You wanna see helicopters? I’ll show you helicopters!

I haven’t seen Martin Scorsese’s recent concert film of the Rolling Stone’s “Shine A Light” show, recorded over two nights at the Beacon Theatre in New York in the summer of 2006. In fact I have no desire to whatsoever, despite the fact that posters for the show seem to have taken over the streets, and publications a-plenty are fawning over it’s artistic and musical merits. Hype over substance I fear. And this is a resolute reluctance, despite the fact that the tracklist for the concert recording boasts some of the greatest songs ever recorded, and is directed by the great Scorsese (whose concert movie The Last Waltz , and The Blues series are, by contrast, essential viewing).

I’m not even someone who bemoans the Stones for their status as the elder statesmen of rock’n’roll and the tribute act to end all tribute acts (in that they are almost a pastiche of themselves these days). Good luck to them I say, and there is a certain wonderment in their continued energy, but also their decision a long time ago to turn their creative output into a bankable and desirable brand name, sustaining their careers and incomes well into old age, and setting out a business model that many acts aspire to today.

However, the ubiquity of publicity for this movie release, did get me thinking, about a number of things. The first is as I stated above. The Stones have written and recorded some of the greatest songs of all time. Point blank. I’m not necessarily a proponent of “Greatest Hits” packages, but if ever there was a collection that lives up to it’s name as a “best of” then the 1971 release “Hot Rocks” is surely it. A collection of songs from the Stones’ bursting back catalogue between 1964 and 1971, it is quite simply stunning in its consistent brilliance, and remains their biggest selling album. The irony being that it is not an official release, but came from former manager Allen Klein after he split from the group in 1970 and gained the rights to their music from this period (recorded under Decca and London records). Various albums released by the band in this same time period are worthy of attention themselves, including 1966’s brilliant “Aftermath” to “Beggar’s Blanket” in 68 and “Let It Bleed” in 69.

Even the psychedelic diversion that is “Their Satanic Majesties Request” is an interesting offering, deserving of more attention in hindsight that was afforded it on release. Of course the early 1970s, following the split form Klein, also immediately spawned “Stick Fingers” and the legendary “Exile On Main Street”, while the long journey into their legacy years has also produced more than a few genuine highlights and renaissance moments. It also made me think about how cool Charlie Watts is. No real time to go into that now, but he has always struck me as a great drummer, inclined by jazz leanings for sure, who is a quiet and yet central figure in the band’s long history. Someone I have always been slightly intrigued by, despite the attention that the duality of Jagger and Richards often demands.

My final thought though, was prompted by the Scorsese link and remembering that he has used one Rolling Stones song in three of his biggest gangster movies, recent offering “The Departed”, classic “Casino” and the daddy of all of them “Goodfellas”. The song in question of course is the incredible “Gimme Shelter”, itself taken from the afore-mentioned “Let It Bleed” album. Now, not only does this song’s inherent drama lend itself brilliantly to the cinematic medium, but it is of course itself the title of another notable documentary, the capturing of the fateful 1969 US tour, which ended in the tragic stabbing of student Meredith Hunter at Altamont. This film is worthy of attention itself, again for a myriad of reasons. However for now the focus is the song itself, which is quite fantastic.

The subject matter, a despairing critique of the social unrest of the age, including the Vietnam War, imbues the song with an apocalyptic vision strangely suited to the Stone’s style of rock, and particularly Keith Richard’s haunting guitar riff. But the masterstroke is the use of Gospel-trained Merry Clayton on lead vocals alongside Jagger. Her input raises the song from being good, to being great, largely because of the passion held in her performance. Indeed her voice audibly cracks at one point as she repeats the key stanza that “rape*murder*it’s just a shot away..it’s just a shot away”. Interestingly for a dual performance of this kind (though Jagger dominates proceedings) is that there is little sexual tension evident in the interplay. Instead Clayton just, in my mind, takes the song over and destroys it.

Totally brilliant, and one reason amongst hundreds to give the Rolling Stones absolute props. In reality, they don’t need Scorsese, or anyone, to shine a light on their careers. The music does it for them.

