Friday, May 29, 2015

Pin the Singer on a Pinto

You know you’re in trouble when your record label believes so much in your new album that they slap a Ford Pinto on the cover. Named for the Jim Croce hit song that country singer Tony Booth turned into a hit of his own, Workin’ at the Car Wash Blues may not have been the product of Booth's actual experience slathering suds on Pintos, Pacers, Gremlins, and the like; however, Booth was no doubt singing these blues for real after this 1974 album stalled in the bargain bin.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

Reggae Fever

I’ve always been fanatical about music, and that fanaticism goes way back—all the way to when I was a toddler and my parents would send me off to slumberland to the Beatles’ “The Long and Winding Road.” When I was 4, I remember sitting at the breakfast table anxiously waiting for Glen Campbell’s “Rhinestone Cowboy” to come galloping from single-speaker kitchen radio. A few years later, I pestered a radio station’s request lines with pleas for the Knack’s “My Sharona.” (That power-pop juggernaut had me so spellbound that I vividly recall a fourth-grade me weeping in the “way-back” of the family station wagon because my dad swiftly changed stations when the emphatic opening chords and funky bass line of “My Sharona” announced themselves on the radio.) When I was 11, I slept almost every night with my Sears radio-cassette player beneath my pillow and recorded broadcasts in hopes that when I woke the next morning, sore neck and all, the tape would contain “Back in Black” or “Crazy Train” or “Stairway to Heaven” or even “Heaven and Hell.” Shall I go on? Sure, it’s my blog….

As I grew older, my passion for music only intensified, and the lengths to which I would go to hear or acquire new music only grew more extreme—even ridiculous. Remember that in the ancient times of the mid to late 1980s, when I was coming of age, discovering or getting your hands on music could not be done instantaneously with a simple mouse click or tap on a phone screen. So imagine the challenge a teen with no money or driver’s license faces when he’s bewitched by a song he heard on a scratchy-sounding radio broadcast and there’s no easy way for him to get his hands on a recording without resorting to some pretty comical measures. And in 1988, this is exactly what I had to do to track down a fairly obscure album by a local reggae band called Boom Shaka. (Silly name, I know.)

I became enamored of reggae music as a high school freshman, and for the ensuing four years it served as my everyday soundtrack. I was introduced to the genre by my friend Tim, a high school junior who drove the neighborhood carpool to and from school, Pasadena to Los Angeles—a 36-mile roundtrip in gridlock traffic; plenty of time for reggae's deep bass vibrations and soulful melodies to assuage the anxieties and insecurities of my high school existence. Tim had a sizable record and tape collection—and the taste, knowledge, and zeal to go right along with it. I had no older brother, so for the next two years until he graduated, I adopted Tim as mine. Every day, Tim’s brown VW Rabbit rattled with rhythmic pulse of everything from Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Bunny Wailer, and Steel Pulse to U-Roy, Dillinger, Ini Kamoze, and Yellowman. While I suffered through high school to get the education I needed, in Tim’s Rabbit I relished the musical instruction I sorely wanted.

In Southern California, where I grew up, reggae music was more accessible than it was in most places. Half the record stores had dedicated, albeit small, reggae sections; public/college radio stations aired weekly reggae music programs; and the midsize venues and amphitheaters in the L.A. area (I was too young for clubs) regularly stocked their summer lineups with some the genre’s bigger names and festivals (UB40, Steel Pulse, Burning Spear, Jimmy Cliff, Reggae Sunsplash, et al.). Tim exposed me to all this. He also told me about KCRW’s Sunday afternoon reggae show, “The Reggae Beat,” hosted by the legendary DJ Roger Steffans, and showed me copies of a magazine by the same name, also founded by Steffans.

