I rode through the valley with the princess by my side

I have a Trojan Records compilation, in fact I have quite a few, but this particular collection entitled “Trojan Explosion” is a real gem and was provided for me free of charge by the wonderful people at MOJO magazine. Now often these CD giveaways, which seem to be the staple of music publications these days as the paper press battles against the proliferation of information sources now prevalent in the content rich world, are a hit and miss affair. Often more miss than hit actually. But occasionally they hit real hard, and are entries into entire new worlds of musical discovery. And such is the case with “Trojan Explosion”. But they often also provide a chance to add those elusive single cuts to your collection, gems from artists who perhaps you have never sought to explore in long player mode, but who have provided a favourite song along our paths of musical appreciation. And this, in a long-winded fashion, is an entry point into one such song, the quite incredible 1970 cut “Ali Baba” by Jamaica’s own John Holt.

Holt recorded the song whilst still a member of The Paragons, though it was not long before he left the group entirely fro a crack at a solo career, and one which proved to be hugely successful for this balladeer whom some have described as the Barry White of reggae. But before all of this (a career really worth checking out in greater detail in actual fact) there was the creation of one of reggae’s classic riddims, and a tune that is so bizarre as to be almost novelty, but instead treads the balance into brilliance through its sheer invention and harmonious excellence. For “Ali Baba”, lyrically, is a mish-mash of fairytale references, a meandering tale of forty thieves, princesses, teddy bears, blind mice and weird and whacky dreams. And yet somehow the lyrical content works, such is the way it fits wonderfully with the lilting ebb and flow of the riddim itself, a tune that suggests Arabian bazaars, magic carpet rides and the mysteries of dreams, and yet remains firmly late-1960s reggae at its finest.

Built around a bumping and sprightly squiggle of a hook, the song never fails to bring a smile to the face. You think it would wear thin after a listen or two but it is a tune that I am always happy to hear, and one which can always give a lovely mellow haze to even the greyest of days. As with so many classic riddims the tune has been cut by various artists over the years, with every artist worth their salt having a chat over the beat at some stage or another. However, as is often the case, the original is always the best, and so before you check John Holt the Lover’s Rocker, check the paragon of reggae and the teller of tales for a trip into the world of dreams.

This is why events unnerve me

The music of Joy Division and New order is of course inextricably linked, bonded in style and significance, and united by both tragedy and triumph. Here is not the place to go into the autobiographical details of the bands, the phoenix-rising of New Order from the sad yet somehow elegant bright burning of Joy Division, except in as much as it forms the bedrock of the piece of music that I wanted to draw attention to. For I was listening recently to “Substance”, the 1987 collection of New Order’s singles, B-Sides and some key re-recordings to date. “Substance”, quite naturally perhaps, begins with New Order’s first ever single release, the wonderful “Ceremony”, a song which to me is so sublime as to be close to magical. It is not New Order’s best song, but how could it be given the trail of innovation and epoch-definition that was to follow. And how do you even define “best” in any art-form anyway, particularly music. But whatever the case “Ceremony” is a song which is just a sheer delight to listen to, but which also comes tinged with as much poignancy as you could care to ascribe to it.

For “Ceremony”, and B-side “In A Lonely Place” were the last full songs to be written by Joy Division’s lead singer and lyricist Ian Curtis before his suicide in May, 1980, and as such are an obvious place to look for clues as to his mindset at this time. It depends on how you want to idolise your tragic rock deities I suppose, but for me it is not a case of looking for clues, but rather revelling in the sheer serene poetics of Curtis’ lyricism. “Ceremony” has an oblique beauty like so much of Joy Division’s work, and also it seems to me sets the template upon which New Order would build their own world of dreams. Optimistic in feel and yet also bleak in tone, it combines the ever-present mystery of love with symbols of time and memory, and sets them all to a sound and context which seems to summarise the juxtaposition in life of nature and machine.

