After director Jonathan Demme died last year, I heard someone praising Stop Making Sense. A 1984 concert film featuring the Talking Heads, it’s widely considered to be one of the best films of its kind. I was aware of the movie, but until last year, I didn’t realize what a big deal it was. Now that I’ve finally seen it, I understand why the critics love it.
Stop Making Sense isn’t just a film of a Talking Heads concert (actually, the footage was not all shot on the same night). It’s a visual treat. And as someone whose experience with Talking Heads had been limited to their music and one or two videos, it gave me a better feel for the band.
The concert begins when David Byrne walks on stage with a boombox and announces he wants to play a tape. Alone and supposedly accompanied by the tape (apparently the sound was really from a drum machine), Byrne performs “Psycho Killer.” My first thought when I saw him bobbing his head along to the music was, “Wow. He’s a bit geeky, but he can get away with it.” (I say this as a geeky person myself.) As I kept watching, I realized that Byrne is a true performer. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Byrne is joined on stage by bandmate Tina Weymouth for the next song, and then by her husband Chris Frantz. With each song, more band members join the group, until the first part of the concert comes to a climax with “Burning Down the House.” At this point, there are nine musicians on stage — the four members of Talking Heads, two backup singers, and three more touring musicians.
Byrne brings boundless energy and wackiness to the performance. He runs laps around the stage. He dances with a floor lamp. And, of course, toward the end of the performance, he comes onstage in an enormous suit. As I watched him, I wondered if he had taken clowning lessons. He moved in a way that seemed natural, but I’ll bet he had to rehearse a lot to get there.
While Bryne was at the center of the action, the other band members also impressed me. Jerry Harrison switched off between guitar and keyboard. While I know there are plenty of musicians who know more than one instrument, I feel like I don’t see that sort of thing often in a performance. Weymouth had a chance to shine after Byrne stepped off stage for a costume change, leaving Weymouth, Frantz, and the other musicians to perform “Genius of Love” as the Tom Tom Club. Tom Tom Club is a band that Weymouth and Frantz had formed outside of Talking Heads; the couple were the only actual members of Tom Tom Club on stage. “Genius of Love” is very different in style from Talking Heads’ songs, but I enjoyed the energetic performance.
Although this is a concert film, there are few shots of the audience. Stop Making Sense is a performance for you, the viewer. When we finally get glimpses of the audience at the end, you realize that Talking Heads fans are as eccentric as Byrne. Come one, come all, and bring your unicorn — even if Pauline Kael disapproves. You and your weirdness are welcome.
I’m not going so far as to say that everyone will love Stop Making Sense. If you never listen to popular music or only listen to popular music of the past decade, you may not care for it. But if you have broad musical taste or an affinity for the ’80s, I urge you to check it out. It’s everything the critics say it is.
If you’re familiar with Gilbert and Sullivan, you know what a patter song is. They didn’t start the fire, so to speak, but the flame burned brightly in their capable hands.
For years, I’ve enjoyed songs that I’ve mentally categorized as “list songs.” As it turns out, I’m not the only one to lump certain songs in that category. Many of the ones I enjoy have cultural references, but others are seemingly random.
These songs include everything from Antônio Carlos Jobim’s “Waters of March” to ’80s songs like R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine)” and Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” As I continued to reflect on my fascination with these songs, I realized it was more than the list quality that attracted me. I also enjoyed the rhythm and pace of the songs. Again, I’m not the only one who has thought of this. The second part of a recent two-part episode of Hit Parade compared the aforementioned R.E.M. song to “We Didn’t Start the Fire” and to Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues.”
Upon more reflection, I asked myself if these songs weren’t just modern patter songs. Once again, I wasn’t the first person to think along these lines. You can find a whole list of patter songs on Wikipedia, including several of the songs I’d been thinking about.
This is where we can get into debates about what exactly constitutes a patter song. The Wikipedia list includes “Mediate” by INXS, a relatively serene song when compared to much of what I consider patter. “Waters of March” also moves at a relaxed tempo, but if “Mediate” can make the list, why not Jobim’s jazz standard?
If you haven’t yet thought of patter songs in terms of popular music, here are some of my favorites.
The song starts out deceptively slow, and then it really picks up. It wasn’t until I started doing research for this post that I discovered “I’ve Been Everywhere” was originally an Australian song, which has been covered by artists from around the world who substitute place names from their own countries. Pick whichever version is your favorite. I will always love Johnny Cash’s cover the best.
