One of the mightiest – and most beautiful – voices in the history of Rock and Roll has been silenced. Linda Ronstadt has disclosed, in an interview with AARP that was posted on their page earlier today, that she has lost the ability to sing due to an undiagnosed Parkinson’s disease. What a horror – not knowing what’s ailing you, or misdiagnosing yourself (her hands began trembling soon after a shoulder operation years ago, which she assumed was the cause).
This is sad for those of us who have been fans of her perfect, clarion voice for decades. The scope of her work spans more than just the Rock and Country genres she’s excelled in starting in the late 1960 lasting through the early Aughts – from Opera to Broadway; from the traditional orchestrated Pop of Nelson Riddle to her roots-based, familial Mariachi collections; from the classic collaborative “Trio” albums (where Ronstadt’s supernal gift was matched with the supreme vocals of Dolly Parton and Emmylou Harris) back to the top of the Pop charts with Aaron Neville; from her “Western Wall: The Tuscan Sessions” (with Emmylou again) to her recent wonderful allying with folk singer Ann Savoy (2006’s “Adieu, False Heart”) – her canon is rich with superlative, archetypal work. (Her 2000 Christmas release, “A Merry Little Christmas” is one of the most haunting holiday releases and is on replay at my home during the season.)
The half-talents and harlots of today aren’t worthy to be mentioned in the same breath as Ronstadt. But if there is anything good that can come from this awful news it’s that hopefully a new generation will rediscover her extraordinary body of work and revel in the voice that has thrilled and enchanted millions for decades.
Another master has walked through the gates of Rock n Roll heaven. Richie Havens, who came to prominence as the opening act of the Woodstock Festival (though a seminal force of the 60s folk music scene) has left us. He wasn’t a household name as the years progressed, but should have been. The gruff, hypnotic consistency of his voice beautifully juxtaposed the textured layers of his gorgeous rhythm guitar playing – which was both delicate and abrasive – and words he sang as bold as a lion and lovely as a lamb.
He famously covered the Beatles’ “Here Comes The Sun” and, if you pardon the cliche, made it his own. I was recently reveling in his album “Mixed Bag” – as I have so many times over the years. Released in 1967, it’s often considered his finest album – it consisted of his near-classic cover versions of Gordon Lightfoot’s “I Can’t Make It Anymore,” the Beatles’ (again) “Eleanor Rigby” and one of the definitive versions of Bob Dylan’s “Just Like A Woman.” He was one of the preeminent interpretative singers.
My favorite track on the album is one of my favorite songs of all time – it never fails to bring a tsunami of emotions into my heart – it simultaneously leaves me in a contemplative state of reverie and bittersweet nostalgia. It was written by Jerry Merrick and Havens makes it live with his elucidation.
And as I write this, that song, “Follow,” is wafting from my iTunes and into my soul. Much like Havens’ voice has for most of my life.
Rest in peace, song man. You will be missed.
Let the river rock you like a cradle
Climb to the treetop, child, if you’re able
Let your hands tie a knot across the table.
Come and touch the things you cannot feel…
And close your fingertips and fly where I can’t hold you
Let the sun-rain fall and let the dewy clouds enfold you
And maybe you can sing to me the words I just told you…
If all the things you feel ain’t what they seem.
Then don’t mind me ‘cos I ain’t nothin’ but a dream…
The mocking bird sings each different song
Each song has wings – they won’t stay long.
Do those who hear think he’s doing wrong?
While the church bell tolls its one-note song
And the school bell is tinkling to the throng.
Come here where your ears cannot hear…
And close your eyes, child, and listen to what I’ll tell you
Follow in the darkest night the sounds that may impel you
And the song that I am singing may disturb or serve to quell you
If all the sounds you hear ain’t what they seem,
Then don’t mind me ‘cos I ain’t nothin’ but a dream…
The rising smell of fresh-cut grass,
Smothered cities choke and yell with fuming gas;
I hold some grapes up to the sun
And their flavour breaks upon my tongue.
With eager tongues we taste our strife
And fill our lungs with seas of life.
Come taste and smell the waters of our time.
And close your lips, child, so softly I might kiss you,
Let your flower perfume out and let the winds caress you.
As I walk on through the garden, I am hoping I don’t miss you
If all the things you taste ain’t what they seem,
Then don’t mind me ‘cos I ain’t nothin’ but a dream…
The sun and moon both are right,
And we’ll see them soon through days of night
But now silver leaves on mirrors bring delight.
And the colours of your eyes are fiery bright,
While darkness blinds the skies with all its light.
Come see where your eyes cannot see.
