The Residents—The Tunes of Two Cities

The Residents—The Tunes of Two Cities

The Tunes of Two Cities—It is fitting that the Residents would not choose to make a traditional sequel to Mark of the Mole. They are not a transparent band, and Mole was not a clear-cut work. The follow-up is titled in respect to the Charles Dickens novel: The Tunes of Two Cities, which ironically is less of a recounting and more of a repository.

Tunes does actually satisfying the most burning question that Mole raised: What were the two cultures like before fate forever fused them? Mole did offer a portrait of Mole society, but it left much to the imagination, and Chubs were barely defined, existing primarily as villains. Tunes has a Chub right on the cover, and it's just as unflattering; he or she wears a Mole puppet that looks the same as the one on Mark of the Mole, which suggests the interesting implication that Mole was something akin to a stage show. This could be a somatic reference, as the Residents would kick off the ill-fated "Mole Show" around this time, which was topically successful but a logistical nightmare.

The liner notes explain, "The Tunes of Two Cities [...] is a documentation of the music of these two cultures as they were before fate threw them into turmoil. The tracks on this disc alternate between societies [...] making its point, not just by what is said... but by the listener's willingness to understand the globe-wrenching power of 'difference,'" implying that the Chubs are not necessarily malefactors, and that conclusions about the two peoples can be drawn a posteriori. Tunes must be analyzed in the larger context of its fiction, especially considering its songs are largely instrumental. Most of the Chub songs are styled like big band, jazz, and swing numbers or are outright adaptations of them. This music was sometimes seen in its time as a novelty: simple dance music enjoyed by the masses. The Moles' music is not crafted into songs per se, and echoes Mark of the Mole with dark, percussive noise and devotional-type chanting.

The song titles for the Mole pieces are vital to understanding the ideas, while the Chub song titles only serve to confuse. "God of Darkness" and "Praise for the Curse" are Mole hymns, while the other songs suggest tribal inclinations or rural life. The Chub titles are seemingly irreverent, such as "Smack Your Lips (Clap Your Teeth)" (which is "In the Mood" by Glenn Miller). The last two Chub songs break the cycle: "Song of the Wild" sounds like a blend of the two cultural styles, and "Happy Home," bearing the parenthetical text "Excerpt from Act II of 'Innisfree,'" takes a cue from the opening to Mark of the Mole and turns it into an ominous, lurching requiem.

The connotation seems to be that although the Moles and Chubs are wildly different, there is enough common ground to indicate the two can live in peace. This is supported by The Big Bubble (1985), whose story in the Residents' words says that several decades after the war in Mark of the Mole, some Moles and Chubs had blended socially and mixed marriages were common. The logical conclusion between this and the existence of the Mole Show seems to be that Mark of the Mole was, in fact, a theater production and not a first-hand account. If the phrase spoken in "Happy Home" is of Chub origin, and the song existed before the events of Mole (to reiterate: "the music of these two cultures as they were before"), it means this phrase was appended to the Mole production. It follows that this might cast doubt on the verity of Mark of the Mole, but the bias must reasonably come from a Mole-sympathizing Chub or a mixed-race individual.

Regarding the music outside the context of the saga, the Residents turn in a memorable performance. The sampling keyboard is used to great effect, as the noises produced by it sound more environmental than they do digital, adding atmosphere to a record that is dissonant by nature. The Mole songs are certainly the highlights, aside from the Chubs' inspired "Song of the Wild" and the at least engaging "Happy Home." It is understandable that there are four cheesy Chub tunes to even out the set, but for the listener, the point is made with just one or two; however, they are brief enough that they do not detract from the experience too greatly. The Tunes of Two Cities and its ensuing tour turned out to be near-doom for the Residents, but it is a good listen and a welcome addition to the Mole trilogy.

The Residents—Mark of the Mole

The Residents—Mark of the Mole

Mark of the Mole—Ambitious projects have fickle natures. The essence of the avant-garde poses more problems for the persistent artist, as the ability to furnish one's work is often reliant on the overall appeal of it all. The Residents have always been uncompromising, even subversive, titling their latest LP in 1980 "The Commercial Album." Until that point, the group always worked within the confines of a single production, even if the idea was grand. Their numerous albums and the scrapped Vileness Fats were all more or less self-contained. Eskimo (1979) was a challenging effort, but not a massive undertaking—then came Mark of the Mole.

The Residents are not primarily a touring band, which is not surprising, given the principles of the collective. The eyeball costumes first conceived for the cover of Eskimo gave them an approach to stage performance that allowed concealment of their identities while maintaining a certain other physiognomy. Their true intentions are not known, but Mole may not have begun life as a grandiose performance act; it was not until its follow-up The Tunes of Two Cities that the band commenced its supporting tour, "The Mole Show." It was either intended to be the first of any number of "Mole" albums (sources vary as to this quantity) or was just a single item that the Residents later decided to expand upon. Most agree that it was intended as a trilogy; The Big Bubble (1985) purported to be "Part Four of the Mole Trilogy," but this may have been a simple joke after the eventual failure of the Mole Show.

Mark of the Mole is the story of the Moles and the Chubs, who are forced to live together in the land of the Chubs when endless rain drives the Moles from their own. It is possible the catalyst for this story was something that happened to the Residents¹ or any number of existing works,² but Mole is generally treated as a pure fiction. The foreboding "Voices of the Air" seems to correspond to the abstract art on the album cover: the Moles live in a craggy underground society, suddenly unusually cloudy and breezy according to Penn Jillette's narration given in the form of a radio broadcast. "The Pit" is about to be overcome by heavy rain, which proves to be "The Ultimate Disaster." The Moles only wish to toil, worshiping darkness and a god that is referred to in related media as "Disposer." The Residents' music here is rhythmic, understated, and tribal, reflecting a rustic society. The Moles relish an uneasy calm, but as sirens and rushing water begin to be heard, they lament their impending exodus.

The unnamed speaking Mole appears to prophesy and channel his god, with a sinister voice superimposed over his words. He and the Moles conclude that there is salvation by the sea, and the chaos fades out and calmly back in as "Migration." The Moles are optimistic as they march; the music is subdued, but from a relative view this is to be taken as buoyant and cheery. The listener is introduced to the "Observer" character, who is never explicitly mentioned before or after this point. He states that the Moles move at night, and also alludes to a previous time of strife. The Moles eventually make it to "Another Land," when the Chubs speak for the first time. They seem to have only a vague understanding of whence the Moles come and see in them low-cost labor, looking to exploit their propensity to work tirelessly. The music that comes with the Chubs is uncharacteristic of their "cheap thrills" society and more reflects their sinister nature in the eyes of the Moles. The Moles line up for work and not all are given employment, suggesting overpopulation in the newly-integrated society.