Bernard Sumner, who of course took over vocal duties in the ranks of the New Order, had to work from distorted live tapes to decipher Curtis’ full lyrics, playing them through graphic equalisers to unearth the words. To me this also gives the song an added sense of mystery, the feeling that the odd word here and there may actually have been intended differently, or that it was still actually a poem in progress. It is the case also that there are dual recordings of Ceremony, the first recorded very soon after New Order formed and as their first release in march 1981, and then again following the recruitment of Gillian Gilbert on guitar in September of the same year. Both produced by Martin Hamnett, but each featuring a different sound, one more Joy Division, and the latter more New Order (if that doesn’t sound too odd). And so the song is in very real terms a bridge. Even the packaging of the two recordings, so important in New Order folklore of course under the direction of the brilliant Peter Saville, had differences, confused and mixed-up in the physical packaging of the record so that different pressings ended up in different sleeves. One for the real collectors to unravel, clearly.

But regardless of all of this physical, emotional and historical ephemera, what remains is simply a starting record, a stoic and defiant statement of a band who had lost a vital ingredient and yet determined to remain vital because or in spite of this loss. “Ceremony” is the first step towards a second period of greatness, a journey which saw the post-punk ashes pressed into dance music diamonds, and a band who define musical cool and accomplishment in a myriad of ways. Musically it swoops, soars and serenades, defining beauty in the distorted views of ourselves and the world around us. A ceremony of sublime serenity.

Well daddy, if I had some nuts on my chest, would they be chestnuts?

Seriously. Where do you begin talking about “The Chronic” exactly? Answer me that, dear reader. Well the answer is of course, virtually anywhere, such is the quality of this evergreen classic. Listened to as a whole this long player just never loses its edge, but tracks which are listened to in isolation are also fascinating as they provide a reminder of the individual planks of excellence that make up fantastic whole. I often wonder, with favourite albums, just how much importance is laid in the sequencing.

If “The Chronic” began, say, with the posse assaults of “Lyrical Gangbang” or “High Powered”, or the funky aggression of “Rat-tat-tat-tat”, would the album be a different proposition than with the funked and smoked out intro and genre-defining “Fuck Wit Dre Day”. We’ll never know but always worth considering I think just as a different way of reviewing the piece, especially now that the concept of two sides to a record is seemingly resigned to the vinyl dustbin of history, and the individual track download is king.

But this is an aside of sorts, except to say that there is one tune from the album which it is perhaps easy to miss as a stone cold classic, but which for me sums up much of what is great about it as a whole, and in a way also has the archetypal G-Funk sound which has since become so ubiquitous. At least, it is a sound that I associate with this music particularly closely, and would, I think, have made a great starting track as well. And the concept of beginnings is interesting, because the track constitutes something of another landmark beginning, this time in the shape of the first appearance on wax that I was then aware of for the mighty 213, and thus the beginning of a love affair for this listener.

Fair enough Warren G only does the intro skit, and Snoop only contributes to the chorus, but it is still all three members, with Nate Dogg’s imperious vocal hook, on wax together. I know that they had released material previous to “The Chronic” but this is the first time I heard them together. And more significantly the first time I was aware of Nate Dogg and his sheer brilliance, a sound which, as I have mentioned before, still holds a special place in the heart. Listen again to the point when Nate drops into “Deez Nuuuts”. It is utterly ridiculous. It is still astonishing to me that this is Nate’s one and only appearance on the album because as I say it seems that his vocals are almost synonymous with the G-Gunk sound these days (helped of course by the soon to come to prominence greatness of “Regulate”). But this aside, largely because of Nate’s contribution, this song is nothing short of a musical phenomenon.

The lyrical chops of Dre, and particularly Daz on the verses are strong, but when Snoop calls for us to check sounds from Nate D-O-double-G, the track, and even the album, steps up to a higher level of greatness. Nate is given virtually half of the song and just riffs with the status of a seasoned pro over the illest of beats. It is on this long outro that Dre’s beats also come to the fore and give the listener the opportunity to just bop they heads to the still undisputed king of production. Seriously, this tune is totally next level. Raw, powerful, soulful, funky. Straight-up spectacular. What a debut from the boy Nate, and a benchmark which, for me, he has always striven to maintain. Put simply, any tune with Nate on the chorus is pretty huge as far as I am concerned.