It’s the End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine) by R.E.M.
If no other song in this list truly counts as a patter song, surely this does. Given its pace, there’s no doubt this is a challenging song to sing. Maybe there should be prizes at karaoke bars for people who make it through the song without stumbling!
Bonus tip for parents: friends of ours once told us that it’s fun to sing the chorus when your toddler is having a meltdown.
We Didn’t Start the Fire by Billy Joel
In this song, Billy Joel delivers a fast-paced history lesson covering 1949 to 1989. Although it’s a speedy song, when Chris Molanphy compared it to “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” in Hit Parade, he pointed out that Joel sings 96 fewer words in a song that is “nearly a minute longer.” No wonder it sounds easier to sing!
I Want You by Savage Garden
This doesn’t qualify as a list song, but the verses definitely have a patter quality. If you’re ever in an anime trivia contest, it may help you to know that this was used for the end theme of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure: Diamond is Unbreakable.
You Get What You Give by New Radicals
This one’s a fairly normal pop song, but the band put in eight lines at the end that could be considered patter:
Health insurance rip off lying
FDA big bankers buying
Fake computer crashes dining
Cloning while they’re multiplying
Fashion shoots with Beck and Hanson
Courtney Love and Marilyn Manson
You’re all fakes, run to your mansions
Come around, we’ll kick your ass in
The song is catchy, but the video is disturbing.
One Week by Barenaked Ladies
This song has two sets of completely unrelated lyrics. The core is about discord between a man and a woman. The patter lines were improvised, giving us lyrics like this:
Like Kurosawa I make mad films
Okay I don’t make films
But if I did they’d have a samurai
Gonna get a set of better clubs
Gonna find the kind with tiny nubs
Just so my irons aren’t always flying off the back swing
Gotta get in tune with Sailor Moon
Cause that cartoon has got the boom anime babes
That make me think the wrong thing
Subterranean Homesick Blues by Bob Dylan
“Subterranean Homesick Blues” has influenced many songs on this list: “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” (according to Molanphy), as well as the two immediately below this one. The video is a must-see. (By the way, from what Molanphy reported on Hit Parade, this comes in at about 129 words per minute verses R.E.M.’s 153 words per minute and Joel’s 104 words per minute.)
Bob by Weird Al Yankovic
It’s hard for me to pick a favorite song by Yankovic, but this is definitely high on my list. His Dylan impression is flawless, and the lyrics are brilliant.
Mediate by INXS
As I mentioned in the introduction, this song is slow enough that I’m hesitant to call it patter, although it certainly is a list song. Regardless, the video is clearly influenced by Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues.”
Águas de Março / Waters of March by Antônio Carlos Jobim
You can find excellent versions of this song in its original Portuguese, in English, or in both languages. The lyrics are mostly a list of words and phrases, making it, I imagine, hard to memorize:
A fish, a flash
A silvery glow
A fight, a bet
The range of a bow
The bed of the well
The end of the line
The dismay in the face
It’s a loss, it’s a find
In Portuguese, the phrases mostly begin with “it’s,” such as “It’s a fish, it’s a flash, it’s a shining silver.”
There’s no doubt that “Waters of March” is a list song. I would argue it also falls into the patter song category — at least when sung in Portuguese.
Did I miss any of your favorite popular patter songs?
Humorous songs have probably been around for almost as long as humans have been making music. From Weird Al Yankovic to the bizarre songs that get passed around on social media, comical tunes combine two pleasures: music and laughter.
While there’s plenty of fodder for posts on humor in music, I’m going to pick four of my favorite musical humorists to highlight in this post. I’ll start with the two that my readers are most likely to know and move on to two who are more obscure.
Peter Schickele/P.D.Q. Bach
I almost left Peter Schickele out of this post. I figured that everyone who loves classical music already knows about him, and those who don’t won’t care about him. In the end, I couldn’t omit him — it would be like leaving J.R.R. Tolkien off a list of fantasy authors. And maybe I’m wrong about his popularity, and I will actually lead someone new to discover his work!
Schickele is the humorist for people who love classical music. More than 50 years ago he created the character P.D.Q. Bach, supposedly the last of Johann Sebastian Bach’s many children. Since then, he has composed an enormous body of work under P.D.Q. Bach’s name. Nothing is sacred. Schickele shamelessly steals music from other composers with no regard to the era in which it was composed. One composition might incorporate references to Schubert, J.S. Bach, a folk song, and a television theme song.