And close your eyes, child, and look at what I’ll show you;
Let your mind go reeling out and let the breezes blow you,
Then maybe, when we meet, suddenly I will know you.
If all the things you see ain’t what they seem,
Then don’t mind me ‘cos I ain’t nothin’ but a dream…
And you can follow…and you can follow…follow…
In 1998, twenty-two minutes after she was asked to cover for her ailing friend, Luciano Pavarotti, Aretha Franklin walked on stage at the Grammy Awards to perform the legendary aria “Nessun Dorma.” With little time to prepare Franklin performed the aria as is. In Pavarotti’s key. No one knew what to expect. No one knew what he or she was about to witness.
That performance begets one of the most extraordinary musical moments in awards show history, in a canon as mammoth. It brought the audience to a thunderous ovation and remains, in my opinion, the greatest performance in the history of the Grammy Awards.
Happy 70th Birthday to Aretha Franklin, the Queen of Soul.
Without much commentary (these aren’t full reviews, after all, rather succinct/impetuous – depending on who you ask – musings), I’m always loathe to list my favorites in any particular order – I’ve lived with each of these albums more than any other throughout the year, so it’s hard to commit to such a limited inventory. So take the order of the listing merely as what pops into my head while typing. Save for the first three of four, which if I had to choose would be my Top 3 or 4, all equally warrant your attention. (Same can be said for the shit way below.)
Baker’s Dozen Plus: My Favorite Albums of 2012
LOUDON WAINWRIGHT III Older Than My Old Man Now The ghosts surround Wainwright on his latest collection; the ghosts of his old man, the specter of a former sex life, the ectoplasm of his failed marriages and the brokenness of his relationship with his children, and the ghost of mortality itself. With his only peers probably Dylan and Cohen – though his sense of humour has always surpassed their dour sensibilities – no one else has ever dared create a cycle of historical familial strife so funny, pungent, bittersweet, and obvious, while employing said family on the cycle itself.
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EMELI SANDE Over Version OfEvents As with any great modern singer, the influences only inspire, and as with any great soul singer, that inspiration is divine. While miniscule British imports abound on the charts and over the airwaves, Sande’s American near-anonymity is a crime.
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FUN. Some Nights A hook-infused smorgasbord of melodious, bombastic choruses, cryptic sweeping verses, self-help placards, and Nate Ruess’ glorious range and tone – the singular male vocalist of the year. An exhilarating exercise in grandiosity.
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PINK The Truth About Love She morphed from the next evolution of teen pop to steadfast hitmaker – and songwriter extraordinaire – four albums ago. What makes The Truth About Love almost perfect is the way it makes us wonder if these 13 tracks are autobiographical or if she’s merely an oracle for today’s women-on-the-verge. Then of course, there’s that voice.
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KENDRICK LAMAR good kid, m.A.A.d city A documentary of potency and importance, the narrative is deep, the stories resonant, and the skill sonorous, this is the ‘concept’ album (or “short film” as he titled it) of the year in a year littered with throwaways and ringtone rap. With his riveting eye and pen, Lamar raises a bar that desperately needed raising.
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IRIS DEMENT Sing The Delta After 15 years – following a great debut with two classics (Infamous Angel, My Life and The Way I Should respectively) and a curious 2004 gospel-tinged covers collection (Lifeline) – DeMent has no grand proclamations to make, rather her still-perfect drawl settles on the simplicity of her own self. More gorgeous, more cerebral, more breathtaking with each listen.
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SPOEK MATHAMBO Father Creeper Epochal collection from talented Johannesburg wordsmith. The amalgamation of hip hop, electronica, rock and rap and dubstep is intentionally dizzying and despaired, brutal and beautiful – like the tales he weaves throughout this exceptional album.
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TODD SNIDER Agnostic Hymns & Stoner Fables A more valid source for political commentary than any legit news source and that’s probably not what Snider wants to hear; he’s first a master storyteller – and a damned-well sardonically brilliant one at that – documenting our humanity, or lack thereof, more precisely, and more hilariously, than none other.
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FRANK OCEAN channel ORANGE After self-releasing his masterpiece nostagiaULTA last year (my favorite album of 2011), channel ORANGE became the cause celebre of 2012 and deserving of all it’s accolades, Ocean has created an intense, formless, brave and archetypal collection – for a modern Soul maestro still sojourning his way to nirvana, it’s visionary.
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SINEAD O’CONNOR How About I Be Me (And You Be You) Sadly mostly a tabloid footnote in the decades since she jettisoned into the public consciousness, this is her most striking, haunting, gorgeous and coherent since then. There’s still that voice, aged but still both ethereal and a mammoth force of nature, and there are the songs themselves, confessionals (of course), private but universal.