Best of all, Tim introduced me to Poo-Bah Records, a record shop housed in a tired-looking dirt-brown bungalow in a gentrification-neglected part of Pasadena. Since its opening in 1971, Poo-Bah’s had been an institution, an indie record store that was close to everything and near nothing at all, a hidden gem in plain sight (on the corner of Walnut and Wilson), a dilapidated sanctuary for various species of music lover—hippies, punks, jazz freaks, rockers, etc. In these waning days of the vinyl record, Poo-Bah’s bins overflowed with just about everything, except the crap you’d hear on mainstream pop radio. Which meant Poo-Bah also had a fat, thoughtfully curated reggae section. Anytime I had some money, you would find me there thumbing through the stacks.

Following my freshman year of high school, I got my first summer job, pushing papers (and removing staples) as a file clerk for $4.50 an hour. At last, I had some disposable income, income I could happily dispose of toward amassing my own reggae record collection (records, by the way, I still own today). Every Wednesday—pay day—my work buddy, Tony, would drive us to Poo-Bah during lunch so that we could dutifully surrender our paychecks. Eventually my mom tried to bar me from bringing new reggae albums into the house (my theory at the time was that she was either frightened by the sight of dreadlocked Rastafarians adorning their covers or worried that I’d end up selling pot from my bedroom; really she just wanted me to save my money), so I would stash my new LPs in the garage until it was safe to retrieve them later. When that tactic ultimately failed, I switched to cassette tapes, which, while not as appealing as records, could be easily concealed in my pants pocket.

More often than not, I was broke, but I could still satisfy my jones for new reggae sounds by taping the local radio broadcasts. One show I never missed was “Reggae Revolution,” which aired Tuesday nights (or Wednesday mornings) at 1 a.m. I preferred this show to KCRW’s “Reggae Beat” or KPFK’s Saturday afternoon show, “Sounds of Jamaica,” because it was on KROQ, and KROQ was a commercial station. Meaning, its transmitter was a blowtorch to the public/school stations’ matchsticks—meaning, I didn’t have to keep messing with the antenna for static-free reception. I also favored “Reggae Revolution” because I had a connection, albeit a tenuous one, to the host, having met him when he DJed my friend Tim’s high school graduation party (Pato Banton was also there). “Reggae Revolution,” whose name I would later crib for my own college radio reggae show at Gonzaga University, was an hour-long program that featured a mix of classic roots reggae, the latest dancehall sounds, as well as tunes from the area’s local talents.

As you might imagine, one in the morning is a long time to stay awake for the opportunity hear a dozen or so songs. I was not a night owl, so to keep from dozing off, I’d swallow a handful of No-Doz, which would wreck my stomach well into the next day and obliterate all chances of getting the rest I might have gotten between the show’s conclusion and my alarm clock’s rude intrusion four hours later.

So there I’d be, just like the 4-year-old me, listening to “Reggae Revolution” in the dark of night, nervously anticipating the hour’s 12 songs as the rest of the house lay silent with sleep. If just one song reached through my crappy headphones and rattled my eardrums with its sublime frequencies and fat-bottom bass, it would all be worth it. Sometimes that song would never come. You’d hear the requisite Bob Marley and Peter Tosh, ’80s production Steel Pulse, crossover hits from Pato Banton and Aswad, a dancehall track or two, and some American-made crap with phony Jamaican accents. But sometimes Roberto would spin a song so incredible it would stir me from my groggy state and trigger a welcome jolt of adrenaline. Sometimes its origins would not be from Jamaica, or Birmingham, England (another reggae stronghold). Sometimes it would come from a local singer or band. At the time, Babylon Warriors and Swelele ranked among my favorites.

Then one September night in 1988, along came a rockers-style song called “Wicked Man” by an L.A. band dubbed Boom Shaka, whose singer bore a distinctive baritone both biting and smoky-smooth, somewhat reminiscent of Gregory Isaacs. Who the hell was this? I wondered, a surge of caffeinated excitement coursing through my body. His was a voice that cut through the din atop a vibrant laid-back sound unmoored to the lyrical clichés of genre (i.e., obligatory references to ganja, generic complaints about Babylon/“the system,” love for Jah). Or maybe it was, but to my naïve ears Boom Shaka sounded authentic, unique. So much so that I was already mentally filing their debut LP, Creation, between my Black Uhuru and Burning Spear records. Now if I could only get my hands on the actual record.

