Joy Division—Unknown Pleasures

Joy Division—Unknown Pleasures (1979)

Unknown Pleasures—Joy Division's singular debut was their third recording on their third label, which is the greatest testament to how hard it was to identify the band. The rejected full-length Warsaw and the self-released EP An Ideal for Living (1978) were promising in their own ways (though the former could not commercially be heard until 1994). The latter picked four fascism-fascinated songs from their repertoire and delivered them in fairly straightforward punk fashion, though the overall tone and production values gave them a bleak coloration from the beginning.

The band's rise is inextricably tied to the formation of Factory Records, an independent label formed in 1978 by television host Tony Wilson, actor Alan Erasmus, artist Peter Saville, and record producer Martin "Zero" Hannett. Joy Division joined the label soon after appearing on Wilson's music TV series So It Goes, and appeared on A Factory Sample (1978) along with The Durutti Column, John Dowie, and Cabaret Voltaire. They contribute the songs "Digital" and "Glass," which forecast the sound of their forthcoming album, Unknown Pleasures. Produced by Hannett (who until then was only known for producing the Buzzcocks' debut EP Spiral Scratch and some spoken word acts), the band's sound was now clearer and more pronounced, more drum-focused, and was characterized by many strange sound effects. "Glass," for example, featured a range of electronic noises and handclaps, neither of which were notable on their own, but made for a unique mix.

The album format also had the effect of focusing lead singer Ian Curtis' lyrical themes, which during their early phase were more integral to the song rather than the overall ambiance. That's not to say Unknown Pleasures is a marked concept album, but the shift from surface punk angst to the dark depression of songs like "Disorder" is stark. Accentuated by Peter Hook's melodic bass lines and surrounded by Hannett's phantasmal effects, Curtis sings one of his most well-known and characteristic verses: "I've been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand/Could these sensations make me feel the pleasures of a normal man/New sensations bear the insults, leave them for another day/I've got the spirit, lose the feeling, take the shock away." The eerie, shambling "Day of the Lords" paints a war-torn generation. The two songs form an effective one-two punch because they both descend into affecting, authentic catharses; with another band, "Disorder" might be too obscure and "Day of the Lords" might drag. The creeping dirge "Candidate" is a sinister representation of a relationship destroyed by an unwillingness to compromise. The pessimistic, dejected "Insight" is infused with various alarming noises that give it an apocalyptic feel, plus enigmatic electronic squeaking. The devilish "New Dawn Fades" is the album's climax: a flawed person's struggle that unfortunately turned out to be autobiographical.

"She's Lost Control," inspired by the epilepsy-related death of a girl whom Curtis had met at his day job (a condition he suffered from himself), is characterized by its harrowing, ritualistic mantra. The awesome "Shadowplay" is the album's most explosive song, with cutting guitar that perfectly complements Curtis' increasing pandemonium. "Wilderness" is the most thematically and sentimentally basic (as well as most repetitive) song on the album. The Naked Lunch-inspired "Interzone" is the only song in Joy Division's main canon where another member (Hook) sings lead, though Curtis can be heard answering in the background. The isolative abyss of "I Remember Nothing," replete with sounds of breaking glass and other curiosities, possibly represents best the surface idiosyncrasies of the band without exactly getting into self-parody—it's amusing to note that the Talking Heads song "The Overload," which attempted to capture Joy Division's purported sound without having actually heard it, sounds exactly like "I Remember Nothing."

Unknown Pleasures, and by extension Joy Division themselves, is an anomaly. It at once sounds muddled, like a debut might, and developed—the kind of sound only a band with experience can come up with. That can be explained by the avant-garde production of Martin Hannett and the fact that Pleasures wasn't technically their first album attempt, but it also speaks to the striking, visionary lyrics of Ian Curtis and the surprising proficiency of the band. The album occasionally borders on boring musically, but in its best moments, it's emotionally moving and tastefully literate. It bears a sympathetic tone that works paradoxically well with the power of its riffs and animalistic percussion, creating a sound that for many people defined U.K. post-punk, arguably establishing them as the movement's premier band.

Nick Cave—From Her to Eternity

Nick Cave—From Her to Eternity (1984)

From Her to Eternity—No band had as many meaningless name changes as Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. Nick Cave's original band was called "The Boys Next Door," which ran from 1973–78 when they mostly played covers. That name stuck up through the release of Door, Door (1979)–The Birthday Party (1980), after which they adopted "The Birthday Party" as their new name. In late 1983, the Birthday Party apparently broke up, though that's not true to what really happened. The only effective change in the band was the departure of guitarist Rowland S. Howard; core members Nick Cave and Mick Harvey remained, and the rest of the band went through no more dramatic changes than they did as the Birthday Party. At this time, they began going by the names "Nick Cave—Man or Myth?" (technically a solo act) and "Nick Cave and the Cavemen" before finally settling on "Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds." However, the resulting album from this period, From Her to Eternity, would be billed on the cover simply as the work of "Nick Cave."

In fairness, the name changes came with pointed shifts in style. Cave's raving, drug-fueled persona was toned down in favor of a more literary bent, signaled by a doomful cover of Leonard Cohen's poetic "Avalanche." The disquieting "Cabin Fever!" is a mad excursion through the mind of a tattooed, mutilated ship's captain. The dark threnody "Well of Misery" plays almost like a slave song. "From Her to Eternity," co-written by Anita Lane, is a claustrophobic account of a misguided tryst. Side B contains three songs recorded earlier in the band's formation: "Saint Huck" is a Delta blues gutted and turned inside-out, "Wings off Flies" is a blackly humorous soliloquy of twisted yearning, and the dirge "A Box for Black Paul" tells the tale of a man scorned upon his death with racial implications.

One might assume from their descriptions that From Her to Eternity is not much different than the work of the Birthday Party. The best way to describe it, really, is that there was logical evolution going on from Junkyard (1982) to Mutiny/The Bad Seed (1983) to From Her to Eternity. Junkyard still featured an erratic, outrageous edition of Cave and the Birthday Party; the Mutiny and Bad Seed EPs retained that surface style, but with tighter arrangements and less screaming, perhaps in part due to Rowland S. Howard—who was principal songwriter along with Cave—being forced out in favor of Blixa Bargeld of Einstürzende Neubauten. From Her to Eternity is equally steeped in lunacy, but with a greater emphasis on Cave's piano playing, suggestions of the American South (which would be further explored more explicitly by the band in coming years), and an overall roomier, live sound. As for its quality, Eternity is not the sort of record to listen to for blind pleasure. It's moody and psychologically oblique, and the arrangements and sound affects are almost wholly subordinate to the feelings associated with the lyrics. Coming from a different band, this set-up might be a recipe for overindulgence, but Eternity is just modest enough to carry weight.