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BRUNO MARS Unorthodox Jukebox Circumventing the sophomore slump is a prodigious task when the debut is an indelibleclassic. But Unorthox Jukebox is another slice of musical heaven, a collection of dance-pop masters, Soul tour-de-forces, and a soupcon of disco-infused gems.
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FIONA APPLE The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do Were we really ready for a mature, fully realized Fiona Apple release? Sure, the vagaries of her pen often need cryptanalysis, but as it flows and coalesces, it’s epiphanous. And she never panders to anyone, least of all herself – she rarely, if ever, sounded so sure, so potent while singing about uncertainty, jealousy, obsession, solitude or revenge.
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BETTYE LAVETTE Thankful N’ Thoughtful A half-century into this, and almost a decade into her renaissance, LaVette hasn’t dissipated her intensity, her funk or her master interpretations. Her Soul – and soul – aches and thrives.
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Honorable Mentions:
SOLANGE True / AZEALIA BANKS 1991 (tie) It might be cheating summing these up as a tie, but since they’re both EPs (7 and 4 tracks, respectively) I’ll do as I deem worthy. If longevity escapes Banks, it would be a shame – not only does she possess the mightiest skills of any rapper this year, but her dextrous wordplay would give the most seasoned pro pause. Sure, she’s a potty mouth. That’s called love. Solange, dimmed in the spotlight of her megastar sister (that would be Beyonce, to the uninformed) and her long-time collaborator, Dev Hynes, crystallize the past and the future with the present; he supplies the grooves that coalesce, but they wouldn’t be as sumptuous without her perfectly, intentionally restrained vocals. “True” is a precursor to a full-lengther that drops in January. If it’s half as determined and realized, it’ll be worthy come award season. And, also:
ADAM LAMBERT Trespassing, JAPANDROIDS Celebration Rock, PATTI SMITH Banga, BETH HART Bang Bang Boom Boom (import – the domestic release drops in April 2013), BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN Wrecking Ball, MIGUEL Kaleidoscope Dream, MADONNA MDNA, NEIL YOUNG Americana, AMADOU & MARIAM Folia, MACY GRAY Covered, LEONARD COHEN Old Ideas
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Dirty Dozen: The 12 Worst Albums of 2012
CHRIS BROWN Fortune Sometimes you have to separate the ‘art’ from the ‘artist’ and judge the work independently. But when a supercilious shithead (consistently) releases execrable shit, then all bets are off.
CHRISTINA AGUILERALotus A cacophonous, tuneless assortment only her fans could love. (Hey, where are her fans?)
CARRIE UNDERWOODBlown Away Four – count ’em four – duds in a row for this shrill chanteuse, this isn’t her usual apocryphal shit for Country fans – it’s an emboldened (in theory, at least) manufactured pop machination masqueraded as country-politan dreck for the beyond-Idol audience of her dreams. And those arena-rock fantasies have been fulfilled. That’s okay, though. Artistically, she’ll never be Miranda Lambert.
MAROON 5 Overexposed A decade ago, Adam Levine forged his Stevie Wonder delusions, selling blanched white R&B-influenced pop wholesale. Soon thereafter, he laboriously morphed his group into an auto-tuned homologous dance bad, indistinguishable from the consortium of such ilk, with Levine’s ubiquity the key ingredient to their charting mainstay, as this collection of atonal musings solidifies. Consumer fraud alert.
RACHEL MCFARLANDHaley Sings Big brother Seth’s “Music Is Better Than Words” was passionless, (unintentionally) hilarious, and wan. Apparently bequeathed traits. Particularly when sung by a cartoon character.
TRAIN California 37 Tolerable as a singles act (with the eternal “Drops Of Jupiter” their crest), they’ve defined corporate pop-rock for years. But who would’ve thought that a departing guitarist would relegate them to the dustbins? No hook in sight by a California mile.
KREAYSHAWN Something Bout Kreay Subbasement white-girl (c)rap mixed with bargain-basement production, she blessedly managed to diminish a guaranteed 15 Minutes of Fame into about 8, maybe 9. Good riddance.
GEOFF TATE Kings and Thieves At least, back in the day, Tate’s vacuous voice evoked a yearn to escape the lunkhead metal of his sub-genre, he now sounds like complete shit – which would be okay if the material best suited his goal. Self-parody is never sadder when derived from the already parodied world from whence you came. I mean, come on! Wasn’t Queensryche jokey enough?