Plus, it is a song that has added to the vernacular, for it has given us one of the greatest phrases that I know of, and really a great response in many a day-to-day situation. Ay, did did did whats-a-name done get at you yesterday? Who? (altogether now.....) Deeeee-eeeez, Nuh-hutz!

Arabian Nights

Recently I chanced upon one of my favourite slabs of mid-1980s soul, the down-tempo smoulder that is Shirley Jones’ “Do You Get Enough Love?”, from the equally outstanding 1986 solo album “Always In The Mood”. Now it is perhaps fair to say that the years have not always been kind to this style of lush Philadelphia soul from the mid-1980s, but there still remain some absolute gems, and Jones’ one and only solo cut is a prime example. Smooth, sensual, dripping in funky balladry, if not timeless, it at least stands up to close scrutiny and always has its place in a discerning collection.

But listening to Jones’ solo work reminded me of the root to the fruit, and a vocal group for on whom I have been meaning to comment for some time. For Shirley Jones was of course one third of The Jones Girls, alongside sisters Brenda and Valorie (who sadly passed away at the age of just 45 in 2001). As such she was responsible for some of the finest cuts of late 1970s and early 1980s soulful R’n’B to come out of the US. The story of the Jones Girls is interesting, not only for their music which of course includes the brilliant cult classic “Nights Over Egypt”, monster early hit “You’re Gonna Make Me Love Somebody Else”, “I Just Love The Man”, “Will You Be There” amongst countless other highlights. but more for the route to recognition that it took them on.

For the Jones Girls, in a bizarre way, have a recording journey that represents much of what I hold as key musical influences. They had a recording journey that took them through three of the greatest stables of their era, and labels which have produced some of my favourite music of all time and are all worthy of some special attention themselves. And this doesn’t even include the decade or so that they spent as much-in-demand backing singers for the likes of Teddy Pendergrass, Aretha, the Four Tops, and Diane Ross to name a mere handful. They even did backing on Linda Clifford’s huge cut “Runaway Love” for goodness sakes!

Back to the journey, however, and The Jones Girls first efforts under their own name were with the frequently brilliant Hot Wax-Invictus label, the Detroit recording house that Holland-Dozier-Holland established on leaving Motown, and the home of some incredible and often overlooked music. The formula was unsuccessful however, and next stop was the equally outstanding Curtom, Curtis Mayfield’s label. To be more precise they were on the subsidiary Gemigo, worthy of note of course because it was this imprint that was initially established for the sole purpose of being an outlet for Leroy Hutson’s production work.

The mind just boggles at what genius went on in the Gemigo walls, such is the reverence I hold for everything Hutson. But I digress, because last stop for the girls, and where it all took off for them, was Gamble and Huff’s mighty, mighty Philadelphia International Records. From 1979 they cut four albums in three years , all of them absolute gold and seriously difficult to pick a favourite. Debut offering “The Jones Girls” from 1979 is probably the strongest, but from where I am sitting it really is a matter of splitting hairs.

Production, as you would expect, is stellar, and the harmonies of the sisters is truly outstanding, and criminally under-rated. And so there we are, a whistle-stop tour, but one which allows us to highlight at least some of the Jones Girl’s brilliance. With a fairer wind they may even be feted amongst the very best, but those in the know surely realise that for a short while, in soul and R’n’B, it was all about keeping up with the Joneses. Search hard online and you can even find a recent remix from fellow Detoiter Zo, and we all know how much he loves the 80s. You should too.

