Ustad Vilayat Khan – Music of India (Volume 2) (ALP 1988) (1963)

As mentioned before, my knowledge of Indian Classical music is limited, but my record collector instincts are usually sharp enough to select worthwhile editions and even a neophyte could tell after one listen that this enchanting recording of extended performances for sitar, surbahar and tabla (subtitled Another “Music of the World” L.P.) is deftly brilliant, building slowly on both sides from gentle, hypnotic drones to frenzied sheets of sound.*

I could find no information about Volume 2 of this Gramophone Co. of India copy, which I picked up at the Mind shop in Cheriton last Saddy, but a charming story about the purchase of a slightly later, similar series on British EMI can be found here.

*apologies to Ira Gitler.

Sergio Mendes & Brazil ’66 – Greatest Hits (AMLS 985) (1970)

More like the Fifth Dimension than the cross-over jazz of Stan Getz, let alone the urgent Bossa Jazz of the Tamba Trio, this is the fun-sized Brazilian pianist/bandleader Mendes in full-on American E-Z Listening mode. A couple Bacharach/Davids, three Lennon/McCartneys, plus the inevitable “Mas Que Nada”, Brazil ’66 constructs syncopated sixties Sunshine Pop which verges on the unctuous if you’re in the wrong mood or a fan of anything heavier than, say, the Carpenters.

Mmm…unifold cover.

Chikuzan Takahashi – Tsugaru Shamisen (Sony 25AG 347) (1978)

Chikuzan Takahashi (1910-1998) was one of the foremost shamisen (see photo above) players in Japan. “Tsugaru Shamisen” is the name of the ancient, localised folk music which he performed. Though it consists of a recognised repertoire, this is somewhat misleading in that the repertoire has in fact expanded over the centuries, growing and sprouting unseen, like a jasmine tree; also, it is improvisational, so while a player may perform a given song from the canon, it will inevitably be a highly individual take on the piece. My ignorance knows few bounds here and I may have got some of these facts wrong–so don’t quote me.

I can't understand why the label template is in English for this Japanese issue.

A live recording taped in Japan in the 70s, though you certainly won’t confuse it with Cheap Trick at Budokan, this solo concert was performed in front of an audience of what sounds like 40 people; while respectful silence reigns for most of Tsugaru Shamisen, Takahashi does manage to crack a few jokes, judging by the occasional laughter (my Japanese is not so good).

In a kind of world-folk crossover, Takahashi extemporises extended pieces which, though literally from the other end of the world, are not a million metaphorical miles away from the nasal, droning mandolin/guitar Mountain Music of my West Virginian kin. Coincidentally, Takahashi named many of his improvs ”Iwaki” after the tallest mountain in Tsugaru. With a (not very sustained) drone produced by what must be the equivalent of the power chord on the shamisen, there are a significant resemblances to Indian classical music as well.

Despite a hypnotic effect, this is not some blanded-out Music For Meditation nonsense; it’s earthy and harshly percussive, the plectrum striking the instrument itself with the clack of a manual typewriter. Nonetheless, it can be dreamy, the shamisen trilling in mostly 4/4 time, from what I could tell, though I did notice one unaccented waltz time number.

Though performed in concert, this is a master’s private music, not for dancing or partying, but reflective listening.

The above band came encircling the Lp jacket--both sleeve and vinyl were in near perfect condition.

Attracted by the arresting image on the cover, I bought this on the way down to Cornwall last summer–yes, we literally stopped at a bootfair during the 10-hour drive!–from a guy who said it had been a gift from a Japanese friend a couple decades ago. I don’t think he played it once in the intervening years.