OWL CITY The Midsummer Station Adam Young’s offensive Ben Gibbard For Morons has long outlasted his (un)welcome; he’d be a full-blown menace to society if anyone cared enough to purchase – or buy into – his shit.
ONE DIRECTION Take Me Home I don’t object Simon Cowell’s crass commercialism – hell, every “boy band” from the Monkees to Backstreet Boys was manufactured for mass appeal. It’s 1Ds passionless readings of even the most banal lyrics that’s most offensive. One-ups their debut in chutzpah, though.
AEROSMITH Music From Another Dimension With the promise to the return of their signature style, I was disappointed with the news – sure, their drug-induced canon created some great American rock n roll in the 70s, but there’s a special place in my heart for their cheesey comeback for the ages that started in the late 80s, which cross-channeled sexy geezer attitude with bubblegum MTV pop to varying degrees of delicious audacity. Then, as their stars faded once again, Tyler found Nigel Lythgoe and after two heinous seasons as the resident perverted sycophant, which included a solo atrocity even Idol wannabes scoffed at, they release what I pray is the final stopgap into the catacombs of history. Whose, title, by the way, is the most misleading in their existence.
WILSON PHILLIPS Dedicated Lifeless necrophilia masqueraded as parental homage.
Rest In Peace, Fontella Bass. The singer – most known for her Aretha Franklin-sounding soul classic “Rescue Me” – passed away at the age of 72 from complications resulting from a heart attack she suffered a month earlier.
After this week’s searing, fiery tears of unfathomable horror, I stayed away from FB and Twitter for the most part. I didn’t want to get angry at those who posted incessant streams of religious-themed “prayers” (in the history of the world, prayer has never – ever – helped anything other than the emotions of the one doing the praying) and sickening “heaven has new angels” shit. Unparalleled and unimaginable horror and the slaughter of children can not be made better, even briefly, by treacly (even if well-meaning) mythologies.
But then I saw this.
Whether you watch the Voice, or whether you’re a fan of Blake Shelton, Adam Levine, Christina Aguilera, Cee Lo Green or this season’s contestants matters not (I’ve not seen an episode since Season 1). This was a much needed moment…a simple act of grace in the most agonizing, harrowingly painful 100 hours we’ve had to bear. And it was beautiful. Heartbreaking and beautiful.
Direct contributions may be sent to:
Sandy Hook School Support Fund C/O Newtown Savings Bank 39 Main Street, Newtown CT 06470
Newtown Youth and Family Services, a nonprofit mental health clinic, that provides emergency counseling for families. All donations made to the organization will benefit those affected. https://newtown.uwwesternct.org/
Newtown Parent Connection, a nonprofit that addresses issues of substance abuse and offers bereavement group counseling. http://www.newtownparentconnection.org/
I can’t seem to stop the tears. It’s permeating…a brutal blow to the reality that is called living. I weep, along with the rest of the world, knowing that this isn’t the end; that the vampires will thrive and the ogres shall endure to wander this world; and innately good and innocent people – our children – will continue to be slaughtered.
How soon before the demon that possessed the evil Sandy Hook assassin will manifest itself into another infernal living vestibule and carry out more unparalleled, aching horror?
We, as merely mortal Homo sapiens, can only pray to a god that doesn’t exist…it comforts the soul; folklore sooths the agony for many. And that’s okay.
But I immerse myself in meditative thought and music. It may sound frivolous, but not any more so than praying to invisible gods in imaginary heavens.
I weep for the innocent lambs slaughtered by the wolves – I weep. What else is there for me to do?
I go to this piece in times like these…times that too often darken the skies of our world.
So, as you listen, bow your head in remembrance of the victims of this most heinous act – the innocents and the protectors:
Another true Jazz legend lost today. Pianist/composer Dave Brubek left us at the age of 91. He was one of the architects of progressive Jazz movement and released one of the great Jazz albums of all time, TIME OUT, which featured the classic “Take Five.”
As someone who staunchly believes that her nearly 20-year old Christmas collection is the album of her career (the only completely – hell, possibly remotely – listenable one), I wasn’t sure what to expect, but what a delightful surprise! Leave it to Jimmy Fallon and the great Roots to add some extra Yuletide cheer by accompanying Mariah Carey to breathe some “acoustic” life into her classic holiday gem, “All I Want For Christmas Is You,” utilizing only children’s instruments and with some helpful harmonies courtesy a quartet of actual children (that added touch could have easily been cloying instead of its resulting sweetness). As someone usually so dependent on porn-star moans mixed with wailing brays, Carey hasn’t sounded so innocently playful – and joyful – in years. I surmise being a new mom can do that to someone.