For many Schickele fans, one of the best things about his P.D.Q. Bach compositions is his creative instrumentation. He’s used balloons, bicycles, mailing tubes, and wine bottles, among many other common objects. Even better, he’s invented instruments like the tromboon, a combination of a trombone and a bassoon, which Schickele describes as having “all of the disadvantages of both in one easy-to-schlep instrument.”
Schickele’s work extends beyond his P.D.Q. Bach compositions. He’s composed other humorous music under his own name, such as “Horse Opera for Brass Quintet,” as well as serious work, such as the film score for Silent Running. For several years he also had a radio program, Schickele Mix, which explored commonalities between several different musical pieces. One episode might include the last movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, an aria from Mozart’s “Le Nozze di Figaro,” Strauss’ “Blue Danube” waltz, “Me & Bobby McGee,” “Mambo No. 8,” a traditional polka, and several other songs, ranging from classical to popular music.
I don’t think anyone could achieve what Schickele has done without knowing music inside and out. If by any chance, you do not know Schickele, and if you enjoy any classical musical at all, I encourage you to take the time to listen to some of his vast body of work.
Tom Lehrer
I also debated including Tom Lehrer on this list. Again, who doesn’t know him? But I felt that leaving him out would be as much a crime as leaving out Schickele.
Lehrer is probably best known for his song “The Elements” — a list of the elements on the periodic table set to Gilbert and Sullivan’s “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General.”
A mathematics professor, Lehrer wrote a few other academic compositions, including “New Math.” But Lehrer is at his best when he’s being a little wicked — wicked enough that several of his songs were banned in different countries. His earliest songs were mostly just for fun, such as his popular “Poisoning Pigeons in the Park.”
When they see us coming,
The birdies all try and hide
But they still go for peanuts
When coated with cyanide.
In the 1960s, he was hired to write songs for That Was the Week That Was, so many of his songs became more political or news-related. He didn’t hesitate to skewer anyone on the right or left as he sang songs about the folk song movement, censorship, pollution, nuclear proliferation, and the Second Vatican Council.
First we got the bomb, and that was good,
‘Cause we love peace and motherhood.
From “Who’s Next?”
In the early 1970s, Lehrer created a handful of songs (a couple of which he sang) for The Electric Company. Soon after that, he decided to leave music behind. He didn’t write very many songs during the period he was an active musician, but much of what he wrote is gold.
Flanders and Swann
Now we’re entering into more unfamiliar territory. English musicians Michael Flanders and Donald Swann attended school together, where they wrote a musical revue in 1940. They began working together again in 1948. They wrote and performed as a comedy duo until 1967. Because their careers overlapped quite a bit with Lehrer’s, I can’t help but compare them to him. When I think of Lehrer, I think of a man with a wicked sense of humor. When I think of Flanders and Swann, I think of a pair who were masters of a gentler and sillier kind of comedy. After all, some of their best-known songs are the inoffensive and very singable “The Hippopotamus” and their amusing take on the finale of Mozart’s Horn Concerto No. 4, “Ill Wind.”
But while they may not have written an ode to smut like Lehrer did (at least, not as far as I know), Flanders and Swann weren’t all sweetness and innocence. Their song “Have Some Madeira, M’Dear,” is dark and disturbing, particularly in light of the #metoo movement.
That song aside, the pair had other things in common with Lehrer. Their songs included political satire (“All Gall” poked fun at Charles de Gaulle) and references to nuclear proliferation, although their “20 Tons of TNT” is far more somber than Lehrer’s “Who’s Next?”
Children have no need of sharing;
At each new nativity
Come the ghostly Magi bearing
Twenty tons of TNT.
And, like Lehrer, the duo even turned to science for inspiration.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VtEqn-5XHpU
I’m not sure that Flanders and Swann’s work has aged as well as Lehrer’s, which may account for their relative obscurity compared to him, even though they were far more prolific. But if they are new to you, you owe it yourself to look up some of their songs. Start with “The Gasman Cometh” and, if you enjoy classical music or ever played an instrument, “Ill Wind.” And if you have preschool-aged children, introduce them to some of Flanders and Swann’s animal songs — definitely “The Hippopotamus,” as well “The Gnu,” “The Warthog,” and “The Sloth.”