The Astrud Gilberto Album (VLP 9087) (1965)

“Astrud Gilberto is no longer just The Girl From Ipanema.”  Or so say Jack Maher’s notes on Gilberto’s solo début Lp from the following year. He’s not fooling anybody and goes on to allude to the world-beating hit a further six times. Gilberto is not a technically great vocalist, but producer Creed Taylor has the measure of her abilities and, though surrounded by heavyweights (husband João, Antonio Carlos Jobim, Bud Shank, João Donato, arranger Marty Paich, etc.), provides a pillow-light musical support, some gentle, insistent swing and the wistful melodies (all but two by Jobim) that don’t overwhelm Astrud’s artless, muted trumpet soto voce singing. Her phrasing is far more interesting and lively on the four Portuguese-sung numbers, English exposing a vulnerability verging on tentativeness.

A few years ago, a Gilberto compilation CD on Verve (part of the budget series with the generic ugly tan covers) provided the background to a dinner party I attended in Streatham–I was impressed then how good it was and so snapped up the present pop Bossa album for a pound in Hythe without much ado.

Kings Messengers Quartet – Birth of Our King (BMC 559) (1983)

A THRIFTY VINYL HOLIDAY TREAT STRAIGHT TO GOD’S HEAD

NOW (week of 21/5/2012) for SALE on eBAY!

There are no outward designs suggesting that this is a Christmas record, but the title makes it explicit: Long-running South African gospel quartet Kings Messengers’ The Birth of Our King album celebrates the holy Exit of our Saviour, Jesus H. Christ, from His Mother, Mary Christ’s glorious birth canal, which official, irrefutable records indicate occurred on Christmas Day 25th December 0000.

I was kinda hoping for a more African take on the Xmas story, but this is an orthodox (both ecumenically and rhythmically), middle-of-the-road, mostly a capella gospel Lp, whose repertoire wouldn’t be out-of-place in the most conservative C of E village parish, even if four tracks are sung in, I’m guessing, Zulu. More information can be gleaned from the excellent Electric Jive blogspot.

I had to step over several rutting, MDMA-crazed teenagers to get to this when I purchased in from a chaz this summer in Newquay. The lady gave me a funny look when I brought my selection to the counter as if it was the last thing she expected me to buy and why didn’t I get that nice OMD record instead.

To paraphrase The Onion, sometimes labels help save time.

Nina and Frederik (Columbia SEG 7926) (1960)

OH MY GOD! THEY’RE COMING!

It’s okay. They’re going. The storm has passed.

Paul Simon – The Rhythm of the Saints (1990)

PAUL SIMON RHYTHM Lp NOT AS GOOD AS NEW DON DOKKEN SOLO ALBUM, REPORTS COLUMBUS DOKKEN FAN

by Clifford Snoats, rock critic

Speaking out at Shari Newman’s Hallowe’en party on Chittenden Avenue in Columbus’s Ohio State University district this weekend, Dokken fan Alan Rich dismissed Paul Simon’s new Rhythm of the Saints album as “not a patch on [just released Don Dokken solo Lp] Up From the Ashes. It may not even be as good as [current Ratt release] Detonator.”

Dressed for the party as the Unabomber in a simple grey hooded sweatshirt, fake mustache, curly wig and sunglasses, Rich called himself an “eclectic” music fan with an “real open mind” though readily admits to being an “absolute, A-number 1 Dokken fan.”

“Basically, I dig everything from classics like Zep, Sabs and Purp to modern stuff like G’n'R and Bon Jovi. So it’s not like I’m not willing to try new things. But this record, with its smooth, complex ‘jungle’ rhythms and literate, cosmopolitan lyrics lacks the basic Les Paul and Marshall stack guitar sound and 4/4 beat that makes great music. I don’t hear one chorus that says ‘party anthem’ like ‘Stay’ or ‘Mirror, Mirror.’ And the ‘The Obvious Child?’ Seriously, what’s that even about?”

“It ain’t obvious to me,” he added with a chuckle.

Pointing out the loud volume at which Rhythm was being played, Rich noted that “It doesn’t even sound good cranked up,” calling that a “sure sign” of the record’s deficiency.