Keep your chin up

Unless you are one of the people, such as my boys and girls in the Twelve Bar crew, lucky enough to live in perennial sunshine, the emergence of the rays of warming happiness from that great big burning star in our sky is enough to lift everyone’s mood. And this is never truer than in London town, where the first hint of t-shirt weather brings the grins to faces everywhere lifting, albeit momentarily, the stresses and tensions of live in the big bad city. That the ladies look particularly fine and the days take pn a languid pace of their own is a help I am sure, but it is just feeling the warmth on your back that makes you remember how great a planet this is. And of course it is a chance to locate the perfect summer tune, the one that enhances the effects of the sun and adds to the good vibes pumping from car stereos, at BBQ jams, out in the park or chilling at the beachfront, or just strolling down the street.

Who knows what this years summer jam will be, but my own sunshine laden walk to work this morning threw up a contender for an evergreen offering that never fails to disappoint. Put simply, how amazing is Mr Vegas’ “Heads High”!?! From the opening “Na, na, nanana*” intro through the sweetly half-toasted, half-crooned verses, to the ridiculously infectious chorus, it is just a total bomb. Drop it next time you are throwing down at a party and watch the reaction. Craziness. And what has always struck me as interesting about this tune is it’s sparseness and downright oddness in the instrumental.

Listen again. The bass is low down in the mix, the melody interspersed with funny bleep and noises that could easily sound novelty or just straight-up out of place. But they don’t. They merge together to form a brilliant foil, and mellow rhythm, to the main strength of the song, Vegas’s own lyrical style. In doing so it avoids and ignores many tenets of the reggae and dancehall rulebook, but is still unmistakably of that genre. I remember first hearing it and actually being irritated by it’s approach, turned off by it’s lack of a big bassline to hook onto, and questioning the singing style. Indeed I did the very thing I am arguing against here, dismissing it as novelty and lightweight.

But then it just continued to blow up in 97, 98, 99* like a Duracell porn star it just kept coming. And killing it every time. And now I can’t tire of the bloody thing. To me it is always welcome, always a banger and always sounds fresh. The album of the same name is not to be sniffed at either, Vegas’ Barrington Levy type approach coming to the fore, and maintaining the standard set by the title track. None have quite the crossover appeal of the original offering, but for a slice of dancehalls’ braggadocio and “I’m the man” attitude wrapped up in a sweet package you could do a lot worse, and for an album of this ilk it is incredibly strong with few fillers if any.

Heads will recognise the massive “Nike Air” and the use of Beenie Man’s “Who Am I” beat, but there are plenty more of note to discover also. And many of it recorded in a Kanye West lock-jawed fashion as the impetus for Vegas's creatuve outburst came following a studio brawl over a DAT tape left him with an iron-pipe across his face and 6 weeks with a wired up jaw. And if the work is worth taking a pipe to the head for, then who am I to argue. Heads High? Damn right, and nodding along with the best of them.

Simply Blue

Music appreciation, as we have noted previously on A Story To Tell, can be a snobbish affair. The thrill of the crate-digger, of the collector, of the beat-spotter, lies often in the exclusivity of his or her prey, the self-imposed cool points that are scored by the knowledge of an unsung hero, or an unheralded classic cut. Often these cool points exist only in the head of the beholder, a way of justifying, perhaps, their own geeky sensibilities when it comes to the hours spent honing and studying the hard material and associated miscellany of their treasured collections. I should say at this point, that I am probably counted amongst this sorry bunch, and strangely proud to be so.

However, as with all knowledge, the joy of collecting, for me, is not in the secret stock-piling of facts and musical treasures like some crazed medieval baron counting his gold dubloons in miserable isolation, or some political dictator who spurns the value of knowledge to keep his own grip on power secure. No, it is in the sharing, in the joy that comes with opening eyes to new influences, while in turn being receptive to the same from others, revelling in the symbiosis of the love of music. But like I say, for some a certain snobbishness can cloud the judgment somewhat. Now, to be clear (and to get to the point), I am no fan of the ginger soul-singing lothario that is Simply Red’s Mick Hucknall, nor more pertinently his brand of soul pop lite. Let’s be very clear about that. However, can the boy sing?

