howard trades with Channing Tatum, they can be Clint Channing and Howard Tatum, respectively. Then Ron Howard can swap with Stockard Channing, making them Howard Channing and Ron Stockard. 

Voila - Clint and Howard Channing keep their family connection, and Howard Tatum is a pretty good name for the Foxcatcher star. Everyone's happy - apart from Ron Stockard, but she can tell people it's short for Rhonda or whatever.

Now, who has Wolf Blitzer's phone number?

Spotify My Soul

There are only three things in the world that I hate, and one of them is Spotify.

If the Ohio Players had wanted a string of unlistenable adverts played after every two tracks of their Live 1977 album, they'd have put them in - like Will.i.am or Jay-Z. Nothing ruins an album like a whiney Christmas advert or some prick telling me how much I need a phone that doubles as a hipster beard trimmer. Spotify will gleefully interrupt my '70s funk to play me some contemporary bullshit which it insists is incredible, despite the audible evidence to the contrary.

Why not just turn down the volume? Because Spotify is very clever and pauses the adverts when you mute them - they know when you're not paying enough attention, like the telescreens in 1984. Why not just take out your headphones? Because then I don't know when the advert's finished and end up missing the first 15 seconds of Sweet Sticky Thing - it's easy to overestimate the length of the adverts, because when you hear them they seem to go on for ever.

An album is a piece of art - unless it's Jake Bugg, obviously. You wouldn't draw a McDonalds logo on a Turner painting, or try to sneak a PC World advert into a Jane Austen novel - "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a tablet that can replace your laptop." 

I understand that Spotify is a business and it's free to use, using the absence of adverts as a tantalising incentive to pay for a subscription. But the sheer frequency of the adverts, coupled with this unnecessary telescreen technology, suggests that Spotify doesn't really care about music - it cares about selling you expensive crap you don't need.

If this is in any doubt, look at this picture - Spotify have helpfully compiled a playlist of all your favourite songs from adverts. It's one thing to subtly use advertising to fund your passionate project, it's another to force adverts down our throats disguised as art. But the big question is - who listens to that?!

Probably quite a lot of people, which is extremely depressing. The John Lewis advert that I've not seen but is definitely awful was released alongside a penguin toy that cost £95 - and sold out in under 24 hours. And as for that Sainsbury's advert - sticking a corporate logo on the end of a completely irrelevant film about World War I is all kinds of wrong.

But I digress. If you're on Spotify, you can listen to loads of great stuff. You can listen to a Grateful Dead show from 1966, or Blind Melon's first two albums, or a Grateful Dead show from 1973, or James Brown Live at the Apollo, or a Grateful Dead show from 1982. But no. You're listening to the music off of adverts. I hope you have a terrible Christmas. 

Drum-A-Mania

As you know, I love everything in the world, with the exception of three things. One of those things that I love is drum solos (of the 1950s).

Foolishly extending my trilogy of blogs about drumming into a trilogy of four, here (in chronological order) are my top 5 drum solos of the 1950s.

1. Drum Boogie - Gene Krupa 1952

Gene Krupa was really the first super-star drummer, who brought the drums from their traditional time-keeping role and into the limelight as a solo instrument. This solo at the end of Drum Boogie, from 1952's Drum Battle at JATP, captures his extraordinary energy. It's his poor old snare I feel sorry for. 

2. Buddy's Blues - Buddy Rich 1955

Buddy Rich and Gene Krupa would famously play drum battles, but they were ultimately pointless because it was impossible to work out who had won. Together, they recorded the album Krupa & Rich in 1955, featuring this unbelievably fast solo from Rich. Buddy's Blues sounds like the work of a drummer with way more than 4 limbs.

3. Oscalypso - Art Blakey 1957

From his 1957 album Drum Suite, Art Blakey's Oscalypso is an irresistibly elusive piece of music. Exotic rhythms combine with twanging guitars to create a strange and immersive atmosphere. The recording was originally intended as a run-through, but Blakey ended up using it on the record. And you can see why.

4. Drum-A-Mania - Jack Costanzo 1958

The great bongo player Jack Costanzo, AKA Mr. Bongo, is now 95 years old and cooler than anyone you know, young or old. He closes his 1958 album Latin Fever with Drum-A-Mania, a blistering two-minute bongo solo. And by blistering, I mean seriously, get that man some Savlon.

5. Take Five - The Dave Brubeck Quartet (Joe Morello) 1959

Take Five, from Dave Brubeck's 1959 album Time Out, is known for its fantastic 5/4 time signature, catchy piano hook and cool sax melody. Not only is it one of the greatest jazz pieces ever written, it features an unpredictably choppy drum solo from Joe Morello. I don't have a joke to end on. It's just a great song.