Conditions seem to have stabilized as "The New Machine" begins. An engineer, who is a Mole or at least a sympathizer, proclaims he will build a "great machine" that will release the Moles from their effective slavery. The Chubs meanwhile whip themselves into a frenzy over paranoid claims that the Moles will overrun their society and "steal [their] daughters." The engineer initially fails, but with great perseverance completes his machine. This incites an uprising as he had hoped, and the Chubs jeer the Moles bitterly. The Moles are more reserved in their response to the conflict, but "The Final Confrontation" nonetheless develops. The brief conflict is represented by dissonant noise and synthesizer-sirens, eventually culminating in a wash of screams and earthen croaking. The coda is plodding and peaceful by comparison, yet tense and haunting. The liner notes to The Big Bubble indicate that the war did not end with a definite victor.

Mark of the Mole certainly comes out of left field, but it is a compelling and surprisingly relatable story. It is unmusical, but there is a genuine sense of the Moles' culture in what music does exist, and the soundscapes illustrate well the environmental conditions and settings. The lyrics and spoken words do not always clearly indicate their meanings, but the rest of the package usually gives enough context to infer the feelings and story cues. The climactic but uncertain resolution of the story and the promise of a rich, larger world leave the listener wanting more, and the grotesque characters somehow invoke compassion.

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1 residents.com/historical4/mole/page3/page3.php^↩
2 gio80.com/mark-of-the-mole^↩

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds—Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds—Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus

Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus—An artist that has been around for twenty-five years has probably already hit his or her peak. Even if they put out a particularly ambitious record, the work is generally relegated with bromide. Nick Cave has always had the advantage of not fitting into any particular musical world. His albums have never been held against an immutable benchmark like Exile in Guyville, Horses, or London Calling. It's rare to hear someone say, "He'll never make another Tender Prey," and maybe that's because Cave never made that perfect record in twenty-five years of service.

Twentieth-century Nick Cave was a mercurial being; each Bad Seeds record was its own beast right up until The Boatman's Call (1997), which read like a confessional. Often considered his best work, Cave took a left turn and wrote twelve deeply personal, affecting hymns and dirges as notable in their sincerity as they are in the absence of obscenity. He followed it up with No More Shall We Part (2001), a wintry but often cordial work that was a logical progression from its predecessor. That was unique for Cave and the Bad Seeds: for better or for worse, they never repeated a formula across consecutive albums. The diminished presence of Blixa Bargeld was becoming conspicuous as the band was beginning to sound less Einstürzende Neubauten and more like a church choir—or a Christian rock band, as they theoretically were at times. There was the return to straight rock of Nocturama (2003), but the material on that was less than captivating, and perhaps for these reasons, Bargeld decided to amicably separate from the Bad Seeds.

Bargeld, a founding member of the Bad Seeds, was certainly not expendable. His guitar work and other unique instrumentation made an irreplaceable impact on the Bad Seeds' first nine records. At the same time, the idiosyncrasies of the musical relationship between Bargeld and Cave had begun to hold back the evolution of the band. If there is one thing that Blixa Bargeld tends to resist in his music, it is beauty, and while this is not a bad thing in and of itself, the Bad Seeds were failing to sprout. Cave, having met the apparent love of his life in model Susie Bick, wanted everything to do with beauty in his art.

Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus marked the point at which Warren Ellis became the engine of the Bad Seeds. Bargeld largely stuck to the electric guitar and chose to make his ideas heard through that instrument and special effects; Ellis brought a vestigial quality to the band, playing the violin, accordion, and on this album the flute, mandolin, and bouzouki. On the surface, Abattoir does not sound terribly different from Nocturama, which is not surprising: the Bad Seeds' rhythm section remained the same, as did producer Nick Launay, who often chooses to mix Casey, Sclavunos, and Wydler in front of the rest. "Get Ready for Love" exemplifies this, blasting through the kingdom of Heaven: the bastard child of "Nobody's Baby Now" and "God Is in the House".

"Cannibal's Hymn" showcases the new Nick Cave, not gripping the wheel so tightly but retaining his knack for the bawdy metaphor, here one of his best. Cave paints an indecent picture of sirens swimming with sharks, watching each party marinate in merrymaking. He refers to himself with a key allegory: "a bird on a fence," after Cave declared he was resurrected as the "Black Crow King" back on The Firstborn Is Dead (1985). "Hiding All Away" is a hidden treasure, not impressing on the first few listens but eventually delighting with its subversively churlish limerick; Cave waxes prophetic, claiming "There is a war comin'." "Messiah Ward" echoes "People Ain't No Good" and "Where Do We Go Now but Nowhere?", in which he mentioned "[his] future wife," perhaps demonstrating that Cave does indeed possess formidable foresight. Ironically, "There She Goes, My Beautiful World" has less to do with his muse and more to do with a "TV Party"-esque breakdown of the fates of various authors, with the curiously incorrect "Johnny Thunders was half alive when he wrote 'Chinese Rocks.'"

Nick Cave once reportedly said that "any true love song is a song for God," but it's hard to imagine that Abattoir Blues' best song "Nature Boy" is a paean to God when Cave sings, "I was having thoughts that were not in my best interest to mention". "Abattoir Blues" is the Vonnegut-flavored counterpart to "Hiding All Away", hinting at an overall concept that suggests Cave's movement away from literature independent from the Holy Bible. "Let the Bells Ring" is his tribute to the recently-deceased Johnny Cash, a Cave idol and occasional collaborator, while "Fable of the Brown Ape" is reportedly his song to Blixa Bargeld, though the connection is unclear. Whatever the case, it marks the change in tone to the Lyre of Orpheus album, kicking off with title song "The Lyre of Orpheus," a modified version of an actual myth.

"Breathless" is a different spin on "Get Ready for Love," guided gently by the whimsical flute-playing of Warren Ellis. It flows naturally into "Babe, You Turn Me On," a more stripped-down affair with Cave providing "atom bomb" sound effects. "Easy Money" is a dense, rainy lament that suggests Let Love In; "Supernaturally" recalls these subjects and also those from the previous half of the album. It, "Spell," and "Carry Me" probably form the weakest segment of the set—The Lyre of Orpheus itself is certainly the lesser of the two albums, but even at its worst, it's refreshing to see Cave and the Bad Seeds able to crank out songs prolifically. "Quality over quantity" is normally a preferable approach in anything, but for Nick Cave, dispersing his designs more broadly actually allows the Bad Seeds to flourish; the advent of Abattoir/Orpheus has turned them into a more complete band rather than unilaterally submitting to the atmosphere of the music. When they need to, they can still do that, and it ends up making those songs even stronger due to dynamics: even the weaker songs here make the characters on The Good Son (1999) seem like cardboard cutouts.