More Nick Cave reviews by The Old Noise:

as The Boys Next Door/The Birthday Party:

Door, Door (1979)
The Birthday Party (1980)
Prayers on Fire (1981)

Junkyard (1982)

as Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds:

From Her to Eternity (1984)
The Firstborn Is Dead (1985)
Kicking Against the Pricks (1986)
Your Funeral... My Trial (1986)
Tender Prey (1988)
The Good Son (1990)
Henry's Dream (1992)
Live Seeds (1993)
Let Love In (1994)
Murder Ballads (1996)
The Boatman's Call (1997)
No More Shall We Part (2001)
Nocturama (2003)
Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus (2004)
Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!! (2008)
Push the Sky Away (2013)
Skeleton Tree (2016)

as Grinderman:

Grinderman (2007)
Grinderman 2 (2010)

David Bowie—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars

TO BE PLAYED AT MAXIMUM VOLUME

David Bowie—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)

The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars—The 1960s were when rock and roll started to get weird. With the advent of psychedelia, songs like "Hound Dog" and "Roll over Beethoven" were eclipsed by ones like "Burning of the Midnight Lamp" and "2000 Light Years from Home." As with the latter, outer space, space travel, and the notion of extraterrestrial life became hugely influential on popular music. Songs were written before, during, and after the Apollo 11 moon landing on July 20th, 1969, but none are more inextricably tied to it than David Bowie's "Space Oddity" released nine days prior. The worldwide hit, which remains one of his most enduring and beloved songs, put him on the map, but the album that followed had little to do with "Space Oddity" or space themes in general.

That album, David Bowie (1969), is sometimes referred to simply as Space Oddity both because of that song's notoriety and because Bowie's debut was also called David Bowie. Its themes were hazy, grotesque, and introspective. When focused, such as on "Memory of a Free Festival," they were often quite pastoral, seeming the opposite of spacey. On his following albums, Bowie would refine these sensibilities, first with the good The Man Who Sold the World (1970) and then the great Hunky Dory (1971). At this time, Bowie was producing new music at a an increasingly rapid pace. Most of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars was already written or recorded (ca. November 1971) before Hunky Dory was even out the door. That album, while not a monster seller initially, was met with immediate warmth, which likely provided a boost to Bowie's ego. Thus, his iconic Ziggy Stardust persona was born.

Bowie had personality from the beginning, but he nearly always presented vague androgyny and outsider qualities rather than a concrete character. In January 1972, the Ziggy Stardust tour began in England (later moving to the U.S., Japan, and other parts of the U.K), when Bowie began to dress up in elaborate costumes designed by Kansai Yamamoto, red hair, and extensive, glamorous makeup. It is, of course, during this time that glam rock hit its zenith, with Ziggy being arguably its most exemplary character, album, and song. While the movement produced many memorable albums by T. Rex, Roxy Music, and Bowie himself, among others, Ziggy was special—it had a story.

It begins with the apocalyptic love song "Five Years," in which humanity finds out it has "five years left to cry in." The T. Rex-esque rock spiritual "Soul Love" pontificates on love and God. "Moonage Daydream" was repurposed from Bowie's Arnold Corns side project, which was essentially a '71 incarnation of backing band Spiders from Mars (Mick Ronson, Trevor Bolder, Mick Woodmansey) plus fashion designer Freddie Burretti. It was released as a single that year, but failed; the Ziggy version rocks harder (especially on Mick Ronson's legendary solo), and features altered, more absurd lyrics as well as more varied reverb, echo treatments, and horn parts.

The wondrous "Starman," which was recorded last and almost didn't even make the album (a cover of Chuck Berry's "Around and Around" was in its place in the initial running order), became Bowie's biggest hit (#10 U.K.) since "Space Oddity" (#5) and even hit an unprecedented #41 in the United States. In the context of the album, its lyrics present the mindsets of young people hearing Ziggy on the radio, who until that point had forsaken rock and roll. Interestingly, the song they are hearing can actually be inferred to be "All the Young Dudes," which was written by Bowie specifically for Mott the Hoople in a move to save their career. In that song, Ziggy sings about the decadence of youth; in "Starman," he continues his exposition in which he reveals that the "infinites" (the starmen) are coming to Earth and may save it. Musically, the song fittingly borrows from gay icon Judy Garland's "Over the Rainbow" for its memorable chorus, which becomes increasingly variegated with each iteration before swelling into a warm, symphonic cheer. A warped cover of Ron Davies' honky-tonk "It Ain't Easy," a holdover from Hunky Dory, closes the side, providing some post hoc thematic cohesion (also being another last-minute replacement of a cover: Jacques Brel's "Amsterdam").

Swelling Marc Bolan tribute "Lady Stardust" is quietly one of the album's best songs. The transient "Star," by contrast, is one of the least essential. "Hang on to Yourself," the B-side of the Arnold Corns single, is heavier than the original, which was more of a frenzied folk-inspired tune. Incomparable theme song "Ziggy Stardust" summarizes the story promised by the album's title; bits of it can be seen or heard in virtually every type of media and social phenomenon. Spirited, raunchy blues "Suffragette City" (initially offered to Mott the Hoople just prior to "All the Young Dudes"), is well-known for its build-ups and false stop. On the bittersweet, acoustic-symphonic "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide," Ziggy dies as he is consumed by the infinites to make themselves corporeal. It also, of course, served as the showstopper during the tour, including at the conclusion of the final show, documented in the Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars film (1973) and its accompanying album, Ziggy Stardust: The Motion Picture (1983).

There's no question that Ziggy Stardust is a classic album, but it's always been less clear where it stands in Bowie's oeuvre. It's probably not his masterpiece, compared with more careful works like Hunky Dory, Low (1977), "Heroes" (1977), or Scary Monsters (1980)—the songs "Star" and the cover "It Ain't Easy" disrupt the album's flow in a minor way, but only because the rest of the songs are of such high quality by contrast. Produced during a hectic period in Bowie's life, Ziggy has a certain unpolished, naive energy to it that's often as off-putting as it is endearing. Of course, that was part of the point; Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars were supposed to be a basic rock and roll band, and on that level, it succeeds. It's greater than the sum of its parts, and it's charming. No matter how you cut it, "Starman, "Ziggy Stardust," and "Suffragette City" are some of the best songs Bowie ever produced, and the entire package is a star that won't burn out for a long time.

