#vinylspinning

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Jerry Lee Lewis: “Breathless” / “Down the Line” (1958)

‘The Killer’ finally kicked the bucket this past of at the ripe old age of 87, leaving behind a complicated, controversial personal legacy (let’s not mince words here: he was a pretty shitty human) that unfortunately tended to overshadow his considerable impact upon 20th Century music.

Considerable, I might add, in spite of Jerry Lee Lewis’ altogether brief shelf-life as a mainstream 1950s rock & roll star, before his volatile behavior, insufferable nature, and mounting transgressions exiled him to the fringes of popular culture for his many remaining decades on Earth.

This exile, as it turns out, began not long after one of his all-time classic recordings arrived in February of 1958 (hence 65 years ago): the aptly-named “Breathless,” which I personally like even better than other legendary Killer sides like “Great Balls of Fire” and “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On.”

Originally composed by Otis Blackwell (a fount of numerous ‘50s rock standards), “Breathless” was Lewis’ fifth single overall, and, like all of its predecessors, was recorded at Sun Records’ Memphis studio by that visionary character, Sam Phillips.

And I’d like to call your attention to the dynamite performance of Sun’s in-house drummer Jimmy Van Eaton (still with us today!) who contributes almost as much to the song’s steamrolling power as Jerry Lee’s’ wild-eyed vocal histrionics and full-tilt-gonzo piano virtuosity (incidentally, Billy Lee Riley played guitar and J.W. Brown played bass).

All of these studio fireworks helped secured “Breathless” a 15-week run in the Billboard Hot 100, where it peaked at No. 7 that April, simultaneously reaching No. 3 on the R&B chart and No. 4 Country for a true crossover hit that later carried across the Atlantic, hitting No. 8 in the U.K.

And don’t sleep on the B-side (or was this a double A-side single?), “Down the Line,” which was originally written and recorded by Roy Orbison as “Go! Go! Go! (Down the Line),” back in 1956, and also charted for Jerry Lee, topping out at No. 51 Pop, No. 5 R&B, No. 9 Country, and No. 12 in the U.K.

Unfortunately, The Killer would never experience these chart peaks again, falling just a little short with his next hit in ‘58, “High School Confidential,” and then falling into widespread disgrace once the British press uncovered his shocking marriage to 13-year-old cousin, Myra Gale Brown.

This, as we know, was but the first of countless scandals that would follow the irascible, unpredictable, uncontrollable, but supremely talented Jerry Lee until the end of his days -- in which he failed to fulfill the young rocker’s preordained destiny and faded away instead of burning out (in a great ball of fire).

And yet, such was Jerry Lee Lewis’ ornery disposition and fiery lust for life that I’m pretty sure when death finally succeeded in leaving him breathless this past October, it had to take him in his sleep ... or else there would have been a fight!

More Jerry Lee Lewis: “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On,” Live at the Star Club, Hamburg.

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Rick Wakeman "No Earthly Connection" [A&M 1976]

VINYL CONNECTION

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Nirvana: “Sliver” / “Dive” (1990)

Nirvana were still virtual nobodies when they issued this 7-inch single in September of 1990 (January of ‘91 in the U.K.): Nevermind was still one year away, the band was still signed to Sub Pop, and Kurt Cobain was still eager to escape anonymity, instead of asking himself:

“Dear lord, what have I done?”

Like most people, I only heard “Sliver” and its B-side “Dive” “after the storm,” on the 1992 collection Incesticide, which was hastily assembled by DGC to capitalize on rock music’s biggest global phenomenon since Guns n’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction, back in ‘87.

Of course, the fallout of Nirvana’s incredible and unexpected rise, tragically culminating in Cobain’s tragic 1994 suicide, would make the petty dramas that tore up Gn’R look like a pathetic soap opera, but let’s not get into that ... 

Back in the summer of 1990, Nirvana were just another indie band from Seattle, wrapping up the modest promotional push behind their ‘89 debut album, Bleach, when they decided to sneak into Reciprocal Recording with producer Jack Endino -- allegedly while the members of Tad were taking their lunch break.

Notably, it was Mudhoney drummer Dan Peters who accompanied Kurt and bassist Krist Novoselic that day, briefly supplanting Nirvana’s already departed original drummer Chad Channing, before Dave Grohl entered the picture (Grohl would later appear in the “Sliver” music video).