"O Children" is not one of these weaker songs, and in fact may be the best or at least within striking distance. It featured in the seventh Harry Potter film, which is in truth not a bad fit, and a rare notable Cave appearance not involving "Red Right Hand." It has remained one of the Bad Seeds' mainstays over the years beyond its own supporting tour. Its all-girl backing vocal, trudging drums, and ethereal guitar help make it one of the best songs they've ever done.

Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus was a make-or-break record. If it turned out to be an hour-plus of Nocturama, it could have been a disaster for Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. As it is, it ranks among other latter-day resurgences like Rust Never Sleeps. Is it that perfect record that eluded the band for so many years? Probably not, but double albums are rarely flawless, and Abattoir simply stands as an effort with a plethora of prime material, great to listen to at any volume, and a sign that there is life after death for a man obsessed with divine matters.

Frank Zappa—Lumpy Gravy (1967 version)

Frank Zappa—Lumpy Gravy (original 1967 release)

Lumpy Gravy—The canon of Frank Zappa is immense. Among his works, there exist pieces that are perhaps more important than others in the grand scheme of things. Many of his recordings originally stemmed from older compositions and took on lives of their own. One of these such compositions is the symphonic performance Lumpy Gravy. It is important to note that there are two discrete versions of the album. The most well-known incarnation today is the 1968 release, which is constructed in a similar manner to the preceding We're Only in It for the Money (1967), but with a more experimental bent. It is a mix of varied instrumentals and edited parts of the "piano-dweller" sound bites:

"One day I decided to stuff a pair of U-87's in the piano, cover it with a heavy drape, put a sand bag on the sustain pedal and invite anybody in the vicinity to stick their head inside and ramble incoherently about the various topics I would suggest to them via the studio talk-back system [...] what emerged from the texts was a vague plot regarding pigs and ponies, threatening the lives of characters who inhabit a large piano." —Frank Zappa, liner notes of Civilization Phaze III

The other Lumpy Gravy is an orchestral work that was composed and conducted by Zappa under the Capitol label after the release of Absolutely Free (1967), but quickly pulled after a lawsuit from Zappa's regular label, MGM. This article pertains to the original Lumpy Gravy. Though they each contain much of the same music, they are distinct works with differing intentions. Lumpy Gravy is tracked with nine movements totaling a brisk 22:37. It stands as its own article, but it can also be thought of historically as the focal point of three Frank Zappa works: the soundtrack to the film The World's Greatest Sinner, "Oh No," and "King Kong."

"Oh No" is a song that exists all over Zappa's discography in various forms both vocal and instrumental. It appears here in its earliest recordings, quoted and played throughout the album. During the same time period, the Fraternity of Man released the first vocal version on their debut LP. The World's Greatest Sinner was a 1962 film for which Zappa composed the score; parts of it are played here by the "Abnuceals Emuukha Electric Symphony Orchestra," a rag-tag group of musicians commissioned for the album, some of who would later play on Orchestral Favorites (1975). "King Kong" is heard here as part of "Foamy Soaky" along with a variation on "A Pound for a Brown on the Bus." Both of these would appear in their most essential forms on Uncle Meat (1969), which itself was conceived as the soundtrack to a movie of the same name. The Uncle Meat movie would not be released until 1987.

The Lumpy Gravy of 1967 is very different than the rest of Zappa's output during that period. It is likely that Zappa was enthusiastic about the opportunity, as he was known to have been composing since age 14 under the influence of Stravinsky and Varèse. It is a compelling performance, especially for a first effort, although Zappa himself did not play in it. The 1968 Lumpy Gravy may have more relevance to the overall progression of popular music and to Zappa's own oeuvre, the original work is equally a joy to hear.

This once-rare original recording of Lumpy Gravy can be heard as an 8-track tape or as part of The Lumpy Money Project/Object (2009).

The Mothers of Invention—We're Only in It for the Money

The Mothers of Invention—We're Only in It for the Money, seen here with Frank Zappa's intended front cover artwork

We're Only in It for the Money—When people think back on groups that rivaled the Beatles, the usual nominees are the Rolling Stones or the Beach Boys, but it was possibly the Mothers of Invention with whom they had the most direct rapport. Freak Out! (1966) was, by most accounts, the impetus for Paul McCartney to form the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band concept, but at the time of that album's release, Mothers bandleader Frank Zappa was less enthusiastic in return:

"I got the impression from what was going on at the time that they were only in it for the money—and that was a pretty unpopular view to hold." —Frank Zappa, 1987 interview with Rolling Stone

The Mothers of Invention were generally sold as a band, but this was purely nominative: their first two albums and Zappa's debut solo LP included a total of one song between the three not composed solely by Zappa. Freak Out! was one of the first rock concept albums and featured doo-wop, a smidgen of protest music, and experimental music that predated the contemporary Velvet Underground by almost a year. Absolutely Free (1967) was less pointed but continued Zappa's social commentary while mixing in Stravinsky-inspired themes. Lumpy Gravy (1967) was a different beast. That album was first recorded by Zappa and the "Abnuceals Emuukha Electric Symphony Orchestra," but later the same year Zappa took the recording and spliced with it sound bites of various band members and guests speaking near a grand piano, which was causing its strings to resonate.

During those recording sessions, the Mothers were recording material that would eventually span four LPs (We're Only in It for the Money, Cruising with Ruben & the Jets, and the double album Uncle Meat) and parts of others (Burnt Weeny Sandwich and Weasels Ripped My Flesh). Their output during this period was created with "No Commercial Potential" in mind, a loose concept referencing the notion that Zappa and the Mothers' music was not considered radio-friendly or bankable. Money was the first release in this series. The original vinyl record featured a photograph of the Mothers as transvestites on the cover with Zappa's planned artwork as the inner lining: a pastiche parodic of Sgt. Pepper that was shot down in fear of scandal.

Money is an uncommon album for just how many configurations have been released over the years. Upon its release, many songs were censored in places, all of it in varying degrees across international releases and widespread misprints. Musically, there are basically three distinct versions. There are the original mono and stereo mixes, which are not vastly different from one another but do feature some noticeable alterations beyond the number of audio channels. These are the versions likely to be heard on a modern Money CD and collectively constitute the widely preferred mix. There is also the original CD mix on which Zappa added newly-recorded rhythm sections, which is otherwise notable for featuring little to no censorship. The Lumpy Money Project/Object (2009) contains the mono mix and the CD remix but not the stereo mix among other relevant recordings. Inasmuch as these discrepancies go, all mixes have the same songs and are not fundamentally different compositions even if they sound very different to the ear.

"Are You Hung Up?" is a bizarre excerpt of Eric Clapton, engineer Gary Kellgren, and drummer Jimmy Carl Black speaking. "Who Needs the Peace Corps?" attacks hippies, while its counterpart "Concentration Moon" does the same to police. Zappa lets the listener know that no party is safe from scorn, here delivered in a crass, dull manner. What's important to note at this point is that Zappa's harmonies have become inviting compared to Absolutely Free and the non-doo wop portion of Freak Out! material. This makes the music welcome to hear even when the lyrics are not his most incisive. "Mom & Dad" continues Zappa's themes of "plastic people" in a more melancholy light.