More David Bowie reviews by The Old Noise:

David Bowie (1967)
David Bowie (1969)
The Man Who Sold the World (1970)
Hunky Dory (1971)
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)
Aladdin Sane (1973)
Pin Ups (1973)
Diamond Dogs (1974)
David Live (1974)
Young Americans (1975)
Station to Station (1976)
Low (1977)
"Heroes" (1977)
Stage (1978)
Lodger (1979)
Scary Monsters (1980)
Let's Dance (1983)
Ziggy Stardust: The Motion Picture (1983)
Tonight (1984)
Never Let Me Down (1987)
Black Tie White Noise (1993)
The Buddha of Suburbia (1993)
Outside (1995)
Earthling (1997)
'Hours...' (1999)
Heathen (2002)
Reality (2003)
The Next Day (2013)
Blackstar (2016)

Joni Mitchell—Court and Spark

Joni Mitchell—Court and Spark (1974)

Court and Spark—Coming off the pensive, adventurous For the Roses (1972), Joni Mitchell had the world at her fingertips. That album was the fourth in a series of increasingly huge hits, and critics and even other major musicians worshiped her. Roses, while not exactly orchestral, was her most carefully produced album yet. For the follow-up, she sought out an even wider range of musicians who could play even more intricate parts. Court and Spark was teased with the "Raised on Robbery"/"Court and Spark" single, a rock-and-roll A-side that charted respectably (#51 in Canada, #65 in the United States) but failed to make the same impact as Roses' "You Turn Me on, I'm a Radio." This proved to be insignificant, as Court and Spark went on to hit #1 in Canada, #2 in the U.S., and Top 40 in several other countries following its January 1974 release.

The keynote address, "Court and Spark," details the wariness that comes with seeking romance. A street performer has an epiphany that leads him to throw it all away in pursuit of love. Mitchell (or Mitchell as the singer) notes her instant connection with him, but also her apprehension, seemingly both in general and in waiting for the other shoe to drop. "I cleared myself/I sacrificed my blues/And you could complete me/I'd complete you," he promises; Mitchell concludes, "The more he talked to me /The more he reached me /But I couldn't let go of L.A./City of the fallen angels" (with the slick addition of bells in the background), indicating she is not willing to give up her lifestyle fully as her subject has. The smooth, self-deprecating "Help Me," her biggest hit, similarly notes the difficulties of commitment ("We love our lovin'/But not like we love our freedom"). The liberative "Free Man in Paris" is a cheeky tribute to her friend David Geffen (head of her label, Asylum), poking fun at his complaints about working in the industry. "People's Parties" is a short statement on social anxiety and struggling to fit in. It medleys into "The Same Situation," another commitment song that sees would-be lovers striving to reconcile the failings of one another.

"Car on a Hill," in which the singer waits for their lover to come pick her up, suggests the fear and disconnected feelings that come with having a more outgoing partner. The contemplative, symphonic "Down to You" is the album's musical capstone, and is more lyrically broad, examining personal transformation and loneliness. "Just Like This Train" is comparatively less weighty, even contented: "Lately I don't count on nothing/I just let things slide." Its wisdom ("Jealous lovin'll make you crazy/If you can't find your goodness/'Cause you lost your heart") stands in opposition to the uncertainty of the rest of the album; Mitchell confidently relaxes and observes those around her against the semi-metaphorical backdrop of a train ride. The brash "Raised on Robbery," the album's finest moment, is a witty raid on the daily grind in which Mitchell identifies with a prostitute. The sax-twinged "Trouble Child" is about being stuck in life, unable to connect to anyone, romantically or otherwise, and not yet having the strength to move past yourself or listen to advice. Of the rare cover, "Twisted" (featuring Cheech & Chong), Mitchell once explained, "I hope you enjoy your craziness, 'cause it can be a lot of fun" (stage banter from August 22nd, 1974 performance).

Widely regarded as a triumphant success, Court and Spark's only substantive criticism is that Joni Mitchell sold out on it. While it was indeed loaded with more radio-ready songs than its predecessors, Spark is also more heterogeneous in nature and takes more risks than For the Roses, which is arguably her most difficult album to crack. Her previous albums had all ultimately been arranged uniformly as folk albums, even if the instrumentation varied from time to time; on Spark, she ventured fully into jazz for the first time and made a Dylan-esque move by fully embracing rock, if only for a moment. In the process, she made an album with universal appeal that didn't sacrifice her songwriting, which remained cerebral, droll, and piercing.

More Joni Mitchell reviews by The Old Noise:

Song to a Seagull (1968)
Clouds (1969)
Ladies of the Canyon (1970)
Blue (1971)
For the Roses (1972)
Court and Spark (1974)
Miles of Aisles (1974)
The Hissing of Summer Lawns (1975)
Hejira (1976)
Don Juan's Reckless Daughter (1977)
Mingus (1979)
Shadows and Light (1980)
Wild Things Run Fast (1982)
Dog Eat Dog (1985)
Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm (1988)
Night Ride Home (1991)
Turbulent Indigo (1994)
Taming the Tiger (1998)
Both Sides Now (2000)
Travelogue (2002)
Shine (2007)

The Move—Shazam

The Move—Shazam (1970)

Shazam—"Band for hire" could probably have been the Move's slogan from 1968–70. Upon the release of Move (1968), bassist-vocalist Ace Kefford left, and guitarist-vocalist Trevor Burton soon followed after an injury and in-fighting. Three singles followed—"Wild Tiger Woman," which flopped, "Blackberry Way," which hit #1 and saved their career, and "Curly," a respectable hit. However, the sweeter tones of the latter two were not wholly representative of the Move's essence; they were still a rock-and-roll band with some weirdness and a penchant for the occasional classical or R&B crossover. In the middle of this, enterprising lead vocalist Carl Wayne took it upon himself to sell the Move to Starlite Entertainments, who amusingly began to book them in cabaret clubs, which proved lucrative. Cabaret was conducive to Wayne's style, but not so much to the rest of the band; they continued playing regular gigs, and also tried to crack the U.S. market with little success thanks to almost no support from their U.S. label, A&M.

When they returned to the studio to finish Shazam—which had been announced soon after the release of Move—it had become a far different record than was originally intended. Keyboardist Richard Tandy had joined the band after Kefford's departure, but quickly moved to bass after Burton's injury, and when Burton recovered, Tandy simply left the band. Tandy and Dave Morgan were meant to help write parts of a double-LP Shazam, but Morgan only ended up contributing the non-album songs "This Time Tomorrow" and "A Certain Something" (sometimes rendered "Something" or "That Certain Something"). Instead, the single LP ended up being half Roy Wood originals and half Carl Wayne-chosen covers (Mark Paytress, liner notes to 2007 Fly/Salvo CD reissue of Shazam).