As for the song’s relentless melodicism (and excessive repetition), it was a clear sign-post pointing to Nevermind’s amped-up accessibility, and there was also a refreshingly directness to its, dare-I-say, “cute” lyrics about a boy left with his grandparents who throws a tantrum and begs: “Grandma take me home!”

But Cobain intentionally chose a random, confusing title for the song because, as quoted by biographer Michael Azerrad, “I had a feeling if I called it ‘Sliver,’ most people would call it ‘Silver’” -- further evidence that Kurt was, not only a musical genius, but an insufferable little shit.

“Dive,” meanwhile, was a grinding sludge-fest reminiscent of the already fading Bleach period, so this 7-inch, in retrospect, was an evident stepping stone towards Nirvana’s unlikely jump, from underground hopefuls to grunge superstars.

What’s that old saying about big things sometimes arriving in small packages?

More Nirvana: Bleach, Nevermind, In Utero.

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Ozzy Osbourne: No More Tears (1991)

This blog brings both good news and bad, but mostly good ...

Good news is 1991’s No More Tears is nowadays almost unanimously and justifiably recognized as the best Ozzy Osbourne solo album without Randy Rhoads, by which I obviously mean 1980′s stone cold classic Blizzard of Ozz and ‘81’s Diary of a Madman, my personal favorite.

Bad news is No More Tears may also be the last Osbourne solo LP most, or at least multi-platinum-certified numbers of people really cared about, or can even remember, though I myself like a nice chunk of ‘95’s subsequent Ozzmosis, and after that I don’t give a crap.

Sorry Ozz, but my dog does bear your name ...

But seriously: Osbourne’s sixth solo LP was recorded under the usual veil of secrecy and controversy, rumors of drug abuse, and head-scratching decisions like a surprise visit from ‘Lemmy the Lyricist’ (more about that later), and the re-re-RE-enlisting of long-suffering bassist and song doctor Bob Daisley.

In other words, a typical Osbourn-ian melodrama appeared to be brewing but, for once, the music made it all worthwhile.

Let’s start with Zakk Wylde (the best Rhoads replacement model yet!), who’d put in such a promising rookie showing on 1988’s uneven No Rest for the Wicked, and was now ready to flower into full-fledged guitar hero, more than capable of taking the car keys from the old man’s unsteady hands.

Wylde’s viscous, vicious guitar tone virtually overwhelms (but in a good way) head-banging highlights like the creepy “Mr. Tinkertrain,” the mission statement “I Don’t Want to Change the World,” and the underrated “S.I.N.” (a.k.a. “Won’t Be Coming Home (S.I.N.)”): stupid name, but bulldozer of a song!

No More Tears also yielded a pair of brand new Osbourne standards in the hit ballad “Mama, I’m Coming Home,” and the unforgettable title track, whereupon Daisley had his way (and his revenge) with that signature, pulsing, hypnotic bass line, ironically co-written by the temporarily sidelined (get used to it, kid!) Mike Inez.

Next there’s the matter of our old pal and ace lyricist Lemmy, whose nest-egg-ensuring contributions like “Mama ...” and “Change” were augmented by more choice words for album cuts “Desire” and “Hellraiser," which was later recorded for Motörhead’s ‘92 March or Die album.

And then comes the filler, although “Time After Time” is just one slow song too many, “Zombie Stomp” a little too close to home (even for Ozzy!), and it’s the senseless “A.V.H.” that has absolutely no reason to exist -- all of it luckily salvaged by another anthemic, bulletproof lament to lunacy in “Road to Nowhere.”

All in all: No More Tears had more than enough that was 'good,’ and precious little that was ‘bad,’ to reconfirm Ozzy’s status -- if it were ever in doubt -- as both headliner and the ‘Prince of Darkness,’ entering the Top 20 and selling over four million units in America, second only to Blizzard of Ozz.

However, barely one year after the album’s triumphant release, Osbourne seemed headed for retirement, even performing a supposed farewell show with members of Black Sabbath in what now looks like, either a cheap publicity stunt or a carefully orchestrated bait-and-switch meant to derail Sabbath’s recent reunion with Ronnie James Dio.

In any case, there would, in fact, be ‘more tears’ in the future for all involved.

p.s. -- I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I finished this blog without mentioning the great Randy Castillo, who made his last studio appearance with Ozzy on this LP and sadly passed away in March of 2002 -- wow, over twenty years ago already.