You bet your bottom dollar he can. And does he have good taste in terms of influences? Again, an unequivocal yes. If his massive 80s hit cover version of Philly soul classic “If You Don’t Know Me By Now” was not evidence of that, then his latest work, an album of the covers of soul and blues legend Bobby “Blue” Bland, kills the argument stone dead. And here we come to the crux of this prosaic ramble. Because Bobby Bland is truly one of the most under-rated artists in soul and blues multi-faceted history, and Hucknall deserves credit for re-awakening interest in his worth. But that is definitely where the Hucknall part of this tale ends, so breathe easy.

For Bland’s work stands on its own two feet in terms of quality, consistency and importance in the musical canon. Not only is he an early originator of a style that blended gospel traditions and vocal stylings with the emergent R’n’B sound, along with better known contemporaries such as the justifiably idolised Ray Charles and Sam Cooke, but he is also an important pioneer of the electric blues sound, alongside fellow Memphis figures BB King and Johnny Ace on the Chess label. But his status within the blues was also something of a hard fought road to recognition, based in part on the fact that Bland’s only instrument was his voice, albeit an impressive one. No guitar or mouth harp for this bluesman. But with a voice as strong and powerful as his this was never going to hold him back for long, and something that stands out clearly in Bland’s work is his full-throated delivery and the angst and anguish evident in his voice, a style that added a passion and integrity to his mournful tales of lost and forgotten love.

If you are looking for a definitive piece of work through which to access Bland’s work then there can be little doubt that the answer comes in his 1961 classic “Two Steps From The Blues”, the archetype of his brassy big band style of southern blues. The songs on this album are, without exception, exceptional, start to finish. And in listening to them again one can easily see the lines which have run from Bland’s work since, from the heyday of Stax and artists such as Otis and Wilson Pickett, to the Muscle Shoals studio, and even on through the Philly sound itself. And of course there is one final reason to at least be aware of Bobby “Blue” Bland, the use of his classic 1974 cut “Ain’t No Love In The Heart Of The City” by you know whom, you know where.

And if you think Jay-z’s version is good, listen to the original and revel in the true soul of a man’s quest for love in the cold of an urban landscape. It itself is priceless. And the best thing is that Bland still records and tours today. So if you are in need of a shot of real blues and soul, maybe you’ll catch the man, the legend, himself. There are not many people whose careers have spanned over fifty years of quality music for who that can be said. And all of it about as far from bland as you can get.

Hyperbolicsyllabicsequedalymistic

Life is funny, and at times the humdrum and the routine is pierced momentarily by a poignant and serendipitous occurrence that just makes you stop and think. I’m not talking about any flashes of mysticism, or spiritual awakenings, not about metaphysical musings on the meaning of life and everything else. Just that funny knack that life has of throwing you the odd curveball, the occasional coincidence to give you pause for thought in an other wise busy day. So there I was last week on a work trip to Japan, and had 30 minutes spare in Shibuya, just long enough to pop into the brilliant Sam’s for a dose of the best of black music in the heart of the city. And one of the things I picked up, and have been searching on for some time, was a DVD of the legendary WattStax concert from 1972, encased within Mel Stuart’s brilliant 1973 documentary.

The sight of the mighty Isaac Hayes resplendent in golden chain mail waistcoat from the concert itself that adorned the DVD cover then reminded me to pick up a CD version of Hayes’ “Hot Buttered Soul”, “Black Moses” and “..To Be Continued”, three of the finest records of all time, and up until that point owned by myself only on vinyl (or in the case of the latter a ropey old cassette tape). So happy with my purchases on Saturday, I fly back to the UK on Sunday and get online for a news update (having been incommunicado largely whilst in Japan) and also to get the disks onto the ipod quick smart.

And then, of course, I was greeted with the news that you all have learnt and been saddened by, namely the untimely death at just 65 years old of the very same soul legend. Odd timing as the purchase of the CDs and DVD had lead me to be planning to write a post on this musical master this very week. And now the timing could not have been sadder.

For I am genuinely saddened by this passing, as I am sure we all are, not only because of the legacy of the man who played on more Stax records than virtually any other individual, who changed the very face of soul music in the late 1960s and early 1970s, but because I always felt that Hayes had one last great piece of work in him. I don’t know why, I just always felt that he would return to form with another masterpiece in his later years, a feeling increased by the quality of the two mid-90s albums “Branded” and “Raw and Refined”, and his rise to popular re-appraisal and visibility following his role as Chef in South Park. In many ways it matters not, however, because even if the only thing that Hayes had ever done was to have produced the song he is most famous for, 1971’s “Shaft” soundtrack and the lead “Theme from Shaft” single, or any one of his early 1970s albums, to me his legacy would be secure.