By this time, Wood's personality had begun to take over the once-democratic Move. His stage act became more elaborate, much like his more wildly successful contemporary, David Bowie. Where once it was fairly uncommon for he, the Move's primary songwriter, to sing his own songs, Shazam opened with Wood belting out the lumbering "Hello Susie." It had recently been a pop-blues hit for Amen Corner; Wood reclaimed it in his own obscure style. The ironically elegant "I-just-got-laid" "Beautiful Daughter," sung by Wayne, is the album's only straightforward cut, and would have been its single (it ended up having none) had Wayne not left the band. It is preceded and followed by bizarre bouts of chatter, the second of which leads into a reworked "Cherry Blossom Clinic Revisited," which extends into a Looney Tunes-esque, classical music-quoting jam. On their rendition of Ars Nova's sanctimonious "Fields of People," they demonstrate more expertise than on the original before moving on to a five-minute tantric, interpretive passage that simulates Indian music. An emboldened version of the Mann/Weill "Don't Make My Baby Blue" is probably the album's most banal moment, but Tom Paxton's "The Last Thing on My Mind" as a rolling, psychedelic epic is somehow effective.

Usually regarded as the Move's best album, Shazam is probably better described as their best-played album. They were rarely in better form than they were on Shazam's jams, but there are downsides. Carl Wayne, while serviceable, didn't flourish in such a dominant performing role; he wasn't a varied or terribly interesting singer, and his cover choices were not strong. Roy Wood's songs weren't by and large new material, even if they are refined and generally improved, and they're not exactly his best songs—they simply appear to be because of the strength of the overall package. That's where Shazam succeeds, if it does anywhere: it's a good album to have playing in the background and not examine too closely.

Joni Mitchell—Don Juan's Reckless Daughter

Joni Mitchell—Don Juan's Reckless Daughter (1977)

"I was the only black man at the party." —Joni Mitchell (The Hissing of a Living Legend, Neil Strauss, October 4th, 1998)

Don Juan's Reckless Daughter—In 2014, the then-president of the Spokane, WA chapter of the NAACP, Rachel Dolezal, generated controversy around the claim that she was transracial. Though it was a hot issue for a time, the public eventually forgot about her, as with most things. People probably also don't remember that Joni Mitchell posed as jive cool-cat Art Nouveau on the cover of her ninth LP, Don Juan's Reckless Daughter.

Cultural appropriation has become a contentious issue in the 2010s, but it's mostly brought up in situations where money or power are at stake—majority groups have been incorporating minorities' musical conventions into their own across time, and because music is purely expression, there are rarely any accusations of wrongdoing thrown around. When Joni Mitchell began to assimilate jazz and world music into her unique brand of folk and pop, it wasn't seen as dubious. For one, she'd already hit the big time both as a songwriter and performer by her first forays into jazz; she'd begun to utilize jazz musicians on For the Roses (1972) only after scoring numerous hits, so it can't reasonably be said it was a move made to capitalize on a cold market (and in fact, her sales only dropped as she moved farther away from white folk music). Two, she seemed to truly identify or at least genuinely seek to empathize with the alien and sometimes bygone cultures she explored in her music. On one of Don Juan's Reckless Daughter's inner LP sleeves, Art Nouveau exclaims, "Mooslems, Mooooslems! Heh, Heh, Heh." It's a phrase so ridiculous one must assume satire was Mitchell's intent, and so it follows that the artist either intended an examination of bias and discrimination or simply did not see the same impassable boundaries between cultures that so many build and perpetuate.

The original Don Juan's Reckless Daughter LP is unusual in that the records were produced with side pairings 1/4 and 2/3. Sides 1 and 4 are more or less typical pop songs, several of which were already parts of Mitchell's live sets, most notably "Jericho," which appeared commercially as early as Miles of Aisles (1974). Sides 2 and 3 are experimental—the extended, impressionist cut "Paprika Plains" and a makeshift suite of disparate styles, respectively. Mitchell said, "This record followed on the tail of persecution, it's experimental, and it didn't really matter what I did, I just had to fulfill my contract" (Biography: 1976-1977 Refuge of the Roads, Wally Breese, January 1998). Whether she meant to be somewhat dismissive toward the record is unclear, but a sizable amount of work and planning definitely went into it. The arrangement of the record sides must be intentional—it could be that one LP is meant to be the accessible one, but it still begs the question of the side numbers. Apparently, the record set is meant to distinguish the second and third sides—the "dream" music, which comes to the artist in the middle of the set, bookended by ego fascinations—as a sort of id manipulation with a cohesive element to it. The listener must change records to reach the middle sides and again to get out of them, suggesting a discrete and centric quality.

A quiet, moaning, atmospheric overture precedes "Cotton Avenue," an ode to nightlife. Mitchell and her army of guitars are accompanied only by drummer John Guerin and bassist Jaco Pastorious, who returns from Hejira (1976) as her primary collaborator. "Talk to Me" seems to lead out of this scene, describing the coming-down from a night out ("There was a moon and a street lamp/I didn't know I drank such a lot/'Til I pissed a tequila anaconda/The full length of the parking lot") but is really about sexual frustration. Mitchell sings, "Any old theme you choose/Just come and talk to me," belting out a laundry list of possible discussion points (as well as a deadly funny Shakespearean aside), both idealizing her subject and criticizing him for his conservatism. The melodic "Jericho" is about apprehension, only loosely fitting into the schema.

"Paprika Plains," the piece that caught the attention of the legendary Charles Mingus, is the main attraction. It's straightforward for the first four-and-a-half minutes—just Mitchell and her piano plus strings—she describes a dreamy version of her memories from a party. The people watch the rain from indoors, and sit in a haze of clashing aromas: "Liquid soap and grass/And Jungle Gardenia crash/On Pine-Sol and beer." "Back in my hometown," she begins again (presumably referring to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada, but perhaps also an imaginary, idealized hometown from her dream world), "They would have cleared the floor/Just to watch the rain come down." She describes the urbanization of humans ("And they cut off their braids/And lost some link with nature") and eventually glides off into full-on fantasy: "I dream paprika plains/Vast and bleak and God forsaken/Paprika plains/And a turquoise river snaking."