Eager to hear the song again, I rewound the tape as soon as the broadcast concluded. “Wicked Man” still captivated me. Again I rewound the tape. A few hours later as I lay on my bed in the jittery netherworld of No-Doz semi-consciousness, my feelings for the song remained undiminished. Armed with the knowledge that the band’s album had just been released, I had to get it—and fast. That same day, preferably. And I knew exactly where I could find it.

This is where my music obsession takes an even tighter turn toward the ridiculous.

It was the middle of September, which made it cross-country (running) season. Which meant practice every day after school—long, punishing runs in the late-summer Southern California heat and smog. Coming on the heels of an all-nighter, that afternoon's practice would be its own special hell. But, as luck would have it, it would be a city run from my school’s L.A. campus west along Venice Boulevard. And up that road a few miles away sat Ashantites, a tiny record store that dealt exclusively in reggae music. If any shop in L.A. had Boom Shaka’s Creation, it was this one.

Getting to my destination wouldn't be easy. Besides exhaustion, I was nursing a painful abdominal muscle pull. Also, we runners weren’t allowed to deviate from the route to, say, take a shortcut … much less shop for records. But I was determined to get my record and would use my ailing physical condition to unhitch myself from the pack: I’d let my fellow runners drop me so that by the time we were a few miles in I could duck into Ashantites undetected. After, LP securely in my possession, I’d link back up with the team a couple blocks north as they made their eastbound return along Pico—albeit keeping a safe distance behind so that I wouldn’t be seen schlepping a record as I ran.

My plan worked. Hot, hurting, and gasping for breath, I stammered up to Ashantites’ storefront and hustled inside—lest I be spotted by any stragglers who may have gotten a late start or by my coaches trailing behind in a van (which they did periodically to safeguard us from the “mean streets” of Los Angeles). Inside, before I could be soothed by the air conditioning and perfume of incense, I made a beeline for the counter, behind which the owner, a diminutive woman whom I would later befriend, sat reading. “Boom Shaka. Album. Creation,” was all I could muster. She pointed over my left shoulder to the spot on the wall where it stood prominently displayed on a shelf along with the other new releases. I grabbed it, handed her a sweat-dampened wad of cash, apologized, and then hurried out, prize in hand.

The whole transaction took less than a minute. 

Outside, I cut up a side street and stood for a few minutes, watching for my returning teammates to intersect a block up as they raced back along Pico. When runners finally started crossing, they were no longer a pack, but a stream of smaller groups and lone suffering souls who had been thinned out by the withering pace and heat. After about five minutes, I started my limping, lopsided run back to campus. Unpleasant as it was to run with an aching side and a 12-by-12-inch cellophane square of hot sweat beneath my arm, I was stoked. I had my record.

When I got home that evening, I tore off the cellophane, pulled the black shellac from its sleeve and dropped it onto the turntable of my cheap Emerson stereo. There Creation remained, in heavy rotation, for the weeks that followed. 

Today, I’m hardly as obsessive about acquiring new music, although I do hit up the same Goodwill store a couple times a week in search of discarded treasure. I still own that Boom Shaka album, as well as the second version issued soon after the original with extra tracks. But until recently, I hadn’t listened to the album since spinning it on my college radio show more than 20 years ago. While I was pleasantly surprised by the undeniable catchiness of its songs—chief among them, the aforementioned “Wicked Man,” “Never Be Alone,” and the title track—I was disappointed to discover how dated and overproduced it sounded—which was characteristic of 1980s reggae. That’s not to say the record doesn’t hold up; it just doesn’t hold the same appeal. But how could it? My tastes have changed, my ears have changed, I have changed. Still, I must admit that I was a bit bummed: I guess I was naïve to think that listening to Creation all these years later would rekindle some of that magic I felt all those years ago, lying in bed, when I heard Boom Shaka for the first time.