More Ozzy Osbourne: “Crazy Train,” Blizzard of Ozz, Diary of a Madman, Live EP, Speak of the Devil, “Bark at the Moon,” Bark at the Moon, The Ultimate Sin, Tribute, No Rest for the Wicked, Miracle Man EP.

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Led Zeppelin: Coda (1982)

Although it brought some much needed closure to heartbroken Led Zeppelin fans (and record label accountants), roughly two years after John Bonham’s and the band’s mutual demise (and 40 years ago -- gulp!), Coda is still one of those typically patchy ‘odds and sods’ collections.

Meaning, for those of you unfamiliar with this admittedly archaic term, that it was comprised of once rejected studio outtakes and therefore lacked both the quality and cohesion of a proper studio album, let alone a greatest hits set.

That being said, even if you don’t place every last Led Zep LP on a pedestal (I certainly don’t do that with either 1976’s Presence or ‘79’s In Through the Out Door), at the end of the day, we’re still talking about the ‘Hammer of the Gods’ here!

So, of course there was lingering magic dust to Bonham’s percussive persistence on “Poor Tom” (originally recorded in 1970), Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones’ stair-climbing riffs on “Ozone Baby” (‘78), and Robert Plant’s fighting words and Page’s piss and vinegar licks on Zep’s response to punk rock, “Wearing and Tearing” (‘78).

Rather more ‘mortal’ were ‘72’s “Walter’s Walk” (actually more of a sprint), ‘78’s “Darlene” (a not quite fully committed ‘50s rocker), and the 1970 Royal Albert Hall performance of “I Can’t Quit You Baby” (which is pretty great but not exactly rare).

But I’ve got little love for either 1970’s “We’re Gonna Groove” ( it’s like “a full-body dry heave set to music -- Sweet Fancy Moses!”) or ‘76’s drum 'orchestra.’ “Bonzo’s Montreux,” which Page and Bonham assembled at that alpine town’s Mountain Studios during the latter’s lonely tax exile.

What I can’t understand (though there’s probably a logical explanation) is why Coda’s original vinyl pressing didn’t include the “Immigrant Song” single B-side, “Hey, Hey, What Can I Do” (‘70), the stunning live version of “White Summer/Black Mountain Side” (‘69), or the fantastic reimagining of Robert Johnson’s “Traveling Riverside Blues” (‘69) -- all of which were added its ‘90s CD reissues and the Zeppelin box set.

At least there was an excuse for another belated CD bonus cut, ‘68’s “Baby Come On Home,” which was lost for decades, as well as subsequent additions like ‘69’s “La La” and ‘70’s “St. Tristan’s Sword,” which were never really finished and basically scrape the bottom of the barrel.

In any case and no matter how you spin it (figuratively or literally), I think there’s little doubt that, ‘odds and sods’ or not, Coda’s far-from-perfect vinyl iteration nevertheless remains a near-essential final ‘passage’ in the Led Zeppelin oeuvre for all serious collectors.

More Led Zeppelin: Led Zeppelin, Led Zeppelin II, Led Zeppelin III, “Immigrant Song,” Led Zeppelin IV, Houses of the Holy, Physical Graffiti, Presence, The Song Remains the Same, In Through the Out Door. 

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Motörhead: Iron Fist (1982)

Motörhead’s incredible -- and unlikely -- career hot streak, which had seen them rise from “worst band in the world” insults to the very top of the U.K. charts with 1981’s No Sleep ‘til Hammersmith, came to a disappointing end 40 years ago, with the release of the highly inconsistent Iron Fist.

Also the final product recorded by the ‘classic’ power trio of Ian ‘Lemmy’ Kilmister (vocals/bass), ‘Fast’ Eddie Clarke (guitar), and Philthy ‘Animal’ Taylor, Motörhead’s fifth studio album showed that the group’s amphetamine-riddled, high-decibel formula was getting just a little bit tired.

And “tired” was also the operative word to describe the men themselves, as the relentless touring and recording schedule undertaken over the previous half-decade seemed to be finally catching up with even the fastest band in metal ... sorry, Lemmy, rock ‘n’ roll.

Consequently, personal tensions were also mounting, and when Ace of Spades producer Vic Maille butted heads with Clarke and split, the guitarist was ill-advisedly allowed to take over production duties for the sessions and, well, Iron Fist’s end results tell the story.