The next portion of the song deals with unspoken imagery tethered to Mitchell's visionary poetry, which is included with the rest of the song's lyrics. She sees herself flying over Paprika Plains in a helicopter, where "Only a little Indian band/Come down from some windy mesa/No women to make them food and child/No expressions on their faces." She wonders why she sees all of it, the disparity between the poverty of the tribe and the "flying machine/Of earth and air and water." One of the tribesmen raises his fist to the skies, and an atomic blast forms over the horizon. Her visions then turn to a beach ball, which becomes Earth. She cuts it with her fingernail to open and reveal Paprika Plains once again. Then, the song returns to its vocal delivery, and she is back at the party, where she finds herself floating back to a nameless individual, hinting at fate and inevitability.

Side three, beginning with the escapist "Otis and Marlena," continues the abstract direction of the previous side; Marlena dreams about her summer getaway "while Muslims stick up Washington" (which had actually happened around the time of the song's release). "The Tenth World" is a Spanish rumba led by Manolo Badrena and backed by other members of Weather Report, Mitchell, and Chaka Khan. Another romantic shuffle, "Dreamland," closes out the side, this time with just the latter two vocalists and a percussion section.

The remaining side returns to more introspective music. The arch, streaming "Don Juan's Reckless Daughter" is the final side opener: an ambivalent self-examination. Mitchell examines her conflicting sides ("Restless for streets and honky tonks/Restless for home and routine") and her confrontation with a version of herself from the past ("Last night the ghosts of my old ideas/Reran on channel five/And it howled so spooky for its eagle soul/I nearly broke down and cried"), anthropomorphizing the days, people, spirits, and even virtues. The jangling "Off Night Backstreet," ironically about a Don Juan, is a highlight, backed by members of the Eagles. Closer "The Silky Veils of Ardor" is a cautionary gloaming folk tale that ties together the stories on the first and fourth sides, while also adding, "But I have no wings/And the water is so wide/We'll have to row a little harder/It's just in dreams we fly."

Don Juan's Reckless Daughter was Joni Mitchell's longest regular release (outside live albums and Travelogue [2002], which contained no new songs), and among expansive record sets, only the best of the best get special attention. It's a daunting task to sit through a double or triple album when there's more than a couple bad cuts. Unfortunately, despite its overall great quality, Don Juan has been mostly forgotten, generally regarded as respectable but also an indulgent mess. Some did not appreciate Mitchell's further retreat from pop and folk music, while others simply could not surmise her intent or appreciate the music for what it is rather than what she could have been doing instead. It doesn't feel right to call the album a masterpiece, but it's one of the artist's most worldly and thought-provoking, important to her evolution, and pleasing to the ear, if flighty—though flighty was supposed to be one of her most celebrated characteristics.

Led Zeppelin—[Untitled]

Led Zeppelin—[Untitled] (1971)

[Untitled]—There are various reasons why writing about Led Zeppelin's fourth album is pointless. It doesn't need promotion—it's already one of the best-selling albums of all time anywhere. Even those who don't own it have more than likely heard something from it, be it the ubiquitous "Stairway to Heaven," "Going to California, "or the singles "Black Dog" and "Rock and Roll," either in their original forms or mangled badly by high school classmates. More than that, however, the album is notable for its continuing popularity; other all-time bestsellers like Meat Loaf's Bat out of Hell or the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever have faded into relative obscurity, being relics of their time, but the nominal Led Zeppelin IV has more or less retained its significance since its release.

Nowadays, giving a piece of product no title is nothing extraordinary, but when Led Zeppelin did it, it was considered a risk. The Beatles released their eponymous all-white album four years prior, but the Beatles were also the Beatles, and the band's name was nonetheless printed in all capital letters on the front cover. Led Zeppelin's fourth album has nothing distinct on the cover relating to the band, though it has become iconic itself: an antique painting hung against a run-down wall. Fittingly, its songs in one way or another share this arcane quality. The military cadence "Black Dog" is a twisted blues that's hard to count, inspired partially by a black dog whose antics were a source of amusement for the band. The frenetic "Rock and Roll" features an augmented rhythm section with Ian Stewart of Rolling Stones fame (who also played on "Boogie with Stu," which was recorded during these sessions along with "Night Flight" and "Down by the Seaside," all three of which would later appear on Physical Graffiti [1975]) and is made by the always-stellar drumming of John Bonham. It can be seen as a response to the more insipid reactions to Led Zeppelin III ("It's been a long time since I rock-and-rolled").The diacritic "The Battle of Evermore" is the band's most explicit citation of The Lord of the Rings, written on the mandolin (which was first introduced by John Paul Jones on Led Zeppelin III) and supplemented by the singing of Sandy Denny (Fairport Convention).

"Stairway to Heaven," for all that's been said about it both good and bad, probably is their crowning achievement. No matter how overplayed it may be, it's a marvelous three-part suite, even if the first segment is admittedly very similar to Spirit's "Taurus"—but that's only one small part of the song, and the rest of it, from Robert Plant's inspired lyrics to Jimmy Page's astonishing guitar solo, John Paul Jones' arrangements, and John Bonham's steady beat are a mix they never quite equaled again. The plodding, sardonic "Misty Mountain Hop" grates, though it is amusing. The primordial "Four Sticks" was the song that turned into "Rock and Roll" during rehearsals because of Bonham's frustration with the song's meter (it was named so because Bonham played it with four drumsticks), and gets its point across more on abstruse textures than it does its throwaway lyrics. The tranquilizing Joni Mitchell tribute "Going to California" obliquely references her songs "I Had a King" ("To find a queen without a king") and "California." The magnified Delta blues apotheosis "When the Levee Breaks" adequately evokes the sense of doom inherent in the original piece (by Kansas Joe and Memphis Minnie), if turgidly.

A less appreciated aspect of Zeppelin's fourth album is the chirality between its two sides: the related compositions "Rock and Roll" and "Four Sticks," the mandolin excursions "The Battle of Evermore" and "Going to California," and the epics "Stairway to Heaven" and "When the Levee Breaks." It's ultimately an inessential observation to the listening, but it adds to the cohesive, timelessly cyclical nature of the record. Beyond that, it's a masterfully performed and produced album, and the fact that it's been so persistently conspicuous for more than forty years is a testament its excellence.

Jacques Brel—Jacques Brel et ses chansons

Jacques Brel—Jacques Brel et ses chansons (1954)

Jacques Brel et ses chansons—Jacques Brel only began writing and performing music in 1952 when he was 23. Before then, his only apparent creative outlet was in amateur theater with friends. Otherwise, his upbringing was highly theological—he went to Catholic school in Belgium and spent most of his spare time as part of a Catholic philanthropic group. After a spot in the military, he began writing songs as a new creative outlet, having developed a relatively late interest in music. Unfortunately, the emotive nature of Brel's performances was not well-received by his family, and when he moved to Paris in 1953, audiences were almost uniformly indifferent and sometimes hostile. However, thanks to the talent agent at Philips who convinced him to move there in the first place, Brel was able to record his debut, Jacques Brel et ses chansons (known sometimes as Grand Jacques or Jacques Brel 1).