Indeed, even if he had merely continued to be the multi-instrumentalist and songwriter who contributed so much to the canon of incredible Stax material throughout the 1960s his passing would have been of some note. That he did all of these things, and produced along the way some of the finest soul music you are ever likely to hear makes his death a subject of true mourning. I would go so far as to say that with the afore-mentioned “Hot Buttered Soul”, from 1969, he produced simply one of the most significant and perfect slices of music in all history. Not only for its daringly long and complex compositions, it’s languid delivery and downright soulfulness, but also for how it just changed the game, subtly at first, but then monumentally.

It set the standard, and the template, for so much to come, rendering Motown archaic, the Godfather himself as over-pomped, and defining the places where black music could, and indeed would, go to. And the ripples are still felt today, not only in soul and r’n’b, but in hip-hop itself, in clothing, in design, in our very culture. Hayes’ music in this album is perfection, the syrupy production of another level entirely, his performance breath-taking, and the ambition within enough to make you weep with the sheer audacity of it. His tough yet sensual persona straddles the work, and introduces a new dynamic to black music, a dynamic which paved the way for the Blaxploitation he is commonly associated with because of Shaft, but also for the many high-points of black music in the decade that followed.

It helped define an identity that the civil rights movement had fought to allow breathing space. And that “Hot Buttered Soul” is merely one highlight in his one-man musical odyssey serves only to shine a beam on why we have lost an extremely special individual. And so, the only thing to do is to wish that he rest in peace, that his Scientology beliefs of personal upliftment serve him well wherever he now resides, and dig out any one of his recorded output, and drift into the deep, and eeply important, music of Mr Isaac Hayes. Sometime hyperbole is justified. For Hayes, it was invented.

Don’t turn it loose, cause it’s a Mutha!

It is inevitable, in a forum such as A Story To Tell, that props have to be given to the obvious as well as the obscure. That for every unearthed treasure trove worthy of discovery and highlighting, there are the familiar workaday musical offerings which form the musical framework to our lives, and equally worthy of mention as we continue to try to bring some interesting insights into the music we all know and love. The cuts that are so deeply ingrained in our individual and collective consciences as to almost be rendered a part of our beings. The trouble is often what to say that has not been said a million times before.

However, sometimes, you just have to state the bleeding obvious and accept the fact that there are some parts of our musical heritage for which words are obsolete anyway. The music itself talks to us enough. Put it like this, if I was to say that there is a picture hanging in a gallery in Paris of a half-smiling dark-haired woman that defies belief in its power of attraction, you’d be within your rights to be singularly unimpressed by my description. If I took you to The Louvre and showed you the Mona Lisa, hopefully you’d see that words simply can’t do justice to some creative endeavours. But that should not stop us trying, especially when the creative endeavour is itself one of rare simplicity in execution.


So to what ubiquity am I referring in this rambling intro? Well, put simply, the most sampled record of all time, the bedrock of a ridiculous amount of rap music, James Brown’s ridiculous “Funky Drummer”. This archetype of funk has come to be known primarily for a mere 20 second burst of Clyde Stubblefield’s unadulterated drums, a solo so pristine and on the money as to inspire a multitude of greatness from its seemingly humble origins. Just 8 bars of syncopated rhythmic brilliance. But in fact the drum pattern and break builds from the very beginning of the track, laying a foundation for Maceo’s tenor sax blasts and James Brown’s own organ stabs, and setting a groove which appears to burst from this loose studio jam, a spontaneous groove which gives birth to a monster right there on tape.


You can almost sense it from Brown’s own vocal improvisations and his realisation of the need to “Give the drummer some” on the track. But he realises also that there is no need for extravagant soloing, because the beat that Stubblefield has laid down is already “a mutha”. And he is right. The mother of all things funky. The whole song, recorded late in 1969, was a double-side single release only, and one senses that history should be eminently thankful that the studio tapes were rolling that day, because the sense of a jam that just hits all the right buttons for this supremely talented group of musicians is overwhelming. The whole song, for anyone who delights in the music of James Brown, is a beast of itself, a head-nodding groove that shakes the hips in the way that only funk music can. And it is significant also that the sampled use of the track has itself been an important part of the James Brown legacy, and that of his orchestra, opening up his canon to a whole new generation of music fans.