But pre-med student Newman, who received the record in September as a birthday present from long-time boyfriend Kevin Nelson, said she likes music from other cultures, citing David Byrne’s Rei Momo, a Ladysmith Black Mambazo compilation and Simon’s earlier Graceland as evidence of her “world music” credentials. Costumed as Vampira, with black eyeliner and a figure hugging black dress with plunging neck line, Newman enthused about “how he [Simon] continues to use the same conversational style and tone of singing…which works so well set against the vaguely African and Brazilian polyrhythms. The record is more groove oriented and less poppy than Graceland–I think I like it better, but that may be because I’m so sick of Graceland.”

She quickly rejected Rich’s critique, saying, “Oh [Alan] just doesn’t get it if it isn’t heavy metal crap.”

“Anyway,” she said, “he hates Paul Simon because everyone always used to sing ‘You Can Call Me Al’ every time he walked into home room at CAHS [Columbus Alternative High School].”

© copyright 1990 Columbus Grauniad

Hugues Aufray – En Direct de L’Olympia (Barclay 80 310) (1966)

American-style folk/country roots music performed entirely in French and recorded live down a Parisian phone line. Aufray is reputedly the foremost French interpreter of Bob Dylan and, indeed, things get pretty Royal Albert Hall Concert on “Guidez Mes Pas”. His version of “Girl From the North Country” makes the most sense, while the punked-up fuzz guitar take on “Mr. Tambourine Man” is simply bizarre. Somewhat cheekily, Aufray gives himself co-writing credit for “Les Temps Changent”, “La Fille du Nord” “L’homme Orchestra” and “Cauchemar Psychomoteur”. Well, I suppose changing “Mr. Tambourine Man” to “Man Orchestra” does constitute some fairly heavy re-writing.

Peter Gabriel – Passion (RWLP1); V/A – Passion Sources (RWLP2) (1989)

About a month ago I found the Last Temptation of Christ double Lp soundtrack in Ashford and hadn’t got around to listening to it, something about being in the right mood. I had the right mood foisted on me when, a couple weeks later at the self-same boot fair, the various artists sister album of “traditional music, sources of inspiration and location recordings” turned up. Despite the titular exhortation to strong feeling, I found hard to get too worked up as I listened to these albums. No doubt made with enthusiastic care and genuine commitment to spreading the word, there’s something off-puttingly colonial about their very worthiness. Is it unfair that my prejudice is somehow restricting potential enjoyment? I will take time to see if I get over this, but it’s possible that these well-produced, well-played, handsome albums simply weren’t made for me, that I require my so-called world music a little more old-school rough and ready in the same way that I’d rather listen to the punk rock of the Stooges than, say, Rancid.

The Concert For Bangla Desh (Apple STCX 3385) (1971)

What is that shrieking noise? Ah yes, it’s my teenage self howling at its middle-aged counterpart’s embrace of the first side of The Concert for Bangla Desh and dismissal of the other five.

The fact is, despite the reputed vaunted musicianmanship on display, this is a middling, poorly edited and produced album, Shankar aside, full of half-assed buskings which says all too much about sixeventies rock royalty’s self-regard and its audience’s gullibility. Briefly but unkindly put, George Harrison is a weak, meandering and reedy live vocalist, and his backing band is either under-rehearsed, disabled by drugs or both. While it must have been thrilling to see an actual Beatle in concert singing Beatles songs for the first time in five years (this momentum certainly carried the show for the audience on the day), the album experience reveals all manner of flaws that wouldn’t be tolerated these days at the club down the road let alone Madison Square Garden.

Even with its ostensible and laudable aim, consciousness and funds raising for desperately needy people in East Pakistan, the concert was mired in several lurid and depressing backstories, notably CBS Records holding up release to get its slice of the pie, Eric Clapton’s junk abetted will-he-won’t-he-show controversy and the glaringly conspicuous absence of Harrison’s erstwhile band’s creative lynchpins.

On the positive side, the album is pressed up old style so that it can be played in order on a stackable record player, i.e. with side six on the flip side of side one, side two with side five and sides three and four together. And it comes with a lavish 64 page four-colour album sized book. And it only cost me £3. Oh and there’s comedy value when the audience tries and fails to clap along with Bob Dylan on side five.