The brash "La haine" ("Hatred"), a frustrated lover's harangue, is full of great, stinging Brel lines like "Comme un soldat je partirai/Mourir comme meurent les enfants/Et si jamais tu en mourais/J'en voudrais revenir vivant" and "L'amour est mort, vive la haine/Et toi, matériel déclassé/Va-t'en donc accrocher ta peine/Au musée des amours ratées." On "Grand Jacques (C'est trop facile)" ("Great Jacques [It's Too Easy]"), Brel points out the arbitrariness of absolution ("C'est trop facile d'entrer aux églises/De déverser toute sa saleté") and criticizes the myopic nature of his peers ("Vous ne voyez donc point vos cimetières?") and the heavy-handedness with which they approach love ("Qu'il craque en deux parce qu'on l'a trop plié") while lamenting to himself the seeming pointlessness of his protests and concluding that it's too easy to go through life without asking the big questions. The "Alabama Song"-reminiscent "Il pleut (Les carreaux)" is sung from the point of view of a young man claiming his failure at romance to be out of his control, but "La lune danse pour moi le soir ... et son haleine, immense halo, me caresse." The mock-mischievous "Le diable (Ça va)" (The Devil [It's Fine]) furthers Brel's theme of societal disconnect ("On traite les braves de fous/Et les poètes de nigauds"), effectively deriding "Ça va" as an expression of flippancy. "Il peut pleuvoir" (Let It Rain), by contrast, is a straightforward, concise love song.

"Il nous faut regarder" ("We Must Look") reminds us to look beyond the world's ugliness to see its patches of beauty. The tragicomical waltz "Le fou de roi" ("The King's Fool") is a statement on class, while the cheeky "C'est comme ça" ("That's How It Is") exposes the stagnant lives of the common people, the two songs exhibiting conflicting sides of Brel's worldview. The parable "Sur la place" (In the Square), the best and most nuanced song here, alleges the hardened hearts of the masses.

Jacques Brel et ses chansons is something of an anomaly; by his second album, Quand on n'a que l'amour, Brel was already moving into a wider variety of more lush arrangements. The literary quality of his debut is more often than not on par with his more well-known songs, but it's unique for its minimalist guitar settings and more rustic feel of Brel's stricter cabaret origins. Thus, while it might not be his peak, Et ses chansons is an enchanting, thought-provoking collection—and just under 20 minutes.

David Bowie—Scary Monsters

David Bowie—Scary Monsters (1980)

Scary Monsters—Among David Bowie's most celebrated albums—Ziggy Stardust (1972), Low (1977), et al.—Scary Monsters is the most commonly forgotten. It's considered to be roughly on the same plane as the others, but possibly due to its more extreme nature, it's often left off such lists. Unlike the more moderate persona of its predecessor Lodger (1979), Scary Monsters is painted with Bowie as a sinister Pierrot; likewise, the songs and Bowie's vocals are confrontational and disquieting compared to Lodger's impartial croon, sometimes drone.

Although it follows mostly logically from his previous three albums, and foreshadows the electronic direction of his later albums, Scary Monsters is something of an anomaly. Bowie is unusually direct throughout much of the album, with some pointed criticisms of his peers surfacing here and there, and it's one of his most overwhelmingly guitar-oriented albums. In the hair-raising opener, "It's No Game (No. 1)," Bowie's verses are preceded by singer Michi Hirota's (of Stomu Yamashta's Red Buddha Theatre) Japanese variations. Bowie explained, "I wanted to break down a particular type of sexist attitude about women. I thought the [idea of] the 'Japanese girl' typifies it, where everyone pictures them as a geisha girl, very sweet, demure and non-thinking, when in fact that's the absolute opposite of what women are like. They think an awful lot, with quite as much strength as any man. I wanted to caricature that attitude by having a very forceful Japanese voice on it. So I had [Hirota] come out with a very samurai kind of thing" (Strange Fascination—David Bowie: The Definitive Story, David Buckley, 1999). At the time, Bowie also had recently appeared in a Japanese commercial for Crystal Jun Rock sake for which he recorded the instrumental "Crystal Japan." That later became the B-side to "Up the Hill Backwards," his acoustic-electric tribute to Marcel Duchamp—"Sneakers fall apart"—who sculpted Not a Shoe and was once quoted as saying, "If it is shoes that you want, I'll give you shoes that you will admire to such an extent that you will lame yourselves trying to walk in them" (Surrealism, Julien Levy, 1995).

"Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)" is predictably the most overtly insane cut, with Bowie's chorus descending further into voltaic madness as the song wears on. "Space Oddity" sequel "Ashes to Ashes" is a candidate for Bowie's best song ever, an extraordinary self-referential journey that sounds like nothing else before or since—a swirling revelation of multi-tracked vocals, otherworldly synthesizer, and a jaw-dropping, deceptively simple refrain to close it out. "Fashion" is an apocalyptic funk ride that recalls Young Americans (1975) and Station to Station (1976). Centerpiece "Teenage Wildlife" attacks "new wave boys"; seeing as Bowie drew heavy inspiration from Krautrock for his late '70s work, he probably saw new wave artists like Gary Numan as less imaginative and driving than they should have been. "Scream Like a Baby," a holdover from aborted project People from Bad Homes (itself a line that was reused for "Fashion") that was originally called "I Am a Laser" and featured entirely different lyrics, is a carnivalesque song about unfairly-persecuted Sam of vague origins. "Kingdom Come," from Tom Verlaine's solo career, is well-produced but ultimately inferior to the original. "Because You're Young," with guest guitarist Pete Townshend, is a less prominent but satisfying offering coated with Halloween-evoking synthesizer. Flip-side reprise "It's No Game (No. 2)" ramps down the album steeply with a resigned tone, with Bowie inserting a couple new jarring lines into the mix ("Children 'round the world/Put camel shit on the walls").

Scary Monsters is pretty much universally considered the end of Bowie's classic period. In retrospect, he still had good, even great albums ahead of him, such as his final three (Reality [2003], The Next Day [2013], and Blackstar [2016]), but Bowie never assembled quite as good of a band as he did on Scary Monsters. It's an album that's hard to pull into its discrete parts in discussions, and at times it almost feels like a Greatest Hits album because of its career-to-date-encompassing subject matter. Taken on its own, however, it's one of Bowie's most original, galvanizing, and uniformly excellent albums, and it can go toe-to-toe with anything in his canon.