I'm from L dot A dot Californ-I-A hot

I’ve wanted to write this post, or an approximation of it, for some time but have just never gotten around to it. So much music so little time you see. But then lo and behold, as is often the case, up popped a killer tune on my random shuffle bringing to mind the California sunshine on the very day that one of my 12bar crew was celebrating their birthday in the land of LA. The omens seemed too good to ignore from the chills of a grey London town, and so here it is, a paean to a brilliant MC, and his own paean to his hometown of Los Angeles.

The rapper in question, if you haven’t yet guessed, is of course the mighty Murs, and the tune none other than the slice of Cali bounce that is “LA” from 2006’s “Murray’s Revenge” set. I’m sure that few readers of this blog will need to much of an introduction to the legendary underground rapper who recently popped his head firmly above terra firma with 2008’s major label release “Murs for President”. Murs is one of those figures who seem to have been around forever, and whose name on a project is usually a sign of the very highest quality, or at least of work worthy of attention.

Whether it is with the Living legends collective and a stream of late-90s and early 2000s independent releases, his guest slots on projects such as those by the various members of the Justus League, or his intriguing concept albums as Felt alongside Anticon rapper Slug, Murs is always on point. Intelligent, articulate, humourous and with a smooth vocal flow. Your so-called favourite rapper’s favourite rapper, or at least one of them.

But it is Murs’ collaborations with the imperious (at least to my mind) 9th Wonder that really set the heart a-flutter. 2004’s absolute classic “Murs 3:16. The 9th Edition” is just that, a classic, while “Murray’s Revenge” explores the boundaries of the partnership still further. 9th is of course the master of a digging in the crates style of production, and provides the perfect soulful backdrop to Murs’ laconic story-telling. Like 9th’s hook-ups with Buckshot, or indeed his work with Little Brother, it seems the producer has a knack for providing the perfect aural scape to rappers of high intellect and crazy skills, and tying together albums so that they are just that - albums that flow and work brilliantly as a whole, and yet are filled with standout individual tracks.

And one of these is where we started, the bumping tribute to the city of Angels that is “LA”. Sampling the brilliant “Atlas” by The Mighty Diamonds (seriously where does he find these hooks!?), “LA” simply rolls and rolls and brings to life the inherent pros and cons that a life in LA seems to be made from. Arguably not even the best song on the album, but just a tune that is heartfelt, lyrically tight and a perfect example of rap about nothing in particular, but which holds your attention every time. Oh and happy birthday player.

Positively dangerous

As well as being an admirer of music in various forms, I am quite a sports fan, and as has been mentioned previously, particularly the pugilistic arts. Boxing, that dark abyss of human endeavour, has always fascinated me and as much as I am sometimes shocked and dismayed at the sheer brutality of it, the draw of controlled violence, skill, bravery, recklessness and raw aggression pulls me back in. It has to be said, however, that the golden age of boxing has clearly passed and whilst great fights may still occur, the glamour and true and pure competition that the golden age threw up now seems a thing of the past.

And, in a seamless link, much the same thing was often stated about reggae in the late 1980s, when the digital reggae era took over from the golden age of Dancehall. Drum machine rhythms, synths and sequencers became the order of the day, and a stiffness and cheapness of sound crept in to the scene, killing a lot of commercial avenues, and turning purists and casual fans alike away from the music.

However, as with any genre or sub-genre, there remain highlights from which to cherry pick. And one tune that emerges from this period with glory intact is Conroy Smith’s massive 1988 single “Dangerous”. The sound may be digital, but the tune itself is pure soul and grind, showcasing Smith’s fantastic signing voice, not to mention his chatting skills, to the utmost. The harmony bobs along with infectious glee, while Smith swoops and soars over lyrics of bad intention, and the bass throbs underneath the whole piece. “Musically dangerous” is the refrain, and the claim is accurate as it is one of those tunes that just gets you up and moving with dangerously sordid motives. The lack of respect for digital era reggae robbed many potentially great stars of real recognition, and Smith is amongst many who have dropped from any real fame that they achieved. Perhaps only the tragically short-lived Tenor Saw still gets lasting props from the period. And yet if you are able to delve into the back catalogue of Conroy Smith you’ll find a number of similar gems, including massive first release “Indian Lady”, “I’m Ready” and “Sugar Me” to mention but three, and an artist who, given a fairer wind, may well have made it to the note of more people.