Note: Events detailed in this post are as I remember them; I make no claim to historical accuracy. But it's all true.

Friday, March 20, 2015

Wretched Records and Crappy Covers Again: One More Wicker Man

Oh, Danny Boy! Sharp-dressed in his wicker nest.
Discovered another Wicker Man hiding on an old SD card. I snapped this pic last year, and I now regret not saving Danny from the oblivion of the Goodwill junk bin. I just have too many damned records. You may recall that I blogged about 1970s album covers festooned with wicker chairs a few months back (original post here). I'm just sorry for bringing Danny late to the party. At least he's fashionably late.

Monday, February 23, 2015

The Virgin Suicides

The Living Stones, four singing sisters and their poorly conceived suicide note.
Taking their lives might have been the most selfless act the Living Stones could have made to atone for this inept stillbirth of gospel music. The girls’ pastor, who just happened to be the album’s producer, thought the title—Take My Life—spoke of the sister act’s commitment to Christ. He learned just how horribly wrong he was when, a few weeks after the LP’s unsuccessful launch, he discovered their headless bodies lying in a bloody heap on the basement floor of the parish community center. Just as they harmonized in song, the siblings synchronized their exit with a simultaneous hanging. However, their choice of heavy-gauge low-E guitar strings as nooses proved to be a rather unfortunate—and messy—decision. The strings didn’t just snap their necks when pulled taught, they ripped their heads clear off. Melba’s wobbled some 20 feet down the hall before coming to its final rest just outside the men’s room door, a wavy trail of crimson occupying the distance between head and body. One positive outcome in all this was that it served as the inspiration for the soundtrack that in turn inspired the movie that in turn inspired the novel The Virgin Suicides

This is a work of fiction.

Friday, December 5, 2014

Wretched Records and Crappy Covers: Let's Get Physical


Hmm … judging by the illustrations, this doesn’t look like any ordinary exercise album. Backdoor pantomiming, pelvic thrusting, and checking a counter’s sturdiness are generally associated with exercises of a different sort. Not to mention, the whole shebang is narrated by a “physical fitness expert” named Vic Boff. Vic fricking BOFF, ladies and gentleman.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Wretched Records and Crappy Covers Redux: Wicker Up Front

We may never know what begot the wicker chair trend of the 1970s, but it hardly matters. The fact of the matter is that these specimens of dreadful design exist and continue to haunt the bargain bins and thrift stores near and far. Besides, who in their right, sober mind would claim credit for conceiving these Sears-studio-quality jackets? Because let's be honest: they're all likely the product of the same art director, who, along with his or her one idea, bounced from label to label, starting with the wonderful Al Green (whose album is pretty stunning despite the jacket; have you listened to "Look What You Done to Me" lately? The Late Teenie Hodges' gorgeous and sublime guitar work is just the beginning.) and ending with the miserable Ron Hudson. The only thing missing from these album covers besides tasteful graphic design is a lap dog ... or cat. 


Friday, August 1, 2014

When My Burning Airlines Concert Preview Crashed and Burned


I've been digging around in my archives lately in a futile attempt to locate a nice little write-up I did several months ago about the veteran L.A. band the Radar Bros. Their day-dreamy psychedelic music has long been a summer companion, and so I thought the short piece deserved a home here while summer is still upon us. Thus far, the archaeological dig into my archives, which has encompassed thousands of files and folders across two computers, a server and a portable drive, has uncovered no trace of the piece. But I'm not giving up yet. It's a decent chunk words, and I seldom say that about my own writing. All this searching hasn't been for nothing, though, because I managed to unearth an unpublished story from 2001, which I thought was lost forever in a cyber landfill of another dimension. And yet here it is, all 500 words of it. It's not a remarkable story -- it's just a short concert preview/interview featuring a long-defunct indie rock band called Burning Airlines. What makes it somewhat significant to me is the reason why the piece was never published: 9/11. 

