Once again, I’m blogging the Brits. Christ, I really should start getting drunk for this. Anyway, let’s crack on.
20.02: Johnny Vegas is doing the voiceover. And U2 are performing, Contrary to popular belief, it’s 2009 and not 2004.
20.03- The new U2 single sounds like Homer Simpson singing REM. And Bono has apparently spent the last half decade discovering the joys of guyliner rather than listening to any new music.
20.05: Five minutes in, I’ve realised the only thing getting me through this is the promise of Pet Shop Boys at the end. It’s gonna be a long night, folks.
20.05: Kylie, Can’t Get You Out Of My Head was bloody years ago. Get over it. James Corden and Matthew Horne are co-presenting and are, prepare yourself for hilarity, dressed as Kylie’s dancers. If you squint a bit, it could practically be the Friday Night Project.
20.08: First up, Best British Female. I hope you’ve all placed your bets on Beth Rowley. It’s going to be ‘new face of Diet Coke’ Duffy, of course. Christ, it took thirty years for Madonna to end up looking like a tranny. It’s taken Duffy eighteen months. No wonder there’s no enduring acts nowadays.
20.12: Lionel Richie informs me that Estelle won a Grammy, a fact I found curiously hard to believe.
20.13: Please don’t let Katy Perry win International Female. Oh fucking fuck. She’s got a fringe like Peggy from Mad Men and a voice like Mariella Frostrup after swallowing a roll of sandpaper.
20.15: Girls Aloud time. The Promise is probably their least inspiring single, well ever, isn’t it? I’m hoping that Xenomania aren’t turning into the Simpsons post-season 10 where nobody really understands what made it so great in the first place. Second Simpsons reference of the night. Let’s go for the triple.
20.20: Year after year, Fearne Cotton hopes to land the main presenting job. Presumably with Holly Willoughby. Poor Fearne. I’mma take a wild guess and say she’s going to plug the best singles category.
20.35: Time has not been kind to Jamie Cullum.
20.51: Oh, a bit about the set. It’s
20.57: Best international album. It’ll be Kings of Leon again. I cannot think of one interesting thing to say about Kings of Leon or their acceptance speech. ‘If it weren’t for
21.02: It’s Take That performing Greatest Day whilst doing some kind of ELO tribute. Yep. I still refuse to believe it’s a song. It’s half Xenomania (three or four choruses in lieu of a song) and half Snow Patrol but doesn’t manage to work as well as either of them. It probably sounds incredible at the start of a concert though, and I get the feeling that’s why it was written. Anyway, they’ve given us the most remarkable Brits performance in quite some time. That is a compliment, despite last year’s most extravagant set being the Kaiser Chiefs in a cardboard city.
21.06: Nick Frost is looking like Rosie O Donnell. Best live act. If Coldplay’s going to win anything tonight, it’ll be this. Iron Maiden have won, which is probably the only real surprise of the evening.
21.14: Kings of
21.38: Tom Jones is presenting best British Album. This is going to go to Duffy whether she’s won it or not. Although given Elbow’s earlier win, it could still be a surprise. Or not. Apparently the last two years of Lily Allen’s life has taught the Brits a lesson about not dishing out prizes to the favourites.
And that’s that. It wasn’t by any means must see TV and Duffy’s career will probably end up going the same way as fellow Brits luminaries The Darkness, Orson, Daniel Bedingfield, the Kaiser Chiefs, the list goes on. But I dunno, if one person who’s thinking about forming a band saw the Pet Shop Boys’ performance and decided that it might be worthwhile making music that’s catchy and clever and happy and sad and literate and witty rather than just trying to sound like the fucking Jam, perhaps all this might be worth it. That seems far too positive a note to end on, so I’ll leave you with this thought- this time next year we’ll have to cope with at least three acceptance speeches from
The Unofficial Twisted Ear Reissue of The Year : Pacific Ocean Blue
0 comments Posted by atomiklust at 03:06
Surely the whole 'lost album' thing in music comes across as a bit cliched, especially in this whole new age of technology which means that anyone with a £2 cable from Maplins can rip their rare vinyl onto the Internet. This is a mixed blessing, in a way. For one, it means that mere mortals can hear what was once the sole preserve of who work in record shops or trawl car boot sales. In the case of certain 'lost' albums like 'SMiLE', by The Beach Boys (Ignoring that Brian Wilson himself resurrected it spectacularly in 2004), it means that it can reach new people and finally get some recognition for it's true quality. In other cases, who wants to hear 'Dylan', a cobbled together knock-off from the ultimate cobbled together knock-off record, 'Self Portrait'? Some records get lost for a reason.