Interestingly I first heard “Dangerous” when it was used by British middleweight legend Nigel “The Dark Destroyer” Benn as the music he liked to enter fights to. Benn, a man of ferocious will-power, courage and fighting ability (now, interestingly, a preacher in Mallorca, Spain) was and is one of my all-time favourite fighters. And so it is fitting that this analogous tale of past golden eras should begin, and in a way end, with him. For Conroy Smith, however, the old boxing phrase rings true. He coulda been a contender.

Fellas i’m ready to get up and do my thang

I’ve spoken numerous times before on A Story To Tell about the fact that ubiquity is no excuse for nonchalance. The existence of a song as a staple, as a cultural reference point rendered seemingly closed to appreciation or even criticism by its very familiarity, is something that fascinates me and thus pops up here again and again. Another frequent visitor to these pages (how could it be otherwise given the subject matter) is of course the Godfather himself, Mr James Brown, a man whose recorded oeuvre is surely rich enough for repeated and valuable comment until the internet itself runs out of space. And these two forces are inevitably going to crash into one another at some stage, where the well-known meets the critically acclaimed.

And so there I was the other day listening to a James Brown compilation, the type that you buy as a keen 13 year old using Best Of collections as a tentative dip of the toe into the waters of deeper back catalogues. Indeed, this was a CD copy of the very same Best Of I first had on cassette tape, as that impressionable teen. And in ran the now familiar spoken intro, Mr Brown telling the JBs that he wants to get into it, and asking permission to count it off, before the horns explode into possibly the funkiest groove you will ever hear. Certainly as a young man the realisation of how damn tight the music of James Brown was capable of being, how effortless the sheer funk of the jam, was an utter revelation, setting the scene for many great nights to come.

I’m talking, if you haven’t already picked it, about “Sex Machine”, taken from the 1970s album of the same name. The album, of course, has an 11 minute workout of the track, whilst most of us are most familiar with the double-sided single release. And given the nature of the track, perhaps release is the absolute best term for what comes next (oh the joy of euphemism!). For “Sex Machine”, over-familiar or not, is simply incredible.

Notable for all sorts of reasons, not least the first contribution to music of Brown’s new band the JBs. The story of this band’s rise is itself worthy of attention, but for now let us just revel in the fact that the horn-backed soulful funk of the 1960s was now giving way to a hard funk of startling innovation and sonic inspiration. The horns might intro the track, but it is the dual guitar, bass and lead, of Bootsy and Catfish Collins that own this tune, working out all over the groove. Fred Wesley and Maceo Parker would have their moment, and naturally Jabo Starks’ drums kill it, but for me the sheer raw power of the licks that the Collins’ produced is just insane.

But when I was listening to the song recently, it struck me that there is another small but vital ingredient to the all-encompassing funk sound. It is so brief as to be almost easy to miss altogether. Or if not miss, then at least not grasp its brilliance. The moment is one minute and two seconds in, and of course the element in question is the piano lick dropped as a bridge by Bobby Byrd. 18 seconds of sheer brilliance. When you initially listen, or even after too numerous repeats to remember, the piano lick may appear welcome respite from the sharpness of the bass and guitar licks. But focus in on it and the tickling of the ivories really is astounding in its simple execution.

It comes once more, at three minutes and fourteen seconds, this time called in by Brown with the almost surreal motif “Taste pian-ah!”. And then it is gone. A fleeting moment of brilliance that sounds more and more to me like the calling card of a hungry band who realised that they were setting a new template for music. And if it doesn’t make you feel like a sex machine yourself then it’s time to go see the doctor and ask him why you can’t get up.