More David Bowie reviews by The Old Noise:

David Bowie (1967)
David Bowie (1969)
The Man Who Sold the World (1970)
Hunky Dory (1971)
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)
Aladdin Sane (1973)
Pin Ups (1973)
Diamond Dogs (1974)
Young Americans (1975)
Station to Station (1976)
Low (1977)
"Heroes" (1977)
Lodger (1979)
Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) (1980)
Let's Dance (1983)
Tonight (1984)
Never Let Me Down (1987)
Black Tie White Noise (1993)
The Buddha of Suburbia (1993)
Outside (1995)
Earthling (1997)
'Hours...' (1999)
Heathen (2002)
Reality (2003)
The Next Day (2013)
Blackstar (2016)

Cat Stevens—Numbers

Cat Stevens—Numbers (1975)

Numbers—Cat Stevens had a run of albums from 1970–1977 that resulted in four Platinum records (two 3x Platinum) and another four Gold. Calling him a hit-maker is an understatement—he had a string of eleven U.S. Top 40 hits during that same period that are still ingrained in public consciousness, mainly thanks to muzak. Every LP he put out in the wake of Tea for the Tillerman 1970) and Teaser and the Firecat (1971) had at least one notable hit that kept it from obscurity; it could be said that Stevens' business model was top-notch, if it's examined coldly. However, Stevens was more sensitive than that; he seemed to believe in his ideals, at least to some extent, and he was artful. Following Buddha and the Chocolate Box (1974), he tried something completely different.

Numbers
A Pythagorean Theory Tale

Further away from our Earth than it is possible to imagine, there was a galaxy. And almost in the center of the galaxy was a little planet called Polygor.
Polygor existed to give numbers to the universe. Number 1, number 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9. Each day millions and billions and zillions of numbers were distributed to every world that needed them [...]

Numbers is Cat Stevens/Yusuf Islam's only clear concept album, and while it seems arcane, the story is fairly basic: Nine beings called Polygons each named after digits live in the Palace of Polygor, where a huge machine makes all the numbers of the universe. This persisted in stasis for an indeterminable length of time until the arrival of the prophet Jzero, who inflicted some vague truth on the Polygons that changed their lives. Stevens came up with the idea after reading a book on Pythagoras while in Australia. "At first I couldn't see the point of making numbers any more important than what you use them for ... [then I] realized that I’d always known the importance of numbers without really being aware of it—like all songs have a natural 'three' element, three being the strongest number of all ... Then you start finding out that Pythagoras developed the Western musical scale. Then, thinking about it, you discover that the law of music is the same law that applies to nature as a whole, that your life has octaves in the same way as the musical scale does." (Cat Stevens Talks to Mick Brown, Sounds, December 13th, 1975)

The whimsical opening instrumental "Whistlestar" seems to have no overarching significance in the story except that maybe the "Whistlestar" is part of the "cluster of burning stars" that illuminates the Numbers galaxy. Reportedly, when Stevens played the song live, he would pop out of a box after a magician performed tricks over the course of the song. The dirge "Novim's Nightmare" chronicles Novim's (number nine) experience being revitalized following the arrival of Jzero. Stevens explained, "Yes, its a vision I have often in dreams. There's something so strong about that guillotine. The moment you're born, and through the whole of your life, there's a guillotine waiting ... The centre to the story of Numbers is that really you're in a place where everything seems immortal, eternal and everlasting. And suddenly along comes this question of death, which has never entered before. And then you start to question everything." (Cat Stevens—Life, Love and Death, Melody Maker, November 15th, 1975)

The slick "Majik of Majiks" is about "the power of zero [...] when you think you're smart and you've got it planned and then along comes this silly little accident and you're put back to square one [...] the ego having to face death finally." A Polygon (presumably still Novim, who now sees himself as an outcast) sings about the shocking revelation of Jzero, who "[has] the key to any door." The knowingly gospel-inflected "Drywood" continues these themes with a more uplifting tone, urging the Polygons or the listener to "Kick out your dull padded life" and begin anew.

The strange, jangling "Banapple Gas," which was the one minor hit from Numbers, seems to represent the change in routine that was occurring on Polygor. "Land o' Free Love and Goodbye" seems to be a more traditional song about the time Stevens lived in, mentioning God by name rather than an allegorical character. On the theme song "Jzero," the titular character speaks equivocally about his purpose, saying he only came to the palace for work and little food. The Polygons note that "He says he hasn't got nothing/But he seems to possess less," seeming to allude to religious concepts of material possession and elevating Jzero to a holy figure of sorts. The yearning "Home" describes a kind of utopia "where all mums can sing/Back where the children don't cry/Home where you never ask why and/Everybody has enough," but also bizarrely "you don't have to put on clothes/Nobody has to hide 'cause everyone already knows," which either means Stevens was singing generally again or that the Polygons ultimately decided to get nude with the townsfolk. In the closing "Monad's Anthem," Monad (number one), the Emperor, bellows about "one" as a female chorus echoes him, seemingly in glorification of Polygor.

Although very little of Numbers was that far removed from Stevens' usual musical fare—it featured his usual band, and only the uncharacteristic instrumental "Whistlestar" and obscure paean "Monad's Anthem" were new ground for him—its off-kilter qualities seemed to be too much for the public. The album began a downtown for him commercially, although it and the following Itizso (1977) still went Gold. There are some heavier introspective themes on it, especially on the first side with songs like "Novim's Nightmare," but in the end people only remembered the fanciful "Banapple Gas" if they held on to anything at all. Numbers, which are represented in modern times by Arabic numerals, were adumbrating subject matter for Cat Stevens; he did not convert to Islam until late 1977, so it's tough to assert that Jzero is analogous to Mohammed, though perhaps he is an amalgam of Mohammed and other figures such as Christ.

Overall, it can't definitively be said that Numbers is as musically satisfying as the rest of Cat Stevens' oeuvre. There's no "The Hurt" or "Father and Son" to anchor it, though the album as a whole is melodically satisfying, with just the right amount of intricacy here and there. Perhaps the public should have heeded the warning in the liner notes which read, "This album is not to be taken 2 seriously," though the intellectual parts of Numbers are actually rewarding. It's a minor gem from an artist that rarely went against the grain, and it didn't deserve the treatment it got.

Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians—Fegmania!

Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians—Fegmania! (1985)

Fegmania!—The Soft Boys broke up sometime in early 1981, leaving Robyn Hitchcock to pursue an equally odd solo career and Kimberley Rew to move toward the mainstream with Katrina and the Waves. It's peculiar that Rew went on to write most of that band's material, including the hit "Walking on Sunshine," considering Hitchcock wrote almost everything for the Soft Boys. Rew was hardly disposable as a Soft Boy; the dynamics of his and Hitchcock's guitar playing had a quality that neither party ever quite replicated. Still, the Soft Boys were definitely Hitchcock's band, as evidenced by the split, and his Black Snake Dîamond Röle (1981), Groovy Decay (1982), and I Often Dream of Trains (1984) were natural extensions of the Soft Boys' run. Upon hearing a re-released version of the EP Give It to the Soft Boys, Hitchcock decided to get back with that rhythm section (drummer Morris Windsor and bassist/keyboardist Andy Metcalfe, plus newcomer Roger Jackson, also on keyboards), and thus the Soft Boys were reborn as the Egyptians.

"What is Fegmania? It has come for your sister. Also for your husband, that kindly man with something poking out of his head. It has come for your arms, and it will change your concept of hygiene. It may be the sound of a plane crash-landing in a ploughed field, or salad cream being tipped out of an attic window. There are stars, minds and judges—people in scarlet rags that pull frogs out of each other's mouths. FEGMANIA RISES! Light pulsing from a bruised sun that eats into tired rugs. Light coursing from a swarming moon that careens in frozen ecstasy across the sky—naked people oozing on warm mud with the radio tuned to Venus. Here is music to implode by. Here is FEGMANIA! A turnip in a sliver box. A dromedary lurching through the House of Commons. A bank manager shooting himself in the navel with a water-pistol. A Royal baby with permanent amnesia. A vampire at the Cenotaph. Respectable people with uncontrollable urges, freed only by the disconnection of their hands. A nun writing her name in marmalade on a soldier's leg. One word." —Liner notes to Fegmania!

Fegmania! sounds like an anomaly, but it was actually Hitchcock's most straightforward music to date, less introspective, all arranged the same way. It is led by "Egyptian Cream," the new band's de facto theme song, a surrealistic, almost Biblical tale of hormone-altering topical cream. "Another Bubble" expresses feelings of isolation in relationships that ultimately lead to rifts. The psychedelic "I'm Only You" is a paradoxical ego-fantasy reminiscent of Revolver. The funny, sad, hypnagogic "My Wife and My Dead Wife," cleverly backed with theremin and percussion idiophones, is an emotionally mixed account of not being able or willing to chase the ghost of a loved one. "Goodnight I Say" is a characteristic stream-of-consciousness Hitchcock composition.

"The Man with the Lightbulb Head," which is something like the title cut (the album cover is taken from the song's video, a home movie directed by Hitchcock), is heavy-handed and silly ("I'm the man with the light-bulb head/I turn myself on in the dark"), but delivered earnestly enough to succeed. "Insect Mother," an I Often Dream of Trains holdover, is a Tim Burton-esque love nightmare. The bright, infectious "Strawberry Mind" was a sign that the Egyptians were ready for college radio prime-time. "Glass" is a sort of vague statement on transparency, and "The Fly" is some quasi-progressive mood piece. The uplifting "Heaven," one of his greatest songs ever, is based around a classic half-real, half-imaginary Hitchcock story he once spun thus:

"This is the floating Cathedral [of the] Prairie's song... it used to be sung by the old prospectors when they were waiting for the Cathedral to arrive. Back in the '20s when the Bechtel Corporation used to take cheap labor out into the desert to complete its massive projects—big dams and so forth—the men weren't paid very much, and they couldn't get any liquor, so they used to sit outside in groups in circles, and they'd wait for the Cathedral to come by: big, floating, transparent glass cathedral lit by columns of light from underneath. And when it came by, they'd all stiffen and howl: 'You've got heaven...'" —Intro to "Heaven," live, date unknown, as heard on the CD reissue of Fegmania!

Fegmania! kick-started a new part of Robyn Hitchcock's career that resulted in five more albums with the Egyptians, which ran concurrently with his solo albums. Although there is a sense that Hitchcock was just settling back into the groove of things, with some of its songs being a tad slight, Fegmania! is nonetheless a career highlight and a record of inspiration.

The Beatles—Please Please Me

The Beatles—Please Please Me

Please Please Me—The farther you get back in the Beatles' discography, the less likely people are to remember it. That's not to say any Beatles album, single, or even outtake can be considered obscure, but while Revolver (1966) Sgt. Pepper (1967) are household names, the pre-Rubber Soul (1965) albums are often considered at least partially inessential. Please Please Me was their first one ever (Introducing... the Beatles and Meet the Beatles! [1964] were the first ones to hit the United States), coming on the heels of the "Please Please Me" and "Love Me Do" singles.

Paul McCartney's dissonant rocker "I Saw Her Standing There" opens the album on a high note, importantly showing early on that the band could write a classic all their own. "Misery," written originally for Helen Shapiro, is one of the greatest sub-two-minute pop songs ever. John Lennon's rendition of Arthur Alexander's "Anna (Go to Him)" and George Harrison's of the Cookies' "Chains" (Goffin/King) are somewhat pointless, but Ringo Starr's of the Shirelles' "Boys" is strangely effective. Lennon offers the album's best token cloying-nonsense number in "Ask Me Why" in spite of that being McCartney's reputation.

"Please Please Me," which Lennon wrote inspired by Roy Orbison and Bing Crosby, and McCartney's "Love Me Do" showcase the two men's early vocal harmonies at their best. "P.S. I Love You," the first in a series of postal Beatles songs that would be continued by their cover of "Please Mr. Postman" and "Paperback Writer," is lovably banal. Bacharach/David/Williams' "Baby It's You" was not the best choice for a Lennon vocal, while the dopey "Do You Want to Know a Secret?" and corny theater piece "A Taste of Honey" weren't good choices for anyone. "There's a Place" features Lennon and McCartney in a pleasing baritone range. Only on "Twist and Shout" does Lennon do a cover justice, mostly thanks to his famously pained delivery from a marathon recording session.

That doesn't sound like a wholly impressive set, and for the most part it's not—"Please Please Me" and "Love Me Do" and their respective b-sides "Ask Me Why" and "P.S. I Love You" were hardly vital parts of the package, having likely already been sought by every patron in England in single form. The remaining ten songs, only four of which were originals, were recorded in a single session, live in studio, and while only maybe half those cuts are notable in most any way, the band's restless drive shines through on the finished record. On the whole, Please Please Me is something of a classic, if an odd one, and it's amazing to think that even in their nascent stages as hitmakers the Beatles were this tight as a band, producer George Martin included.