Anna Russell
Before there was Peter Schickele, there was Anna Russell. Not successful in opera or as a folk singer, Russell found her true calling when she started performing musical parody. Like Schickele, Russell is best appreciated by those who know classical music, though she also made references to subjects such as folk music and beat poetry (with jazz accompaniment).
While all of the performers I’ve listed here did a little spoken word performance, at least in terms of introductions, Russell’s work is a mix of music and spoken word. Her album Anna Russell, Encore? includes “The French Horn” and “How to Enjoy Your Bagpipe,” which are “lectures” on instruments. Other pieces are a combination of spoken word and music, such as her demonstration of lieder.
If you’re a fan of Schickele and don’t know Russell, you definitely should explore her work. And if you enjoy classical music but think too many people take it far too seriously, you will love Russell. Many of her albums can be purchased or streamed on Amazon and iTunes.
If I had a dog as pointy as these, I might name it Arrow.
If you haven’t listened to Harry Nilsson’s The Point! or watched the related cartoon, it’s time.
The Point is the story of Oblio, a child in the Pointed Village, where everyone and everything has a point. Born round, Oblio is the exception to the rule. Despite his well-known pointlessness, he manages to fit in fairly well. His mother has made him a pointed cap, which helps him look like everyone else. He also has a dog, Arrow, who teams up with him for the popular game Triangle Toss. Then he crosses the Count’s son and finds himself banished to the Pointless Forest. His journey through the forest convinces him that everything has a point (visible or not). Like The Princess Bride, the story is framed within a story of an adult reading to a child, complete with interruptions. There is a moral — errrr, point — to the story, but it doesn’t feel preachy.
The television show, which I saw at least once as a kid, is true to its time (1971). Its animation is basic but beautiful — in a very different way than, say, Miyazaki’s animation. It’s also pretty trippy. I wasn’t terribly surprised to learn that Nilsson conceived of the story while on acid. You’ll recognize many of the voices: Ringo Starr is the narrator (for the best-known version), Mike Lookinland is Oblio, and Paul Frees and Lennie Weinrib also contributed their talents. When I rewatched the video before writing this post, I found a moment that is cringe-worthy in its lack of sensitivity — a stereotype of a Chinese man during the first few seconds of “P.O.V. Waltz” — but otherwise the video is as watchable and relevant today as it was when it first came out.
The album is classic Nilsson. It includes “Me and My Arrow,” a song you may have heard even if you are unfamiliar with The Point. In fact, I was inspired to write this post because I recently heard that song in a store and found myself grinning ear-to-ear. I listened to my parents’ album over and over and am overjoyed to have found a man who shares my love for it. His commentary about and clips of The Point are far better than the official video trailer.
The Vinyl Geek recommends that you watch the video on YouTube and buy the vinyl album. I agree that the album is amazing. If you can get your hands on a good copy with the insert, by all means get it! But new copies of The Point! are not available, so unless you’re lucky enough to find a reasonably priced album in good condition, you may have to settle for the CD or MP3 version. (Since plenty of people are listening to vinyl again, I hope the album will be re-released, complete with the insert.) Rather than watching the video on YouTube, however, I’m going to encourage you to get it from Netflix (you’ll have to get it on disc) or see if your library has it. You can also purchase the DVD from Amazon.
Coincidence? I think not! Saint Sebastian by Antonello da Serravalle (bode.diee.unica.it) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Gian Carlo Menotti is primarily known as a composer of operas. He’s most famous for his children’s Christmas opera, Amahl and the Night Visitors. But he also composed other music, including the wonderful ballet Sebastian. I’ve never had the opportunity to see it performed; I’m not sure how often ballet companies produce it. But the music itself is beautiful.
Sebastian is most often heard as a seven-movement suite, which is what I’m recommending to you. Honestly, I’m not crazy about the only complete version of the ballet that’s currently available. The problem is largely one of personal preference; I grew up with a slightly different interpretation (probably Leopold Stokowski’s), and it has become cemented in my mind as the “right” version. Also, the suite is nearly as long as the complete ballet, so if you buy the suite, you aren’t missing much. I enjoy the recording by the Spoleto Festival Orchestra under Richard Hickox. I urge you to follow the advice of one Amazon reviewer: Get the music on disc, not as an MP3. The MP3 version leaves breaks between movements that shouldn’t be there.
The 20th-century classical music that I prefer tends to be melodic — think Aaron Copland, not John Cage. Menotti falls squarely into the melodic camp. Sebastian is gorgeous. Its movements range from “Street Fight,” the most contemporary-sounding piece in the collection, to the parade-like “Cortege” and the lyrical “Pavane.”