What comes before

Now to some people it may seem something of a heresy, but I have never been particularly big on Slum Village, either pre or post Jay Dee. There is much to commend them when Dilla was behind the boards of course, and much of note since, but they group just never really grabbed them in the way I hoped they might. Always a case of the sum total not seeming to be equal to the constituent parts. But now here I am, as is often the case with musical oscillations, being forced to reconsider my position. And the reason for this reappraisal is none other than the work of one of these constituent elements, to my mind the most under-valued cog in the SV wheel, the criminally slept on Elzhi.

Now I have always come to Elzhi more through his collaboration work, notably with the mighty Little Brother, but who can forget also his stellar contribution to the Jay Dee collection “Welcome 2Detroit”, with the brilliant “Come Get It”. Even one of my favourite SV tracks with Elzhi on the mic is “Selfish” from 2004’s “Detroit Deli” album, and that was a Kanye/John Legend production and guest slot. And then there is his solo work, and this is where it begins to get really interesting.

The two unofficial mixtape releases, “Witness the Growth” and “Europass” are interesting works for a number of reasons, not least of all the varied production and trove of Dilla beats. But they also show a lyricist who is inventive beyond belief, with a killer swagger, wordplay so thick you could mistake it for treacle, and a growing confidence in delivery. And all of this now comes together in a perfectly suited union with the official debut solo release of 2008’s “The Preface”, surely a certain contender for hip-hop album of the year.

Just like it is difficult to pinpoint why Slum Village have often whizzed over my head in a wind of indifference, it is tricky to say exactly why “the Preface” is so good, but it really is an instant classic. With strong production from fellow Detroit and SV alumni Black Milk and DJ Dez, the album is simply a breath of fresh air in a seemingly endless hurricane of mediocrity that much of commercial rap has become. From concept tracks such as “Guessing Game” and “Colors”, to lyrical workouts like “Save Ya” and “Hands Up”, the album is like DHL on speed, it just keeps on delivering. Banger “Motown 25” featuring the similarly under-appreciated Royce Da 5”9 is battle-rhyming at its best.

In fact every track is worthy of attention for one reason or another, and today it is all too rare to get a long player that calls for no skipping and i-pod selecting, it is good enough listen after listen to keep providing something new and refreshing. You might recognise a couple of the tracks from the afore-mentioned “Europass” release, but consider that as a reprimand for sleeping on Elzhi for so long. This album is never going to go platinum of course, it may even struggle to go aluminium, but that is rap’s problem not yours.

If you want an example of why you love this music in the first place, and a reminder of how good it can be, grab “The Preface” and get ready for a blinding reintroduction. I just hope the chapters that follow can keep up the good work.

Rave On

If the closest you have ever gotten to the music of Buddy Holly is the Steve Buscemi Holly-themed waiter character at Jack Rabbit Slim’s in Pulp Fiction, then shame on you. Worse still your only reference may be the sing-a-long-a staple that is Don McLean’s 1971 monster hit “American Pie”, which always leaves me wishing slightly that the levee was wet and deep and the Chevy kept on driving right into it, to spare us from the middle of the road mediocrity. The day the music died indeed. But I digress, because no matter how you reference his music, there is little doubt that Buddy Holly is an artist who truly deserves to be featured high on the list of appreciation of any music connoisseur, no matter what your favourite genre.

Music history is of course littered with the tragedy of early demise, the notion of a talent whose flame burns brightly and yet only briefly, the shadows of the flame and smoking wick the only things left to suggest what might have been. But there is arguably one name for whom the epithet of unrealised potential can be best applied, and that is Buddy Holly. February 2009 saw the fiftieth anniversary of his death in a plane crash (alongside the Big Bopper and Richie Valens of course), and plaudits and retrospectives have been flowing, and rightly so. Holly was just 22 when he died, and his music alongside backing band The Crickets had only earned renown for a mere 18 months. And yet the influence is profound, long-lasting and incredibly significant from a creative perspective.