The Burning Airlines story was originally written as the centerpiece of my weekly club concert column for the Friday edition of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. I filed the column on September 10. The next day, four hijacked passenger planes ... you know the rest. Cut to September 12 and my editor calls me to say that, for obvious reasons, he couldn't possibly publish a concert preview of a band called Burning Airlines. I didn't argue; I would have killed the story myself; but in those days I was so burned out on writing that I didn't think I could muster the energy it would take to draft a new column in just a few hours. I don't remember who replaced Burning Airlines in my revised column ... it's not important. 

So now that you know the story, I give you my Burning Airlines piece, almost 13 years later. If you don't recall Burning Airlines, you may remember the band emerged from the wreckage of Jawbox with guitarists/vocalists J. Robbins and Bill Barbot. Here's the story:

Burning Airlines Give You So Much More

By Joe Ehrbar
Special to the P-I

When Burning Airlines first rolled off the assembly line in 1998, guitarist/vocalist J. Robbins, along with bassist/vocalist Bill Barbot and drummer/vocalist Pete Moffett had no intention of ever departing the basement. Burning Airlines would not be a full-blown punk rock carrier.
            That’s because Robbins and Barbot had just come off an exhausting seven-year run with Jawbox, the beloved Washington, D.C. post-hardcore band they co-founded in 1990. Having made a number of solid recordings, toured the world several times over, and punched the clock for three years and two albums with Atlantic Records, earning themselves a small, but loyal following in the process, Jawbox simply ran out of steam. Its members were eager to unplug and get on with their lives.
            So when Robbins, Moffett and Barbot convened in the Jawbox’s old practice space, their idea was to simply make music. They had no intentions of sharing their results with an audience.
            It didn’t quite work out that way.
            The low-key arrangement allowed the band greater freedom to explore new sonic destinations they were otherwise unable to in Jawbox—largely because commercial pressures stifled that band creative pursuits. Yet the project had become something bigger than mere basement noodling; it was a viable endeavor.
           Taking their name from the Brian Eno song “Burning Airlines Give You So Much More, Burning Airlines, who play Graceland with Rival School and Actionslacks on Wednesday (7 p.m.;$10), started slowly, cautiously, initially making short hops around D.C. and other East Coast cities, before venturing farther. In early 1999, the band’s first full-length manifest “Mission: Control!” was released, detailing Burning Airlines’ rapid artistic ascent and revealing the band to be a sturdier, sleeker, more versatile version of Jawbox.
            “I think Burning Airlines is a lot different than Jawbox, but in my mind a lot of my concerns are obviously the same,” Robbins said in a phone interview last week. “So it’s sort of an ongoing project in that way.”
            Now, three years, two albums and one personnel change (bassist Mike Harbin replaced a departing Barbot) later, it would seem Robbins and company are giving audiences a hell of ride. The proof is in their newest CD travel log “Identikit” (DeSoto), a highly stylized display of intensity, precision and sophistication, one characterized by seismic rhythms, white-knuckle time changes, angular riffs, robust vocal melodies and guitar crescendos, and lots of thorny dissonance.
            “I feel like the two Burning Airlines records have carried on very much in the (Jawbox) spirit of wanting to reach,” said Robbins. “Maybe we’ve gotten better at being adventuresome and at integrating it into a kind of live feeling.
            “The thing I keep going back to whenever we’re putting songs together are the melodies and changes,” the frontman continued. “And usually if those are in place then we do things around the changes. Things can get pretty rich around the changes and take on a life of their own and still keep the essence of what those changes are. In my mind it’s pretty fun to see how far afield you can go from just carrying on underneath the vocal and instead do something more interesting with the instruments.”
           As Robbins says, Burning Airlines may deviate from course, but for passengers it makes for a thrilling adventure.