With a quick google search , i managed to find both the above albums. But i never found Pacific Ocean Blue.
For those who don't know the story, it goes something like this. Dennis Wilson, the middle child between the angelic voice of Carl and pop genius Brian, was originally made the drummer of The Beach Boys because it was the only instrument left. The only one who could surf, it was his idea to write about it, which gave them huge success. However, he and the rest of the group were quickly replaced by session musicians in the studio by Brian, who was the undisputed mastermind behind their mid 60's output, culminating in Pet Sounds.
After the SMiLE! sessions, and Brian's resultant breakdown, other band members began contributing to a series of increasingly poor albums, the high points of all of them being the exhumed parts of SMiLE. Dennis made his own efforts, most notable being 'Forever' off 1970's 'Sunflower', which Brian himself described as 'a love letter to harmony'.
But, he also wrote a song with Charles Manson. They can't all be winners, can they?
Dennis continued much in the same vein, writing the occasional tune which quickly got lobbed onto shite Beach Boys LP's, and stockpiling what many observers call 'absolute tunes' which deserved to be released somewhere. And so in 1977, Dennis signed a solo contract, and within the year there was Pacific Ocean Blue.
It's the Beach Boy, Jim, but not as we know him.
It's simply jaw-dropping, really. The first song, River Song, is this huge gospel-driven soul stomper which sounds a million miles away from anything Brian would write, and it gets better. There's swampy funk, soaring ballads and tender love songs played with incredible deftness and real soul.
Perhaps it's helped by the fact that, all in all, it doesn't really sound like The Beach Boys. Whereas older brother Brian's uneventful solo career has been constantly compared with Pet Sounds, it has always been found wanting because thats Brian's sound. This is not really in the same ballpark, however. Dennis' songs have more in common musically with the soft rock of the time (no, wait, come back...) but the main features are his beautiful lyrics and piano, and really subtlely applied orchestration, which works in one tear-jerking whole. Just listen to 'Thoughts Of You' and try not to weep.
Here in 2008 (2009?), it sounds eerily timeless. Despite the fact that punk had reared it's head over on the other side of the world, with it's promise to kill music like the Wilsons, and that Mike Love and the increasing desperation of the bands attempts to make money were doing a fine job of sending The Beach Boys into oldies hell (much to Dennis' anger) the mood here is one of overwhelming calm and melancholy.
Cruelly for a work of such personal resonance, it was record company bureaucracy that prevented a reprint of the only CD issue of Pacific Ocean Blue, in 1991, well after vinyls had stopped being pressed. Thnakfully, now we get this reissue, with a truly awe-inspiring collection of tracks from his unfinished follow-up, Bambu. It all adds to Pacific Ocean Blue: A truly beautiful, personal record that we should be glad has seen the light of day.
A cracking article with more about Dennis from The Grauniad
Look! Dennis Wilson on Youtube, Wikipedia, Last.FM, Elbo.ws and The Hype Machine. He gets about, doesn't he?
Buy Pacific Ocean Blue on Amazon, or just steal it off the internet if you're tight like that. Don't tell Beck though...
A little background for you: Anne Lilia Berge Strand, born 1978 in Norway, hooks up Tore Andreas Kroknes in and releases the amazing Madonna sampling Greatest Hit in 1999. Plans are made for an album, but Kroknes dies due to a heart condition, aged 23. In 2003, she meets Richard X, who goes on to produce some of her debut album Anniemal. The two singles (Chewing Gum and Heartbeat) make a bigger impact on the Hype Machine than they do on the charts, and Annie is left without a record deal. Cut to 2007, and she's signed with Island Records, working with Xenomania and looks set to become the superstar she should have been years and years ago. Except at the end of 2008, there's been no album release, only one (flop) single and Annie once again has no record deal. If Ken Loach ever wants to move into pop biopics, he could do far worse than covering the last decade of Annie's life.
It's far too easy to find people to blame for Don't Stop's failure. You could say it's the fault of Island, who never really promoted her enough. It's not though, we learned from Dragonette that you can have adverts on music channels every fifteen minutes but without radio airplay, they're worth precisely bugger all. Or blame Higgins and Xenomania for not writing Annie the hit she deserved. Or Girls Aloud, who stopped My Love Is Better from being a duet (Cheryl Cole's presence can get an absolutely dreadful song into the top 10, imagine what the whole band and a four star single could have done for it's chart placing), but ultimately they're not on the same label, it's not a charity single and it certainly isn't Fascination's job to stop other record company's album campaigns going tits up. As sad as it is, sometimes things just don't work out, and pointing the finger at all in sundry just because something doesn't happen the way it should have done will only end up leaving you with very tired arms.