"Bow Tie Daddy" does the same in a more gimmicky tone, preceded by a non sequitur "Telephone Conversation" and followed by "Harry, You're a Beast;" the miniature suite passively testifies against male entitlement. "What's the Ugliest Part of Your Body?" is a highlight, based around a paraprosdokian of sorts as the question's answer turns out to be "your mind." It is also one of the few numbers on the album with ties to doo-wop. A great piano interlude by Ian Underwood opens "Absolutely Free," which borrows its title from the Mothers' previous album and is as much a swipe against cheesy culture as it take-off on psychedelic, LSD-washed music. The same can be said of "Flower Punk," which uses "Hey Joe" as its basis while Zappa's myriad vocal overlays snipe the mindsets of people in popular music. "Hot Poop" is a short bout of noise that is more of Gary Kellgren ("the one doing all the creepy whispering" according to the liner notes) and an obscured missing verse from "Mother People" on side two.

"Nasal Retentive Calliope Music" begins the experimental side with more of "noted philosopher" Eric Clapton against a noise background ("an instrumental overture to a series of songs about people with strange personal habits") and a surf interspersion of "Heavies" by the Zappa-produced Rotations. "Let's Make the Water Turn Black" is one of the most accessible songs on Money by contrast, and also one of the only vocal songs that doesn't criticize American culture: the story of Ronnie and Kenny Williams (and Mothers saxophonist and road manager "Motorhead" Sherwood), who played in the Masters, an early 60s group. "The Idiot Bastard Son" continues this story at a slower pace with snippets of several speakers in the mix.

"Lonely Little Girl" was the only single from the album, clocking in at one minute counting a few sped-up fragments of other songs. "Take Your Clothes off When You Dance" has an obscure genesis, having been originally recorded in 1961 by Zappa in Cucamonga as an instrumental and here done as a near-singalong. "What's the Ugliest Part of Your Body? (Reprise)" is done here in basically the same way as on side one, but slightly mellower as the album comes to a close. "Mother People" is an updated Mothers anthem reminiscent of "Motherly Love" from Freak Out!; the orchestral interlude is a part of "Up & Down" from the original Lumpy Gravy. This piece would also be used on the renovated Lumpy Gravy as part of the "I Don't Know If I Can Go Through This Again" segment. This version would be released after Money, whose artwork shows a talk bubble above Zappa saying "Is this phase one of Lumpy Gravy?" "The Chrome Plated Megaphone of Destiny" is another piece of musique concrète that appears to be part of Zappa's series of tributes to Edgard Varèse (Zappa was a notorious fan and included a modified quote from Varèse in his albums' liner notes: "The present day composer refuses to die!").

It is difficult to discuss any of Frank Zappa's work without the larger scope of his immense discography and his life in general. We're Only in It for the Money is no exception. It sits at a crossroads for the Mothers, who would go on to perform and record a lot of material that would not appear on contemporary Mothers releases; the following two albums were recorded alongside Money and the two after that are put together from miscellaneous recordings. Zappa said of "No Commercial Potential" that "It's all one album. All the material [...] is organically related" and, indeed, the four are very close in their impressions. Money and the second Lumpy Gravy are also part of a different continuity that involves Zappa's final work during his lifetime, Civilization Phaze III. Despite this, We're Only in It for the Money is the most cohesive of the Mothers' albums, with a simple sound that masks dense material. Its cultural relevance has faded somewhat, but it is still an important and forward-thinking record, which is why it was selected in 2005 to be part of the United States National Recording Registry. Its music is not for everyone, but it is nonetheless a fascinating piece of history and a work of genius.

Nick Lowe—Jesus of Cool

Nick Lowe—Jesus of Cool

Jesus of Cool—Pub rock was dying, and so would Rockpile. Co-leader Dave Edmunds would continue in the traditionalist rock and roll strain for a number of years, while principal songwriter Nick Lowe would make more adjustments to his approach. But in Rockpile's '70s heyday, the band's output would already exemplify these differences. Edmunds' albums featured some Edmunds/Lowe or Billy Bremner compositions but mostly consisted of rock and roll or country covers; Lowe's were almost all originals or written by contemporary musicians. Jesus of Cool, known in its U.S. incarnation as Pure Pop for Now People, lives up to its tongue-in-cheek title, delivering a litany of sarcastic but utterly joyful could-be, would-be hits.

Radar Records, a subsidiary of Warner, was founded in 1978; Nick Lowe had its first single, "(I Love the Sound of) Breaking Glass"/"They Called It Rock." He and his manager had jumped ship from Stiff, where Lowe had recorded that label's first single, "So It Goes"/"Heart of the City," and EP, Bowi. If it sounds like the confusion among labels and legal stipulations are petty, Lowe probably agreed. "Music for Money" explicitly attacks the commercialism in rock music of the time, as well as the excessive drug use and promiscuous sex in the scene. At first glance Lowe and his song appear to herald straight edge culture, but the tone suggests more of a simple observation. "(I Love the Sound of) Breaking Glass" is a delightful pop tune that is perhaps another nod to Low, after Bowi had already referenced David Bowie the previous year—though the booklets to The Doings (1999) and the 2008 reissue of Jesus of Cool stipulate respectively that Bowi title may have been the label's doing and that Lowe's "Breaking Glass" is "an ode to a trashed dressing room."

"Little Hitler" is a nuanced criticism that could be directed at any number of people or groups, but beyond that is quintessential Rockpile. Dave Edmunds delivers excellent backing vocals and country-inflected acoustic guitar underscored by Lowe's melodic bass lines. Friend, label mate, and frequent collaborator Elvis Costello would record "Two Little Hitlers" on the Lowe-produced Armed Forces later the same year. "Shake and Pop" is another criticism of the money-making aspects of the music scene, not technically included on the U.S. release but it does appear in the cleaner form of "They Called It Rock," which is done more in Edmunds' style than Lowe's. "Shake and Pop" ends up being the more effective of the two because the ragged instrumentation better paints the picture of Lowe's vision of music hell. "Tonight" is one of Lowe's trademark impish serenades and goes hand-in-hand with non-album single "American Squirm," which can be considered the bridge between Jesus of Cool and Labour of Lust (1979). That single would also feature Elvis Costello and (most of) the Attractions as his backing band; the B-side was Costello's "What's So Funny 'Bout (Peace, Love and Understanding", written by Lowe and originally recorded by Lowe's first band, Brinsley Schwarz.

