The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys
Let me say something out of the blue—the original, studio version of “The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys” is one the best musical recordings ever made. Winwood is on piano, of course, but also the Hammond. The congas, drums, and bass move things along while we listen to Steve’s distinctive voice. (He wrote it along with band mate Jim Capaldi.) The far off, eerie sax, perhaps distorted by some newfangled, for the time, electronic device, is mesmerizing. And that final discordant note! This stuff, this intellectual and aural material, nourishes me.
[Update: while there is a sax in the mix here, the long solos in the 2nd half of the tune are apparently Winwood’s organ but piped through a fuzzbox.]
Of course, I may feel this way, assured of the recording’s greatness, because I listened to the wonderful, long, piece many, many times while at a certain age. Most often, perhaps, while I drove around rural southern Indiana in a large second-hand automobile with my friends. We may have consumed beer and/or weed, but that’s not certain.
Beyond any of that, however, I believe I feel so strongly about this piece due to my brain. The cells of that organ, being at a certain stage of development, absorbed the notes and words and sounds and rhythms and wove it in with my dreams and deep-seated feelings. And then all of that wonder was stored, saved in a special place, deep in the center of my cerebral matter. I’m not special—most people love the music of their youth.
But how was it that I purchased and listened to this particular album rather than some other, more mainstream, pop music of the era (circa 1980)? Perhaps it was due to the fact that Bloomington was a university town, and I ran around with sons and daughters of professors, or that the famous music school may have been an influence on our burg in some kind of micro-climate fashion. My range of LPs included Mingus, Coltrane, Miles Davis but also Blind Faith, Led Zeppelin, and Peter Frampton (due to the live album no doubt). I also had an affinity for Duane Alman’s artistry.
Whatever it was that led me to this music—something contingent on my surroundings, or found within my acquaintances, passed like a gift, or due to some other unperceived, random combination of things or influences that cannot possibly be perceived let alone calculated—I’m grateful for it.
Final thought—put this piece of music on the next intergalactic space probe, burned into an LP made of gold, and launch it into space. We should do this if we want extraterrestrials, those ultimate others, to have a decent opinion of our race. You can listen to it here.