The story goes that amongst contemporaries Bill Haley invented rock’n’roll, while Elvis sexualised it, making everyone want to play it and creating the star performer archetype., Chuck Berry rooted the new music in its blues roots and provided its youthful orientation. But Buddy Holly showed everyone how to do it, and more than anyone else, provided the musical template for the fledgling sound, and the license for creativity that kick-started a revolution. Subtle though his influence was, it is quite remarkable given the shortness within which it was achieved.

Both The Beatles and the Rolling Stones , amongst numerous others, credit Holly directly with being their defining early influence, his music as much as his boy next door character and appearance encouraging them to pick up their guitars and sing songs of their own composition. With his band he set the classic group template of two guitars, bass and drums. He was a lead singer who could play his guitar just like a demi-god should. He took the roots of rock in country, skiffle and the blues, and turned them electric. He took teenage sentiments, girls and good times and fashioned them into perfect melodic pop, a superficial simplicity masking lyrical invention and musical innovation. He sang with distortion, with vocal dexterity, invention and playfulness, his trademark “hiccup” style easy to imitate, but who would have actually thought to do it in the first place? He and his band wrote their own hits (virtually unheard of at the time of label-based staff writers), and spent time in the studio experimenting and refining their sound, again a new approach and with exceptional results. And all the while he made the threat of this musical revolution acceptable to grown-ups, subverting the norm under the cover of a clean-cut and polite imagery.

But, as has been stated elsewhere, if anything Holly was the one-man punk of his day. Elvis smouldered like a possessed sex devil, Little Richard was plain outrageous in every way. But Holly looked like a geek, though a geek who made music of stunning raw power and with an innate groove and dare I say funk backbone. At the time of his death he was emerging as a solo artist, taking his music into further territories that few artists were prepared to tread, again a remarkable feat for the speed of his growth. He was the one artist seemingly looking to stretch boundaries in every direction.

His music may now seem old-fashioned, or irrelevant, or just not to your taste, but anyone who takes music seriously must know the debt that they owe to Buddy Holly. He has certainly formed a bedrock of my own appreciation, and has left a recorded legacy that, while limited, never to me sounds dated or loses its power to astonish. There are many highlights to choose from, but one of my all-time favourites is the driving “Rave On”, an incendiary piece of music that is the one tune I would seek to cover were I to have any musical talent in my bones. Holly’s story is sad and poignant, the more so perhaps for its position as the first real tragedy in popular music.

Different to earlier artists’ deaths it was marked by its impact on a young generation and purely accidental nature. So next time that “American Pie” comes on the radio switch off by all means, but switch on also to the reasons why in 1959 the music died, and yet conversely came to live so freely.

Cliff Hanger

The RISE festival is a free happening each year in London town, a music festival that regularly attracts 100,000 people plus to get down to some summer tunes and celebrate the capitals cultural diversity. The vibe is good, and the music often top notch, especially at the higher end of the bill. And this year was no exception, with the headline act none other than reggae superstar Jimmy Cliff. Now I know Jimmy Cliff’s music primarily through the soundtrack to the legendary Jamaican movie “The Harder They Come”. But as his storming set at the festival proved, and like those weird radio ads you hear every Christmas for greatest hits packages: “You know more Jimmy Cliff records than you think you do!” (cue nostalgic medley of hits, followed by rush to purchase said collection). Quite simply Mr Cliff, a true legend who transcends his own genre and can genuinely be called a worldwide name, blew the festival apart.

Every song seemed to be a sing-along number, from “Rivers of Babylon” to a cover of Cat Stevens’ “Wild World”, and from “Wonderful World, Beautiful People” to “Vietnam”, a song dedicated and sung with gusto by a crowd who have their own unwanted conflict in foreign lands to protest about. The set also, of course, included “The Harder They Come”, “Hard Road to Travel” and “You Can Get It If You Really Want”, outstanding songs, and all sun-kissed with a Jamaican flavour that simply shines like the Caribbean sun, and which can’t fail to bring a beaming smile to all who hear them. And in a way that is the essence of Cliff’s music. Good times, easy pop-tinged rhythms, big smiles.