I became familiar with the plot of the ballet when I was young, but at the time, I didn’t see anything special about the name of the title character and his fate. Briefly, Sebastian is a slave who is in love with a courtesan in an Italian court. She, in turn, loves — and is loved by — the prince. The prince’s sisters do not approve of the courtesan and steal her veil in order to kill her through witchcraft. They plot to cover a wax figure with the veil and pierce it with arrows, thus killing the courtesan. Sebastian substitutes himself for the figure in order to save the courtesan, who lives happily ever after with her beloved prince.
Years later I became familiar with the many gruesome paintings of Saint Sebastian, pierced by arrows. Can there be any doubt that Menottti was making a reference to the saint?
If you only knew Menotti through Amahl and the Night Visitors, or if you didn’t know him at all, it’s time to listen to Sebastian. It’s woefully underappreciated.
I’m very fortunate to have grown up with parents who took me all sorts of places. We went on vacations to the beach and on picnics in the mountains, we went to museums and historic villages, we went to ballets and folk festivals. I am a woman with many interests because of my parents.
At one folk festival, a banjo player was kind enough to show me a couple of chords, even though I was only 10. That started my love affair with bluegrass.
I did go through a period of time in my teens when I kept my distance from the genre. Bluegrass seemed too much like country, which I completely disliked at the time. (I’m still not a big fan of country, but there are songs I enjoy.) The thing is, while bluegrass is associated with country music, it’s much more than that. When I ran across this quote by Bill Monroe, the “Father of Bluegrass,” I knew why bluegrass is so attractive to me: “[Bluegrass is] Scottish bagpipes and ole-time fiddlin’. It’s Methodist and Holiness and Baptist. It’s blues and jazz, and it has a high lonesome sound.”
In my 20s I stopped pretending bluegrass no longer interested me. When I discovered Bluegrass Saturday Morning on KBEM 88.5 FM, a Minneapolis radio station that usually plays jazz, I embraced the show. It runs on Saturdays (surprise!), 7-11 a.m. Central Time, and it’s immediately followed by a related hour-long show, Bluegrass Review.
Both shows are as wonderful as they are because of their host, Phil Nusbaum, an expert on bluegrass. He has broadened and deepened my understanding of the genre through his weekly selections and his commentary during these programs. When he retires (and I hope that won’t be for a while), the bluegrass world will experience a significant loss.
Until I started listening to Bluegrass Saturday Morning, my very limited knowledge of bluegrass was confined to more traditional tunes, like my favorite cut from the only bluegrass album I owned growing up.
While I still enjoy traditional songs, Nusbaum has introduced me to a wider range of bluegrass, and I’ve become a big fan of more modern covers of jazz and rock tunes, such as this take on “Caravan”:
You can stream Bluegrass Saturday Morning from anywhere with an Internet connection. Listen live at jazz88.fm. The show is archived for one week, so you can also stream it after it has aired. Bluegrass Review is a syndicated show which plays in 13 states and in Lanena, Tasmania, Australia. Like Bluegrass Saturday Morning, it is archived for one week.
If you’re new to bluegrass, I strongly suggest you listen for a while before giving up on it. There’s a pretty big difference between an old traditional tune from the 1940s and more a recent one, so it’s worth giving this genre some time instead of judging it from a couple of songs. Perhaps, like me, you’ll fall in love with it.
I became interested in jazz when I was in my teens, and of all the jazz musicians I admired, I was most in love with pianist Ahmad Jamal. One of my earliest jazz purchases was his album Digital Works. I’ve been fortunate enough to hear him live more than once at New Year’s Eve gigs in Washington, D.C.’s Blues Alley, as well as a performance at the Dakota in Minneapolis.
Jamal has been recording since the early 1950s and has continued to record into his 80s, fulfilling the stereotype of the long-lived jazz musician. He’s incredibly prolific, but of all the pieces he’s recorded over the decades, he is best known for his take on “Poinciana.”
What I love best about Jamal’s music is his lush style. I’ve never experienced synesthesia, but I do associate his music with the color green. There is a density to his sound that is unmistakably his own.
You can sample his music on his YouTube channel, on his website, or in this NPR post. Any of the working links on the NPR post are worth your while, but I especially recommend the last one, “Autumn Rain.” I first heard that song on his album Rossiter Road, which was released in 1986. I enjoyed the Rossiter Road version, but I think this more recent recording is better.