"So It Goes" is the killer app here, a four-chord attack performed with such fire by Lowe and Rockpile that it's strange to think "Reelin' in the Years" by Steely Dan was its likely basis. Lyrically it is one of his most cerebral, based in the themes of Slaughterhouse-Five, while performance-wise he shows just how good he can be on the electric bass. "No Reason" is its low-key cousin, probably the plainest song on the album but still welcome for its organ-twinged groove. The influence of Jim Ford can be heard when compared to the following "36 Inches High." Lowe partially makes Ford's country original his own, presenting it as more of a peculiar, distorted march, which does seem to fit the subject matter. "Marie Provost" is the partially true story of silent film actress Marie Prevost and her death. It suffices to say that only Nick Lowe could turn a lurid, sorrowful account into an uplifting three-minute jewel.

Lowe seems to sum up his feelings on "Nutted by Reality," a good companion to "So It Goes" that reads like a quaint allegory. A live version of "Heart of the City" ends the original LP, which is probably not superior to its studio version but is by no means offensive. The U.S. release instead featured the latter, as well as "Rollers Show," seen variously as either a partial tribute to or a shot at the Bay City Rollers. It was a sequel of sorts to "Bay City Rollers, We Love You," Lowe's attempt to distance himself from his then-label.¹ Ironically, it became popular in Japan where the Rollers were held in high regard; "Rollers Show" was probably included on Pure Pop for Now People with similar hopes of it being a paradoxical hit.

"The Japanese kids who were all Rollers fans, they had no idea I was taking a rather sort of jaundiced view of their heroes, you know." —Nick Lowe, 2007 interview

A hit but not a hit, Jesus of Cool spent thirty years without a reissue outside the U.K. along with much of Nick Lowe's catalog. It was the crossroads between time-honored rock and roll, U.K. punk, and new wave, with Lowe being the central figure in much of what spawned these movements. But more importantly, the music is just plain terrific, and if there's a message to be heard here, it's a plain one—beyond the posturing and excess, the contracts and legal issues, the music itself is the important thing.

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1 http://dangerousminds.net/comments/bay_city_rollers_we_love_you_nick_lowes_secret_musical_love_letter^↩

Todd Rundgren—Something/Anything?

Todd Rundgren—Something/Anything?

Something/Anything?—A double album of pop music is almost a contradiction in terms. In the 1960s, an album was more of a brand than it was a work of art. Record companies teased the public with a 7" single and the promise that if they bought the album, they could expect more of the same. Many acts found that they could not produce enough quality music at one time to fill a long-player, a format which, at least initially, was more commonly used to compile existing recordings, such as that of an musical, live performance, or studio odds and ends. It wasn't until 1955 that multi-track recording was developed and 1957 that the mass production of stereo LPs became viable. That opened the door for technophiles like Todd Rundgren to enter the studio and have more complete control over the specifics that made it onto a record.

By the time Rundgren started recording Something/Anything? in 1971, he could do these things from the comfort of his home. He was afforded this luxury by his previous success as part of the bands Nazz and Runt, the latter of which was so heavily under his leadership that its two LPs (Runt and The Ballad of Todd Rundgren) are retroactively considered Rundgren solo albums. But when the term "solo album" is used, it usually means there were other musicians involved in the recording, if not the songwriting; Something/Anything? is the real deal, with Rundgren playing every instrument and producing the album himself—apart from side four, which was recorded with pick-up bands and features some covers.

Todd Rundgren is not someone who submits to ego concerns, admitting to being "pretty overbearing to deal with"¹ and prefers to mastermind his releases, though he would go back to using session musicians on many later efforts. He also lets his influences be known, as on the first song and premier single "I Saw the Light," echoing the previous year's "It's Too Late"/"I Feel the Earth Move" from Carole King's Tapestry. Recorded by Rundgren in "all of 20 minutes,"² it shows this in its simplicity but somehow transcends this in its humble arrangement, not daring the listener to find fault with it. "It Wouldn't Have Made Any Difference" is more nuanced in its chord changes and is a sparkling ballad that also impresses with its irregular vocal patterns. "Wolfman Jack" is an exhilarating tribute to the disc jockey of the same name, which upon its release as a single more than two years later was remixed with Wolfman Jack himself performing the opening lines. "Cold Morning Light" takes it down several notches to a pretty AM radio-flavored pop tune that could have fit alongside "The Ballad (Denny & Jean)." "It Takes Two to Tango (This Is for the Girls)" speaks for itself: a self-empowering seventh-chord anthem: typical musically for Rundgren. Side one—which it should be known the liner notes say is "A bouquet of ear-catching melodies"—closes out with the saccharine, downtempo organ crawl of "Sweeter Memories."

The second side ("This is the cerebral side") has arguably the most experimental material of the four. It is easy to miss the humor of "Intro" on first listen as Rundgren speaks about audible problems that arise during the processing of an album, challenging the listener to "find the sounds on the record." The following "Breathless" makes use of of these noises to create an instrumental jingle backed ironically with a breath track. "The Night the Carousel Burned Down" teeters on the possibility of being a real story ("My first movie score. Unfortunately, there is no movie to go with it."). "Saving Grace" and "Marlene" are more traditional than the rest of the side while the latter was probably most notable as the B-side to "I Saw the Light." "Song of the Viking" is a strange but welcome inclusion that is a faithful shanty possibly with some degree of metaphor. "I Went to the Mirror" closing out the first LP is the most drug-like song here, but also an interesting observation on fixating on smaller details ("In fact the last song is so cerebral it's almost embarrassing.").

"Black Maria" is one of the heavier and more involved songs in the set, with an almost-Led Zeppelin blues-rock sound to it (Side three: "The kid gets heavy."). "One More Day (No Word)" is a gem, styled like a romancero with an excellent arrangement ("... about people with all the time in the world. What a drag"). "Couldn't I Just Tell You" has been rightfully hailed as a power-pop classic, and Rundgren knew it ("The hits just keep on coming."). "Torch Song" is everything it purports to be. "Little Red Lights" is perhaps the least immediately appealing song cut for the album, but it is interesting in its method of construction meant to resemble a car changing gears.

Side four is "A Pop Operetta," "a series of songs with sing along choruses" designed to be spontaneous (if that makes sense). However, "Overture – My Roots: Money (That's What I Want)/Messin' with the Kid)" is actually a pair of 1966 live recordings by pre-Nazz Rundgren groups Money ("Performed by a group of the same name") and Woody's Truck Stop respectively. "Dust in the Wind" is future Utopia member Moogy Klingman's song and a solid one that stands tall with Rundgren's. "Piss Aaron" works despite its strange subject matter: high school students pissing in the halls and puking over egg sandwiches. "Hello It's Me," the most enduring song from Rundgren's catalog, dates back to Nazz when it was recorded as a stripped-down psychedelic tune. Here it's delivered with fuller instrumentation and female backing vocals, giving it new life.