Anyway, Annie's back in the studio, making new tracks for the version of Don't Stop that will come out on Richard X's label next year. Perhaps this time next year, when the record's gone triple platinum, we'll look back and laugh. Honestly, it's a good thing that she's taking her time and making the best album she can, because at the moment, Don't Stop is a lacklustre follow up to one of the best debuts of the decade.
My Love Is Better starts things off promisingly, sounding like the best track Girls Aloud haven't released yet. Alex Kapranos is on guitar, proving at least one good thing came out Franz Ferdinand's failed Xenomania sessions . I Know Ur Girlfriend Hates Me is still far too close to Chewing Gum, but if there's one thing that there's not enough of in modern pop music, it's ice cream van sound effects, so it's nice to see Richard X trying to rectify that. Sweet is where you begin to suspect that Annie working with Xenomania may not have brought out the best in either of them. There's all the hallmarks of great Xenomania tracks, but Higgins and co. sound like they're just on autopilot and manage to forget that Annie doesn't have the pipes of someone like Nadine Coyle. Loco could have been a What Will The Neighbours Say b-side, and gone on to become a fan favourite. In 2008, when the Aloud are making six minute dance tracks about robots, a chorus with the lyrics "you're so loco, everyone says that you're a no-go" isn't going to pass muster.
Elsewhere, Bad Times sounds lovely, but does nothing that Ace Reject didn't do a million times more effectively, Can't Let Go spends so much time defying gender stereotypes that it forgets to include anything approaching a melody and as admirable as it is that Annie wanted to have a power ballad (When The Night) on the album, power ballads in 2008 should sound like No Air and under no circumstances should they feature pan pipes. If it sounds like I'm being too hard on what is realistically one of the best mainstream pop records of the year, it's only because Xenomania have been bringing their A-game to a whole load of tracks this year, so hearing Annie trill her way through nonsense like Heaven and Hell, one can't help but feel disappointed.
When Don't Stop does work, it works fantastically. Marie Cherie is the only song this year you could describe as being '60's inspired' without talking about something by a Winehouse clone, Take You Home sounds like Heartbeat's alcoholic cousin, an sad, atmospheric come-down that winds up being more human than most of the ballads the album has to offer. However, the rest of the record is eclipsed by the final track, Songs Remind Me Of You. If there's any justice, and if Richard X has any sense (he co-wrote the damn thing, so hopefully he should do), this could be Annie's breakout hit. Robyn's proven it's possible to have a number one single independently, as long as it can work it's way into the clubs, and onto the Radio 1 playlist. Until then, let's hope that Annie can make an album that's a worthy succesor to Anniemal. Not just a few great tracks and whatever hooks Xenomania have lying around.
There are many of our universe's many awe-inspiring puzzles still left to crack: the existence of the elusive Higgs Boson; whether String Theory is an accurate proposition and defining precisely how many additonal dimensions it contains; the continued popularity of Alan Carr, etc. One puzzle, though, fills our lives, every hour of every day, and yet, despite its never-ending presence, still proves as slippery to pin down with a qualified definition: what is Rock n' Roll?
For this exercise I'm going to take five examples of rock n' roll lyrics with an attempt to pin this unbridled, wailing, mutha down. For my experiment I will be taking a carefully selected rock cross-section as the prompt for my analysis. And what analysis is that? Simply to live my life through them, as if rock n' roll were indeed the purest hedonistic religion and the lyrics its deeply-held life instructions. Only then, by putting rock n' roll into practice in accordance with its scriptures, can I find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or, more pointedly, half a pint of snakebite, a charcoal infested spoon and a crumpled spent johnny at the foot of my bed.
Okay. I love the internet. It's given me jobs, a string of unsuitable but ultimately laughable dates and the opportunity to shop with impunity without interacting with people (it's not that I'm antisocial; I just can't stand the High Street when there are people in it). I remember, quite fondly, when I first went online. It was 1994, Leicester University. A girl called Sam, from Sunderland, studying chemistry: "Do you have an email number?", she asked, and proceeded to explain exactly what an 'email number' was. I didn't understand much of what she said but it turned out that email numbers, and access to the 'web' - whatever that was - cost nothing. So I got one, and there it began. Within days I had electronic penpals across the country (and the world) who were just as happy as I was to spend hours tapping away at a screen, debating the merits of Soundgarden vs Pearl Jam vs Screaming Trees, or vinyl vs CDs. We swapped mixtapes in the post - I always had a bulging pigeon-hole when I was at university - and I even met with a couple of them in Real Life. Which was ... interesting.
So, yes, I love the internet. But here's the thing: it's killing music.