If you decide to purchase one of his (many) albums, I recommend you start with Digital Works. It opens with the beloved “Poinciana” and includes marvelous interpretations of “Midnight Sun” (possibly my favorite song on the album), “Footprints,” “Theme From M*A*S*H,” and “Wave.” His only composition on the album, “Biencavo,” is excellent.
Of course, despite the fact that Jamal is considered to be one of the most influential jazz pianists in the history of the genre, if jazz isn’t your thing, you may come away from listening to him in much the same frame of mind as a certain person in my life who accompanied me to the concert at the Dakota. When we left, I asked them what they thought. Their diplomatic reply? “It was jazz.”
I took an oblique path to Amanda Palmer’s fandom, though I know I’m not the only person to have done so. I had admired Neil Gaiman’s work for some time. When he mentioned her book on social media, I asked for it for Christmas. I read it a little over a year ago and was impressed with the way Amanda approached her art and fan base, so I decided to follow her on Twitter (warning: she occasionally swears) and become one of her Patreon patrons. I was interested in observing the way she approached the business side of her art. I’ve also wanted to be a patron of the arts since I was a young teenager, and since I’ve never become a fabulously wealthy woman who can donate thousands of dollars — or more — to artistic organizations, being one of Amanda’s patrons was an affordable way of attaining my dream.
Amanda creates beautiful work for her patrons on a regular basis. I’ve been treated to her cover of “Purple Rain,” her humorous dance song “On the Door,” and many other things. In one of her posts to patrons, she included a link to a song she had performed several years ago with Jason Webley: “Evelyn Evelyn.” As soon as I’d seen it, I decided that one day I would write about the beautiful videos that sometimes accompany her work.
Amanda enjoys collaborating with other artists — both musical and visual. As a result, some of the most gorgeous music videos I’ve ever seen have come from artists she has worked with to illustrate her songs. Not long after I became a patron, she released the video “1952 Vincent Black Lightning” with art by David Mack.
The song comes from an album she recorded with her father, You Got Me Singing. That album inspired more than just the David Mack video. Amanda released not one but two videos for “Wynken, Blynken & Nod.” The official video stars Amanda and Neil’s son, Ash, and involved a nightlong shoot while he was sleeping. The other video is a stop-motion animation done by Chiara Ambrosio, who also created the video for “Evelyn Evelyn.” It reminds me a little of In the Night Kitchen.
For Christmas, Amanda sent patrons a video for the Basque carol “The Angel Gabriel.” It was filmed in Havana and was created with a host of actors, dancers, and artists. I know that my readers have different religious views and different sensitivities to things like nudity. Amanda is not at all shy about nakedness, and that definitely shows up in this video: there are lots of bare breasts. Some people may find that offensive in general or may simply be bothered by nudity in a video with religious references. Although it’s not the best analogy, I’d say if you saw Jesus of Montrealand were uncomfortable with it, you may want to skip this, but if you were moved by it, you’ll probably enjoy this video as much as I did.
Amanda is generous with her work, so it should be no surprise that she has a robust YouTube channel that includes music, spoken word performance, interviews, and more. I feel bad about sprinkling warnings throughout a post about an artist’s work, but because I want to be sensitive to my readers’ viewpoints, I need to be clear that Amanda is very frank about sex and sexuality. For example, in the discordantly cheery “Oasis” she plays a young woman who was raped and had an abortion. I found it thought-provoking; other people might be disturbed by her approach. I certainly wouldn’t advise anyone to sit down with their six-year-old and roam freely over the site. If you would rather not view what you would not share with your child, then Amanda’s work is probably not for you. And that’s okay. But if you are intrigued by what I’ve shared with you, check out more of her work, and consider joining me as a patron.
If you were a jazz aficionado during the 1980s, you’ve probably heard of Rare Silk, although they only released three albums between 1983 and 1986. Along with Manhattan Transfer, they were considered one of the best jazz vocal groups at the time.