Yes, the title track remains a top ten all-time Motör-banger, bursting with every textbook and timeless ingredient of the trio’s patented, sub-three-minute hell-raising -- the likes of which was teaching countless teething future thrashers how to run before they crawled.

Besides this undeniable standard, I’d also give “Heart of Stone,” “Sex & Outrage,” “Speedfreak,” and “(Don’t Let ‘em) Grind Ya Down” high marks, ranking them somewhere below the band’s loftiest achievements, but that’s still only five songs out of twelve!

And while I’m fanatical enough to bestow honorable mentions upon “I’m the Doctor” and “Bang to Rights,” the remaining balance frankly ranges from mediocre (“Go to Hell,” “Loser,” “Shut it Down”) to plain god-awful (“America,” the poor man’s “Cat Scratch Fever” of “(Don't Need) Religion”).

Released in April of ‘82 amidst a sold-out British tour that saw Motörhead’s legendary Bomber lightning rig replaced with -- you guessed it -- a metallic, hydraulic fist that flipped audiences the bird when it malfunctioned, the album raced up the U.K. charts and peaked at No. 6.

But when the band kicked off their North American tour in May, Clarke lasted just two shows before tendering his resignation, and erstwhile Thin Lizzy and Wild Horses guitarist Brian Robertson had to be flown in to help complete the tour, then stuck around for ‘83’s Another Perfect Day LP.

As Lemmy would later reflect in his memoir: “Eddie used to leave the band every two months, but this time we didn't ask him back -- that surprised him a bit.”

“Looking back,” he continued, “it was good for us that we fell apart when we did. We wouldn't have been going now if we had carried on getting more and more famous. It's important for a band to be hungry ... and if anyone knows about being hungry for long periods of time, it's me.”

So, whether you love or hate this album, or, like me, find yourself torn right down the middle, it’s safe to say that Iron Fist marked the end of an era for Motörhead -- one of many, but surely the most important, talked-about, and celebrated in their long career.

More Motörhead: Motörhead, "Overkill," Overkill, Bomber, "Bomber," Ace of Spades, Beer Drinkers & Hell Raisers EP, St. Valentine’s Day Massacre EP, No Sleep ‘til Hammersmith, Another Perfect Day, Killed by Death EP, No Remorse, Orgasmatron, Rock ‘n’ Roll, 1916, Bastards, Sacrifice, Snake Bite Love, We Are Motörhead, Hammered, Inferno, Motörizer, Aftershock, Bad Magic.

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Lucifer’s Friend: ... Where the Groupies Killed the Blues (1972)

The eponymous debut album from Germany’s Lucifer’s Friend is a cherished collector’s item amongst dedicated hard rock cognoscenti, who find its fiery proto-metallic excursions and unmistakable cover art -- half cryptic, half comical -- utterly irresistible.

So the band was wise to include a pint-sized replica of its popular odd couple (a towering Frankestein’s Gangster and a vertically-challenged Uncle Fester) on the otherwise stark, black-on-white sleeve of their amusingly named sophomore LP, 1972’s ... Where the Groupies Killed the Blues.

That visual and thematic continuity was especially important because this 50-year-old release is where Hamburg natives Peter Hesslein (guitar), Peter Hecht (keyboards), Dieter Horns (bass), Joachim Rietenbach (drums), plus British singer John Lawton, decided to flex their progressive rock muscles.

Not content to limit their songwriting to solid heavy rockers like “Hobo” (a compact throwback to the underground classic “Ride the Sky”) and “Prince of Darkness” (paging Mr. Osbourne ... Mr. Osbourne to the bat-phone, please), they embraced the ‘anything goes’ philosophy espoused by their label, Vertigo (*), instead.

At times, this was entirely justified, as when the evocative “Burning Ships” sails out of the darkness with booming foghorn and somber acoustics on its way to a powerful electric catharsis; or when “Mother” swerves into a fusion mid-section, complete with strings and enough time signatures to tie you up in knots, prior to a soothing neoclassical finale.

But the thing about prog (quality prog, anyway) is that you can’t simply wander into the studio and woodshed your way to genius, and both the title track (possibly an influence on Kansas) and “Rose on the Vine” (which literally dies there) cover a hell of a lot of ground without actually getting anywhere.

And the closing, orchestrally-backed “Summerdream” (in two parts: “Delirium” and “No Reason or Rhyme”) never transcends its inspirational debts to King Crimson, The Move, and Lawton’s future landing spot, Uriah Heep, among others, to give Lucifer’s Friend an individual style.