It is hard to believe for such a figure that there was a period of time when James Brown’s legacy and legend was not so assured. The late 1970s and early 80s were a fallow period, and his star had waned somewhat, his influence less known outside of aficionados. Far from forgotten, his place in musical heritage was just mislaid and under-appreciated for a time. But the funky drummer helped change all that. In fact, look up a list of all the tunes that sampled it, and you can see for yourself. It helped change a whole lot more. Uh! Ain’t it funky!

Recommended by Baby Phife

Although hip-hop can be a be a brilliant way to discover new music, the hints and signposts to great and interesting music that you are yet to discover is most usually found in the consistently inventive use of samples, of musical interpolations and references, and the reverence in which these are often held. The odd lyrical metaphor or passing reference may also pique a listener’s interest, and props given to fellow rappers/producers are informative, but often driven my ego as opposed to critical acclamation. It is not so common, for an artist to make a point of giving an unadulterated shout out to an artist, especially one of not general recognition already. And when the shout out comes from none other than the incomparable Phife Dawg, then something suggests it is worth paying heed to.


The line in question comes from “Baby Phife’s Return” on fourth Tribe album “Beats, Rhymes and Life” and is relatively incongruous to the rest of Phife’s typical mix of swagger, braggadocio and cheeky metaphor. In the middle of verse one he drops the couplet “You lose your grip from chalk climbin, Let me take this time to say R.I.P. to Phyllis Hyman, Who never got the props that she damn well deserved, But see me, you don't wanna see me, cuz all MCs are gettin served”. Odd, no? Well less odd give that soul and jazz singer Phyllis Hyman had tragically taken her own life at the age of just 45 in 1995, the year before this Tribe album was released, and so a mark of respect is well-timed and a nice gesture from someone who clearly means what they say, otherwise why say it. But, still, it is an interesting shout out and if anything reveals something of Phife’s own impressive tastes, and of course he is correct because Hyman really is a fantastic singer, and interesting character, who never really got her dues, in her lifetime or since.

But if you can be moved to explore her music, it truly is a hugely rewarding experience. Hyman was a singer as well as model and actress, and was quite stunning physically. But it was her sultry, deep and smooth voice which was her true brilliance, lending itself initially to a jazz styling, before finding a home also in soulful balladeering and even disco offerings. And what a voice it was, a rare instrument of depth that really seemed to convey in a very powerful way, the emotions and sentiments of the affairs of the heart she so often sang about. It shimmered with intensity, and recordings of her live appearances reveal a singer of passion and captivating showmanship.

Hyman was discovered in the late 1970s and her voice can be found as collaborator on a huge array of work (itself often tinged with jazz leanings), from The Fatback Band to Pharaoh Saunders, Jon Lucien, Lonnie Liston Smith and Grover Washington Jr. Hyman was also sometime muse of Philly Soul godfathers Gamble & Huff, as well as legendary producer Thom Bell. Her Tony-nominated stage work in the Duke Ellington tribute Broadway show “Sophisticated Ladies” is also worthy of mention, displaying once more her impressive stage presence and gift for live performance. And her recorded performances are themselves a deep well of solidly great music. The balladeering and smooth jazz-inflected style that dominates may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but there is no doubting the quality throughout, and while singers with barely half of her range or control have gone onto be massive stars, it was partly the failure to break through big time that caused Hyman such angst later in her career.

I would not normally recommend “Best Of” packages as a route into an artist’s work, but the posthumous release put together by English producers Ralph Tee and Michael Grimaldi, “In Between The Heartaches”, is a notable exception, bringing together familiar tracks with some rare an unreleased recordings, including sessions with jazz legend McCoy Tyner. Indeed these are worth discovering Phyllis Hyman all by themselves. So, as with so many other things, don’t be afraid to follow the nice advice of the five-foot assassin and give Hyman some overdue props. In fact, while you’re at it, tell your mother, tell your father, send a telegram.