When I was about twelve I went on a shopping trip with my dad. We had a hundred pounds or so to spend and I was looking for my first ever hi-fi system, which would replace a much-loved and ready-to-die ghetto blaster on which I'd virtually worn out my collection of Queen cassettes and home-made recordings from the Radio 1 Rock Shows (Tommy Vance and Fluff Freeman: those were the days).
We had an in-depth conversation about whether to start a CD collection or a record collection. I went for vinyl, even though my father warned me about the pitfalls (scratches; cleaning the records every time you listen to them; ever-dwindling vinyl sections in record shops forcing you to order albums rather than being able to walk out with them there and then). This would be a high-maintenance love affair, I understood, but I was ready.
And fast forward to 1994, before the internet was really the internet, downloading music (legally or otherwise) was unheard of and Amazon.com was only just beginning. People bought records from record shops, staff in chain stores knew and cared (mostly) about what they were selling (I can say that, because I was one, once) and independent shops were plentiful and well-stocked in every town. I'd moved on to CDs by then - the student digs just weren't big enough to house a record collection - but getting a new album when it came out was a ritual to be treasured.Release day was a special day, much looked-forward to, something you'd always find money for even with a bulging overdraft and no income to speak of. Walking into town to the record shop, and coming back with more than you bargained for, was all part of the occasion. So was getting home, tearing off the cellophane and thumbing through the inlay card.
It just isn't the same now. Record shops are closing all across the country - witness the demise of Fopp, or the closure of the much-loved Sam the Record Man, a Canadian chain established in the 1930s that eventually went bankrupt in 2001 because of competition from HMV and the internet. Its enormous flagship store in Toronto clung on for dear life until 2007, when it finally closed, sadly.
Of course, online shopping is great, and I'm probably as guilty as anyone in contributing to this sort of shift by shopping at Amazon and Play.com along with all the rest, but nothing beats going into a music shop and wasting a couple of hours browsing.
It's more than just the closure of record shops, though. Much has been spouted by the great, the good and the bigmouths (hello, Lars) about illegal downloading, so I won't waste your time by adding my twopenneth, except to say that I think it's okay provided you also purchase anything you like afterwards. It's legal downloading that I really have a problem with: yes, I've got an MP3 player and yes, I do use it, but cramming your entire album collection onto a tiny piece of kit, doing away with the ephemera that goes with a bunch of albums/CDs and buying all of your music via iTunes or similar - isn't it a bit clinical? Where is the love in that, the evenings spent flicking through vinyl (or CDs), poring over sleevenotes or admiring the artwork? Doesn't a little plastic box kind of kill that sense of wonder a little bit? Oh, and I know you can get pictures of the album covers on your iPod, but that's not the same, really, is it?The other pitfall of our digital obsession is the way it turns music into something disposable. You only like a couple of songs on an album? Just buy them without the rest. Can't get into the new one you just downloaded? Skip it and listen to something else. Without the physical CD or record you miss out on a massive part of the experience of buying and collecting music and I can't help but think that the internet has made music fans impatient. Sure, there's a lot of exciting things you can do with online technologies - and Twisted Ear, or this blog, wouldn't even exist without the web - but new music formats have made the industry too disposable. That's why you get people across the blogosphere deciding they don't like this or that new album weeks before they're even out in the shops. Gone is the magic of release day.
In Leicester (or anywhere) in 1994 all this would have been unheard of. And it's the web's fault. It's made us an impatient bunch of ingrates with short attention spans and an eagerness to go and download something else if we don't like a particular album on first listen. Why do we do this? Because we can. And why can we do this? Because of the internet. I sometimes feel sorry for the kids of today because if they want to hear a new album it's right there at their fingertips. They'll never have to wait patiently for a particular date and then trudge into town with a wodge of fivers in their hands to pick up a CD, and I think their experience as music fans will be less rich because of this. I met a couple of teenagers once who had millions of songs on a shared PC and not a single CD between them. I found this sad: you can evangelise all you like about Napster or iTunes but I'll never be converted.
So I have an internal dialogue that vexes me terribly: I do love the internet. But I hate it too, because it's spoiled things as far as the record industry goes.
It isn't pretty, but the sparkly bits will come (they did send us an RSVP - we promise). In the meantime, some words...
We set this up to allow our writers the chance to rant and rail. Or just mumble - about anything vaguely related to music that wouldn't quite fit within the constraints of our .com site. So, anything goes - from 50-word microblogs and random thoughts to vast diatribes. We do hope you enjoy. And if you think we're talking nonsense, tell us. Or join us as a writer, even. Consider the gauntlet thrown...