On "Some Folks Is Even Whiter than Me" "the kid waxes jive and breaks into a message song a la New Tempts" and somehow comes out smelling like a rose: Rundgren's studied and earnest delivery offsets his overstepping his boundaries as always. "You Left Me Sore" is made better by the note from the booklet: "The company's new president [...] has convinced the kid to write a public service kind of message song to hip people to the dangers of V.D." A possible candidate for best song in the whole collection is "Slut," featuring Eddie Olmos on backing vocals; though demeaning at first blush, it is a first-rate horned-out rocker that channels the Rolling Stones without borrowing from them.

Something/Anything? is, at the very least, an assemblage of songs that's worth owning on quality alone. It is a rare double album with no bad cuts—some better or more striking than others, but dynamics are a good thing. But it's also a studio triumph, more impressing in its production than many modern records, and a fascinating piece of music history for its quirks. Todd Rundgren made plenty of music at this level or higher before and after, but this is his seminal work.

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1 Liner notes of The Ballad of Todd Rundgren, 1999 CD reissue^↩
2 http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/music/features/todd-rundgren-nothing-but-the-truth-6165625.html^↩

Tom Waits—Closing Time

Tom Waits—Closing Time

Closing Time—Before there was "Time," there was Closing Time. Today, Tom Waits is at once a Grammy winner and a cult figure, a duality demonstrable by the body of songs written by Waits but called to attention by others. Prolific singer Rod Stewart, Meat Loaf, and even Scarlett Johansson are three of many; fans of E Street Radio may hear "Jersey Girl" from the native, and those who watch all five seasons of The Wire will have heard five arrangements of "Way Down in the Hole." While Waits is far from the caliber of influence predecessor Bob Dylan holds, the point stands that one who ingests information media has very possibly heard Tom Waits. But back in 1973, Closing Time wasn't exactly a smash, not recognized until the likes of Tim Buckley (himself undervalued) and the Eagles took on its songs. Looking back, it's easy to see why they did: the songs are easy to pick up and play, yet they have a distinctive excellence that leaves musicians wondering how they didn't write them first.

It seems retrospectively logical that the band who would later write "Life in the Fast Lane" covered "Ol' '55." Waits' original begins the album on a gentle note, belying its amusing inspiration from a friend who had to drive in reverse on the Pasadena Freeway to get his underage date home.¹ Beyond that, the song perfectly places the listener in the driver's seat, watching the sun rise and the "stars beginning to fade." "I Hope That I Don't Fall in Love with You" seems a strange sentiment at first glance, but perfectly captures the fear that comes with falling in love, perhaps at first sight or perhaps just in theory. Its lines "I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me" and "I turn around to look at you/You're nowhere to be found/I search the place for your lost face/Guess I'll have another round" suggest that the source of his infatuation may be imaginary. It may be coincidence that the song is followed by the drunken regret of "Virginia Avenue," a theme that would be explored more explicitly on Small Change (1976) and parts of other releases.

"Old Shoes (& Picture Postcards)" is a song so perfect in its arrangement, naturally flowing and idyllic in atmosphere that it sounds like a standard, a tale of a breakup without remorse—for the author, at least. "Midnight Lullaby" is a modern twist on the old-time lullaby, spun more for a lover than a child, with a "Hush Little Baby" quote to boot. The side one closer "Martha" is the centerpiece, a dreamy, wistful piece where Waits refers to himself under a partial pseudonym. There is a stronger sense of the bittersweet here than anywhere else, probably because it seems to be the most personal of the album's songs. "Rosie" is the flip side of it, a lighter affair that suggests more a passing infatuation than longing. "Lonely" speaks to a mood rather than a particular thought, successfully attaining the image denoted by its title with its lack of accompaniment.

If there is any one point in Waits' early canon that forecast the Howlin' Wolf-inspired second phase of his career, it's "Ice Cream Man." While the performance is not exactly the long-lost cousin of "16 Shells from a Thirty-Ought-Six," his classicist euphemism echoing those of legendary bluesmen. "Little Trip to Heaven (On the Wings of Your Love)" is another classic, not impressing with its diminished-chord progression or its simple astronomical metaphors but the interplay between the two. "Grapefruit Moon" is heavy-heart nostalgia, functioning almost as a two-part conclusion with the instrumental "Closing Time" to sum up the feelings and concepts of the album while rounding out the jazz modality present throughout.

It's hard to say whether an artist like Tom Waits has a magnum opus when his discography is bursting with masterpieces or works that come very close. Closing Time is not his best or even his most consistent work, even if it would be considered those in most artists' catalogs. However, it is one of the best song-oriented works in all of popular music, being referred to as such only because of its seamless aggregate of rock, folk, and jazz. It's hard to say there's a work of music everyone could appreciate, but if there's any album that has a lot of universal appeal, it's Closing Time.

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1 Waits, VH1 Storytellers, 1999.^↩

Rolling Stones—Goats Head Soup

Rolling Stones—Goats Head Soup

Goats Head Soup—Is there such a thing as an obscure Rolling Stones record? As with the rest of the British Invasion, no one today really remembers their early records, but they do live on through the hits and non-album singles; to be sure, Goats Head Soup did have the sales and a hit, but so did everything else they put out. Even Steel Wheels (1989) had a top five hit in the US (Mixed Emotions), and the Stones' much-maligned period of 1980-1997 is notable in its failure. No one remembers the apparent mediocrity of Goats, just as people are more keen to remember Metal Machine Music than they are Berlin. Unfortunately, it happened to follow Exile on Main St. (1972) and a trio of nearly as beloved releases (Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, and Sticky Fingers). This doesn't affect the quality of any record that came before or after them, but it does explain why it was and still continues to be perceived as a platinum letdown.

Exile was always an aberration in the Stones' catalog. The Stones were never a concept-heavy band; while their albums almost always have a cohesive sound and production style, they never followed a central plot or recurring theme. When they released Exile, their most explicit love letter to Americana, it threw a lot of longtime listeners who had come to expect song-oriented records. Despite some initial apprehension, it would come to be considered a milestone. But when Goats Head Soup popped up the following year with ten gargantuan blues-rockers that turned the unpretentious "I Just Want to See His Face" on its head, Stones fans had partially forgotten the sound of its pre-Exile relatives.

"Dancing with Mr. D" is about as close to the macabre as the Rolling Stones ever went, but primarily it is filthy, riff-driven rock. It's the kind of song the band never quite seemed to want to make, probably because Black Sabbath was already doing it, but when Geezer Butler started writing "Changes" instead of "War Pigs," rock music suddenly had a vacancy where gloom was concerned. "100 Years Ago" is a forgotten classic and an uncharacteristically bright song that, if not for its arrangement, could have fit on a Badfinger LP. "Coming Down Again," at the time a rarity by virtue of its Keith Richards vocal, is an evocative, ragged ballad that is also peculiar in its personal leaning. Richards was never devoid of soul, having been a disciple of the likes of Muddy Waters, but this song revealed a different side of the Stones' leader that showed introspection and self-doubt.

"Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker)" today sounds cliched, and even for the time is not a gem. It is not surprising given the song's solid groove that it managed to chart in the United States, but it is a strange choice for a single, probably only having been chosen for the album's overall lack of marketable material. "Angie" is the real deal: the aforementioned international smash that preceded the album's release, and likely contributed also to the mixed reaction to the album when the rest of the songs didn't sound like it. "Silver Train," a slightly older work covered just prior to the release of Goats Head Soup by Johnny Winter, rivals anything from its closest ancestor Let It Bleed. "Hide Your Love" can best be described as a mellow barroom shuffle that somewhat makes up for a lack of originality with its inherent earnest charm (which can possibly be said about the album as a whole).

On an album where most songs exceed four minutes, "Winter" is the only one that is truly turgid, successfully shooting for ambiance but not character, which is an approach better left to other bands. The same can be said somewhat of "Can You Hear the Music," but it ends up being the more effective song because of its roots in psychedelia previously trod on Their Satanic Majesties Request. They sound more at home on the basis of familiarity, where "Winter" sounds like it was written for a movie. If there's any lingering melodrama by the end of the record, it's completely wiped out by the crass "Star Star," a quintessential mid-period Stones song and a plainly fun listen.

It's hard to defend a work that succeeds much in part due to pedigree, but some of the Rolling Stones' music is good just because they are who they are and even second-rate is better than others' best. Goats Head Soup fits that bill, but it's also home to songs that are better than "Happy" and a sound fuller than Some Girls. While it's not the band's secret best album, Goats is home to some excellent playing, unusually varied vocals by Mick Jagger, and unique elements—some ineffective, but still interesting—that would be a shame for any fan to miss.

Best song:           
Other picks:           

Dancing with Mr. D
100 Years Ago                         
Coming Down Again
Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker)
Angie                         

Silver Train                         
Hide Your Love
Winter
Can You Hear the Music
Star Star                         

Kendrick Lamar—To Pimp a Butterfly

Kendrick Lamar—To Pimp a Butterfly

To Pimp a Butterfly—It seems like an obvious record to make. Hip hop has long been a genre that, in its works' most soulful iterations, borrows greatly from monolithic black artists. In this respect, To Pimp a Butterfly (2015) is nothing new, although it is a voice for a new generation. Kendrick Lamar offers Miles Davis as an influence in the album's creation, which again comes as no surprise, but it is notable in the sense that Davis—who today is seen as a legendary figure in music—was once essentially in the same position as Kendrick. Their talents are different, but Kendrick's situation now is one where his body of work is starting to establish itself. He lived in the shadows of Dr. Dre, touring mates Game and Tech N9ne, and consecrated West Coast rapper 2Pac. It is then telling that Butterfly features marginal creative input from this particular cast in contrast to good kid, m.A.A.d city (2012), which showcased Dre and contemporaries Drake and Jay Rock.

This is not to say Butterfly doesn't have star power, but even the likes of George Clinton, Ronald Isley, and Snoop Dogg take backseats to Kendrick. Rival Kanye West welcomes collaboration and wears the notions of clout on his sleeve, but Kendrick eschews this with repeated visits to the idea of "misusing [one's] influence" as part of the larger poem around which the album's concept is based—and it is a concept album, no matter what anyone says. Given this framework, it is not surprising that, outside the sample of "Every Nigger Is a Star," the first voice heard on the album's opener "Wesley's Theory" is trumpeter Josef Leimberg (credits). Kendrick makes his intentions clear with a foreboding James Brown-twinged P-Funk groove, with the key phrase "Bridges burned all across the board" presenting the album's most vital professional statement. Dre's spoken verse backs this move under the guise of separation, which highlights the subversive nature of the record.

"For Free?" continues the onslaught of Kendrick's musical shifts, this time thanks to jazz pianist Robert Glasper. The former's message turns from personal to societal as he attacks American consumerism and wealth inequality before his motivations collude to form the single "King Kunta" as Kendrick's crosshairs turn to his contemporaries, taking his shot at a throne he insists was abdicated by the time he got there. His quip that "Something's in the water" perhaps unwittingly foreshadows the direction he takes on "Institutionalized" with the modulated vocals made famous by Prince. Its syncopated rhythms and seamless backing from Snoop Dogg and Bilal take the forefront as Kendrick's distorted raps echo the sentiments of the preceding songs, bringing together the slave imagery and wealth concerns but with the first hint of self-examination that continues throughout the album.

"These Walls" begins an artistic deconstruction for Kendrick; at times the metaphors are heavy-handed with Anna Wise (credits) interjecting the song's partial theme of sex. His lyrics become more nuanced as the song sloughs its dance trappings, a process mirrored on emotional centerpiece "u," a nervous breakdown set to music. What begins as a descent snaps in half as Kendrick's rapping turns to staggering lament. The much-celebrated piece, while conceptually strong with a Stevie Wonder-like break in the middle, suffers from an unnatural delivery in its second half and liquor glass sound effects that give it a degree of banality. "Alright" is perhaps the album's weakest song, being less inspired lyrically and introducing tired apologues that stick out unfavorably among Kendrick's more contemporary references. Recurrent collaborator Pharrell's production is bare and his hook is even less memorable. "For Sale?" is a better appropriation of the "Lucy" subject, which here is at least presented in a humorous light.

Kendrick begins to reconstruct his sound on "Momma," a strong hit of nostalgia with funk styling and an off-kilter beat, which exudes down-home charm and times of decades past in his life. "Hood Politics" suffers from a regressive, petty quality to its lyrics and forgettable music, with the exception of its third verse which makes interesting claims about the state of the rap game. However, it does nicely set up "How Much a Dollar Cost," which mixes solid hooks with a plodding beat and downcast semitones to make something greater than the sum of its parts. "Complexion (A Zulu Love)" adds a message of equality to the slave themes put forth on "King Kunta," but it must have been apparent that the music was becoming predictable around this point on the album, as those involved decided to sequence next the second single "The Blacker the Berry," The most aggressive, Public Enemy-influenced song on the album is also the most explicit in its depiction of black oppression, but with the added element of personal hypocrisy.

"You Ain't Gotta Lie (Momma Said)" is a forgettable reiteration of themes expounded better on "Wesley's Theory" and "King Kunta," but the penultimate song "i" (heard here in a live rendition; the single released in 2014 is a studio version) is a breath of fresh air. Its near-bubblegum guitar and backing vocals support a complete feeling-reversal of "u." The only real problem with the recording is commentary and questions posed by Kendrick after the song that are rather empty and even senseless ("I promised Dave I'd never use the phrase "fuck nigga"/He said, "Think about what you saying: 'Fuck niggas'").