I can’t remember the last time a song made me cry, but toward the end of Mike Acerbo’s evocative, engrossing CD, THE SEARCH, it happens. “Robbie” chronicles Acerbo’s soul-kept memories of his childhood best friend, who drowned in the Delaware river when he was in his early teens. But the images this poet evokes bear neither a scintilla of schmaltz nor a hint of histrionic melodrama. No, he allows his memories speak for themselves in the simplest of fragments, both heartbreaking and tragic. His pain is palpable, as you ache alongside his longing. Yet, even when describing the indescribable, his pen whispers in heart-wrenching profundity:
“Oh, the water flooded you…there were angels on air… Had I known your fire would simmer in that river, shimmering…sparkling stars up to the sky… I would have fought with every angel…”
The rest of this gorgeous self-released album isn’t so saddled with tears. THE SEARCH is about just that, as he sojourns his soul and the ghosts that linger, and the fantastical world he inhabits, for answers sometimes – and sometimes not – found. I’m reluctant to use “fairytale” to describe these pieces because they strike such a cathartic and emotional innate chord in Acerbo, and the listener, that these are more “truth tales”.
From the fanciful carnival feast of “Blueberry Moon” (“I take a stroll there’s a blueberry moon peering above the treetops…”), to the quiet devastation at the intangibility of his “Mother”, who passed away from breast cancer when he was only 14 (“…keep the candle burning through the window pain so that I may find my way again to your embrace…it held me near, hold me near again…where is your embrace…?”); from the questionable nature of love itself – is it a “Fairytale Love” (“…you rode in on your horse of gold, swept me away, we were bold…”) or is the very idea of love a fairy tale (“…this is not real…this is not real…”)? – to the dark forces sometimes winning the war between light and despair in the breathtaking “Trilby” (“…her lips scarred and torn from a thousand misplaces kisses…she’s been dancing with so many men, none of them would love her and that little girl is a stone woman now…”); from the irony of the country-tinged sound waves of the exhilarating “Where The River Meets The Sea” juxtaposed with its escapist, almost ironic, lyricism (“…I’m sitting here upstream next to a fading fire, thinking about my life and knowing there’s got to be a better place…”) to the often psychologically manipulating terrain of unrequited love in “Like The Tide” (“…I am the nothing that you see, when you look into my eyes…I am the empty well you’ve drunk dry, you are like the tide…”) – track after track Acerbo bares his soul with mystical stories layered in intricate imagery and truth – some dark, some tinged in hope, some reticent – each all-too human.
While each song is a monument in itself, this collection is really fully realized as a whole, from the start of the voyage until the finish. The album ends with “The Night Light” and the cautionary hope that perhaps love isn’t really a pipe dream, that despite those battles with the aforementioned darkest forces, it can bloom into fruition (“…I can feel the heart of the masses, I can see the tired eyes and hear the hatred…if you grasp it, we ain’t gonna make it…don’t you know that the night light in your hands baby, is a fire that will lead you to my darkened heart…”) – maybe all one needs to accomplish this is to detoxify the soul of such influences.
If Acerbo’s voice sometimes struggles to keep up with the glorious melodies he writes, or sounds strained, or if a few tracks get mired in the layered production, it’s those imperfections that make such songs like the brilliant “Beast”(the other side of the mirror, so to speak, to Stevie Nicks’ classic “Beauty And The Beast”, with the viewpoint of the beast himself) ring true; he’s not overtly concerned with sounding pretty (though he mostly does), he merely needs to tell his stories. And we sit there, enraptured by his pen, swirling in sonic paintings that are so ineffaceable – and even archetypal – they become tattoos to your soul. (It would be remiss of me not to mention Acerbo’s extraordinary band – their vast taut musicality never loses focus and at times, on varying cuts, actually reign Acerbo’s vocal flippancy back on track.)
From the images of castles, forests, dreams, witches and beasts, to the swooping melodic cadences, to the vulnerability-masqueraded-as-fortitude, the muses of Acerbo’s past might appear to be obvious. But appearances can be deceiving, for his is a singular pen, and when such muses are perceptible, he never stoops to mimicry, rather he heralds their aesthete, learning from the masters while forging his own unique identity as a dazzling modern troubadour for the still-new millennium.
And that he does so with some of the most haunting, ravishing and indelible melodies is merely icing.
My grade: A
Order (and sample) THE SEARCH via CD BABY, BandCamp, and iTunes.
Here’s the full music video to the album’s first single, “Trilby”:
My New Boyfriend 