I only recently learned the history of the group when I ran across an article on what one of the founding members, MaryLynn Gillaspie, has been doing recently. Rare Silk started out as a trio of women who sang jazz standards with Benny Goodman, but eventually they added a male member, changed their style, and landed their first record contract with Polygram. The album, the Grammy-nominated New Weave, was my introduction to the group, and it is to my great sorrow that Polygram hasn’t seen fit to rerelease it. New Weave is their most traditional album, and there’s not a bad song on it. Their take on Freddie Hubbard’s “Red Clay,” which earned them one of their two 1984 Grammy nominations, is one of my favorites, but they also do wonderful interpretations of jazz standards like “Lush Life” and “Spain.” I also love their bubbly version of “Joy,” an instrumental work to which group member Todd Buffa added lyrics.
The group became more adventurous with AmericanEyes, also nominated for a Grammy. Perhaps the most impressive song is “Watch What Happens,” originally from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. They start the song with a wordless note, moving through seemingly random sounds into a percussion-like rhythm before the melody comes in and the group starts singing. It ends almost as it began, becoming percussive again and coming to a close with the same wordless note. Their interpretation of “Round Midnight” is also beautifully done.
One year later, they came out with their final album, Black & Blue. While they didn’t avoid using synthesizers in previous albums, this one is so synth-heavy that it sounds dated. It takes less than 10 seconds of the first song to know you’re listening to an album from the ’80s. The song “Argot” is particularly disappointing; the vocals take a back seat to the music, and the song ends much like “Watch What Happens.” The album isn’t horrible. I like “Playback” a lot, and the short and aptly named final song, “Over,” is excellent. But Black & Blue doesn’t live up to the quality of their first two albums, and I haven’t bothered to buy it.
The band broke up a couple of years after the third album was released — a huge loss to the jazz world. Manhattan Transfer has been around decades longer than Rare Silk, and they are a prolific group, but I’m not convinced that any of their output, wonderful as it may be, can best the first two Rare Silk albums.
If you want New Weave, you’ll have to get a used copy on CD or vinyl, but you can get American Eyes and, if you wish, Black & Blue, digitally. If you are a jazz lover (or even if you aren’t!) and you don’t know Rare Silk, you owe it to yourself to get acquainted.
As I wrote in a previous post, I want to use the “something wonderful” series to introduce readers to things they may not know about. That means that, despite the fact that I think Stevie Wonder is a musical genius, I didn’t feel I could add him to my list of possible topics. But last week Slate gave the world a gift in the form of Wonder Week, which gives me an excuse to write about Wonder anyway.
Wonder Week was conceived after Prince’s death, when Slate staff members decided it would be good to pay tribute to a musical genius while he or she was still alive. Their pick was none other than Wonder, and I couldn’t be happier about their choice.
My own appreciation for Wonder blossomed only recently. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know or enjoy his music. I even bought one of his albums when I was a teen. (I’d love to claim it was one of the ones from his classic period, but I’m afraid it was In Square Circle, which I bought because I was very into the schmaltzy song “Overjoyed.”) But I sort of took him for granted.
Then I experienced something akin to the rom-com trope where the protagonist realizes that they’ve been in love with their best friend all along. You know: All this time I’ve been chasing after X, and I’ve been taking you for granted! But you… you’ve always been there for me. How could I have been so blind?
In Wonder’s case, I read an interview with someone — I can no longer remember who — in which that person proclaimed Wonder a musical genius, and I found myself thinking, “Of course.” I started checking his music out from the library and once again buying it for myself, this time paying more attention to his peak years than I had when I was a teen. I noticed things about his music and the way others responded to it. I was in a consignment shop when “My Cherie Amour” came on. Not one of us in the store remained unaffected. We sang or hummed along; we danced a little (even though it is not a particularly “dance-y” song). Another time Sting’s “Brand New Day” came on the radio, and I found myself thinking, “The harmonica player has to be Stevie Wonder,” because his playing was so distinctive. Wonder’s music had always been very present in my life, but suddenly I’d gone from just enjoying the music to being a fan.
So of course I was very excited when Slate unveiled their week-long tribute to Wonder. I learned that he is a great drummer, and I was introduced to the Black “Happy Birthday” Song and the story behind it. I reveled in an essay written in appreciation of Wonder’s “Fozzie Bear voice,” and I discovered that the type of harmonica he uses is one reason his playing is so distinctive. I came away with an even deeper appreciation for a musician I already greatly admire.
So, yes, I’m endorsing a man who doesn’t need my endorsement: Stevie Wonder. But whether you are one of his fans or just find yourself tapping your foot to his music without stopping to think about what an amazing musician he is, you’ll find Slate’s Wonder Week worth your while. You’ll come away with new insights, and if you aren’t already in love with him, this just might be the push you need.