Attempting to tie it all in is the twelve-minute "Mortal Man," a make-or-break summation that unfortunately falls flat. It relies too heavily on name-checks and meaningless jargon (Murphy’s law, Generation X, will I ever be your ex?). It's not altogether terrible, but what follows—a complete reading of the poem that is dispersed throughout the transitions between the album's songs—is mediocre, as its continuation at the very end. In between these accounts is a repurposed Tupac Shakur interview, which by Kendrick's involvement in the conversation reveals a less savory side of his ego. Though the points Shakur made in these statements are intermittently interesting, they are somewhat myopic and unflattering aside from his assertion that black men only seem to care about their struggle at a young age before losing their fire.

There is no denying Kendrick Lamar has taken a great step in his career with To Pimp a Butterfly. It's a meaty work that's lyrically dense and has some great pop, but it's also uneven. The most derivative tunes, while pleasing, don't build on the music that inspired it, and some songs don't attempt this at all. It will be interesting to see if Kendrick takes his foot back out of the water with his next album, as he did not seem fully committed to the new sound, and because of it a lot of songs that were already served tepid seem even more lifeless by comparison. Its best songs are excellent, but the series of flops that mostly plague the second half are exhausting. Most of all, it's a predictable record historically and artistically, and it shows: the best songs are the singles.

XTC—Skylarking

XTC—Skylarking, seen here with its official (but not original) artwork.

Skylarking—Rare is the album that hooks you in less than ten seconds. As the opener “Summer's Cauldron” creeps into audibility, the listener is instantly filled with sonic imagery perfectly encapsulated by the song's title. Its lyrics, washed with psychedelia but without the drug-addled anemia, perfectly paint a portrait of a summer's afternoon, perhaps too hot to handle but profound in its allure. It sets the tone for the album: gentle, flowing wordplay set to pleasing, layered music that only ventures from the tried-and-true when it's got something to say. It has understandably drawn comparisons in its time to the best pop records of the 1960s, sometimes bordering on accusatory in their notions of derivation. While Skylarking does owe a certain debt to Pet Sounds, Smiley Smile and the Beatles’ ‘65-’67 run (Rubber Soul, Revolver, and Sgt. Pepper), it builds on those works, the earlier XTC canon, and the evolving nature of the studio to make a seminal work.

Skylarking (1986) ostensibly follows The Big Express (1984), but it is better put in context between the band’s two Dukes of Stratosphear works, 25 O’Clock (1985) and Psionic Sunspot (1987). The former, oft-forgotten alongside other extracurricular band activities (think Foxboro Hot Tubs or Jamming with Edward!), is a more literal homage to the original wave of psychedelic rock, bordering on parody at times but delivered with an ultimately earnest love for the music and lyrical conventions of the time. XTC was never very overt with its displays of affection until that point, but neither 25 O’Clock nor Skylarking should come as a huge surprise from the band that bore English Settlement (1982) and especially Mummer (1983).
“Summer’s Cauldron” (written by de facto leader Andy Partridge) segues effortlessly into “Grass,” a then-high both musically and lyrically for bassist Colin Moulding. It can be considered a sequel of sorts to the more lilting Mummer songs, such as the pixie pop of “Wonderland” (Moulding) or the bardsong “Love on a Farmboy’s Wages” (Partridge), but what really sets “Grass” apart is the modest guitar lines and producer Todd Rundgren’s keyboard and orchestral arrangements, which perfectly underscore Moulding’s inspired melody and simple yet evocative lyrics.

The song is quickly countered by Moulding’s shimmering “The Meeting Place,” every part the equal of “Grass,” but with the album’s first thematic twists, however understated. The musical tones are still optimistic, but light percussion from Rundgren sideman Prairie Prince and the album’s first taste of dissent now affect the songcraft; a tale of clandestine meetings set the album’s opening two songs in relief. These trends continue on the discordant “That’s Really Super, Supergirl,” the album’s first real masterpiece. Partridge’s scathing dirge sees the band firing on all cylinders; the frontman’s masterfully-sung lyrics offer a comic-book parable of a disintegrating relationship, while Moulding’s bass lines kick into gear for the first time on the album to go along a memorable guitar solo and Rundgren’s excellent synth backing track.

These highs in performance continue on the mini-suite “Ballet for a Rainy Day/1000 Umbrellas.” The jangling guitars and syncopated rhythms of “Ballet” take a back seat to Partridge’s most adventurous wordplay before giving way to the string-heavy “1000 Umbrellas,” which will stand the test of time as one of his most impressive lyrical works (“the jesters will creep in to smack down the newly-crowned monarch of Misery;” “just when I thought that my vista was golden in hue/one thousand umbrellas opened to spoil the view”). The music continues to let loose on the expressive “Season Cycle,” the most loose and free pop piece on the album’s first side, before concluding with “Earn Enough for Us,” one of four singles, which does not fit well with the rest of side A but is nonetheless noteworthy in its craft.

The B side of the LP is expectedly more adventurous and less cohesive than side A, but is equally thoughtful and often reaches the highs established on the A side’s best compositions. “Big Day” is a cautionary tale from Moulding about the expectations of marriage set to minor-key progressions and spacy instrumentation that forecasts Partridge’s more dissonant “Another Satellite,” replete with Gregory’s wandering Chamberlin strokes. “Mermaid Smiled,” loosely connected to the songs that follow via its aquatic imagery, is about the closest the album gets to a weak song: a mildly thought-provoking lyric over uninspired guitar-playing and instrumentation. “The Man Who Sailed Around His Soul” does it better; Partridge’s lyrics are more focused and Rundgren’s horn arrangement turns an otherwise run-of-the-mill instrumental track into something more.

Moulding closes out the album proper with a pair of comparatively subdued pieces. “Dying” is a short vignette that flirts with the morbid in its depiction of a death scene with a sense of regret; “Sacrificial Bonfire,” with its authentic recording of a bonfire burning, is a deceptively strong song that ends the album on a note of change, echoing Moulding’s Mummer contributions in many ways, and bookmarks a record that ends and nearly begins with his voice.

Also of particular note is Partridge’s iconic “Dear God,” which began life as a non-album track, but has been appended to Skylarking on all pressings after the first. It ends the album on one release and replaces “Mermaid Smiled” or precedes “Dying” on others. It is possibly the group’s most well-known song, but is much more pointed than the rest of Skylarking despite being recorded at the same time. Its well-constructed but controversial lyrics mock and dispute the existence of God over minor-key arpeggios, and is a welcome addition at least musically if one does not care for its sentiments.

Skylarking is the best album from a band that had already put out a good deal of exceptional music. It is also an all-time great in the field of pop-rock, not having been topped since its release and rivalling or exceeding the classics that inspired it. It comes recommended to anyone with at least a passing interest in the relevant genres and is a glowing accomplishment for all involved in its recording.