Rather, like many courageous explorers of the vintage prog-rock era, Lucifer’s Friend would soon learn that creativity and musicianship alone were simply not enough to craft songs that were adventurous, distinctive, and memorable (the focus shown on their debut was missing), let alone to succeed in a hit-driven music business.

But the band, to their credit, rarely looked back and refused to sit still, chucking in their art rock ways for plain and simple boogie (think Grand Funk Railroad) on their third LP, 1973’s I’m Just a Rock & Roll Singer, then veering into full-blown jazz fusion for ‘74’s Banquet, and exploring a brain-twisting combination of all these strains on ‘76’s Mind Exploding.

I’ll say!

It was at this point that Lawton quit to replace David Byron in Uriah Heep, and Lucifer’s Friend sought out former Colosseum II frontman Mike Starrs to replace him, but their subsequent albums were both sporadic and eclectic (now as trend-followers instead of leaders) and frankly best forgotten.

* Though not so much their U.S. partners, Passport Records, which went to the trouble of flipping the European pressing’s track-listing on its head, but did little else to promote Lucifer’s Friend stateside.

More Lucifer’s Friend: Lucifer’s Friend, plus Asterix’s Asterix.

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Jimi Hendrix: Blues (1994)

April 20th, a.k.a. Cannabis Culture Day, snuck up on me this year, but I think this record is a pretty good fit ...

There’s always been some controversy surrounding 1994’s simply named Blues, which is a shame because it has little (and note that “little” is more than “nothing”) to do with the music, but rather the epic, decade-spanning struggle for control over Jimi Hendrix’s legacy.

Starting with his passing at the fateful age of 27, in September of 1970, Jimi’s catalog was subjected to wanton exploitation and outright malfeasance, culminating in the catalog’s sale to MCA without the consent of his father, Al, who promptly filed suit with financial backing from none other than Microsoft founder and fan Paul Allen.

Yet even while the battle raged in court, finally returning control to Al (who later bequeathed them to his adopted stepdaughter, Janie, removed Jimi’s brother, Leon, and launched another decade of intra-family bitterness), MCA wasted no time seeding the marketplace with a series of CD reissues.

First came deluxe editions of the three studio albums released during Hendrix’s lifetime, then a greatest hits set dubbed The Ultimate Experience, and then Blues: a collection of eleven songs recorded between 1966 and 1970, eight of which had never before seen official release.

Such a complicated story for such a simple premise: the greatest electric guitarist who ever lived revisiting the elemental building blocks of rock and roll.

So it’s fitting that the album starts with Jimi in rare, 12-string acoustic, Delta blues mode for his classic “Hear My Train a’ Comin’,” (*) and ends with an epic, cathartic electric version of the same number, originally found on 1971’s posthumous Rainbow Bridge LP.

It’s like listening to most of what constituted 20th Century guitar-playing in just two recordings.

In between, Jimi pays tribute to Albert King (“Born Under a Bad Sign”), Elmore James (“Bleeding Heart”), Muddy Waters and Bo Diddley (on the hybrid “Mannish Boy”), alongside some of his own contributions to the blues cannon, in the wah-wah-driven “Jam 292” and the creeping “Once I had a Woman.”

Another pair of notables -- “Voodoo Chile Blues” and “Electric Church Red House” -- come with major caveats, as they were studio concoctions marrying different performances, Frankenstein’ed by producer Alan Douglas, so it’s impossible to completely ignore their dubious provenance.

Not least because the blues is so damn pure and elemental -- at least from a rocker’s rose-tinted retrospective perspective -- and what could be purer than bringing it all full circle through Jimi’s incomparable talents?

Well, as we know, nothing is simple when it comes to the Hendrix catalog, which continues to yield all manner of “new” material for his insatiable fans, some of it legit, some of it questionable, but most of it irresistible, irrefutable, and almost always essential.

* The audio was ripped directly from the now priceless Joe Boyd-directed Experience documentary.

More Jimi Hendrix: “Purple Haze,” Are You Experienced?, Axis: Bold as Love, Band of Gypsys, Electric Ladyland, The Cry of Love, First Rays of the New Rising Sun, South Saturn Delta, Valleys of Neptune, Machine Gun: The Fillmore East First Show, Hollywood Bowl, August 18, 1967.