It was a shame, therefore, that 5 minutes before the end of a tour de force of a performance, that the festival organisers decided to just cut the sound on the stage. No warning, no letting Jimmy and his band finish the excellent rendition of “Rivers of Babylon” that they, and the entire audience, were engaged in. And thus no tumultuous applause and crowd-bestowed adoration that this set, and the man’s status, deserved. People had travelled for miles to catch a glimpse of their hero, and while the performance more than lived up to expectations, the sight of a still-singing Cliff unaware that the sound wasn’t reaching the audience any longer, was just embarrassing. And thus the singer left the stage to jeering and mumbled discontent, which must have been a bizarre and unsettling experience to say the least. Not even the London crowd is that fickle to be singing along in unison one moment and booing the next!

Apparently Cliff’s sudden and drastic silencing was the result of previous acts over-running, but that really isn’t good enough. Sure licensing hours have to be respected, especially at large-scale events like this, but to cut a set for the sake of 5 minutes and to risk a hostile reaction with such large numbers in attendance is unacceptable and reckless. It is also stupid and disrespectful. But what’s done is done, and even the strange muted ending did not dampen a great dose of Jamaican vibes in north London. Jimmy Cliff is an energetic and enthusiastic performer whose sweet soul voice still serves him well.

His starring role in “The Harder They Come” is iconic, and the soundtrack immense. Crucial also in popularising reggae in the US, Cliff could easily have been the global icon that Bob Marley soon became. As it turns out his status is still assured as one of the iconic black artists of the 20th Century, and his music a testament to his enduring popularity. If you want to explore his music fully start with 1972’s “The Harder They Come” soundtrack, or pick up his wonderful debut “Hard Road To Travel” and go from there. As for that greatest hits package, well, you can get it if you really want.

How does it feel missing miseducation?

Admit it, there is something missing in your life. You may not be aware of it on a daily basis, and may even have locked it deep in your subconscious to avoid the psychological ramifications of admittance. But there is a whole in our universe, a gaping, black hole which shows no signs of closing at any time soon. You all know what I am talking about. Where the hell are D'Angelo and Lauryn Hill when you need them? Like a love affair gone rotten, it is almost too painful to accept that these artists who have produced three of the finest soul moments of our generation might have forsaken us, and that their stars may have burned their brightest some time ago, leaving us with questions unanswered and dreams shattered.

Here is not the place to recycle rumours and what ifs as to the whereabouts and states of these two artists, but more to just pause for a moment to reflect on what are, I'm sure you'll agree, works of inspired genius. Is "Voodoo" as good an album as "Brown Sugar", that universe-shattering record that turned all of our hip-hop loving worlds upside-down? Yes it is and, whisper it quietly, maybe even better. Is "The Miseducation Of Lauryn Hill" a record that will stand up as one of the finest musical moments of social awareness and melodic magic of the last 30 years? Undoubtedly. It is simply the sound of the culmination of vocal, lyrical and conceptual inspiration that happens every now and then, and forces the world to sit up and take notice. We all love these albums, and even now I find it difficult to name records, certainly from the so-called neo-soul movement, that even hold a torch to them.

And these two artists, separately, but at the same venue, have also given me two of the greatest live musical experiences of my life. Ms. Hill performed like a woman at the absolute peak of her powers and provided a show of intensity and joy it was a sheer privilege to behold. D'Angelo (backed by Questlove and the Soulquarians) simply destroyed the place, channelling the ghosts of the funkiest muthas you ever saw, and producing a performance of almost mystical brilliance, seeming almost to suspend time and space.

It was that good. Will we see their like again? Probably because music, of course, keeps throwing us genius artists. Will we see them at their best again? Difficult to say. Perhaps it was a fleeting moment, startling in its brevity and magnificence. How does it feel, you might win some, but you just lost one.

Ain’t no fun if my homies can’t have none

I have spoken numerous times about the joys and distractions that the humble MP3 player has introduced to the music lovers of the world. Ubiquitous and omnipresent, the way we consume music has changed forever, or at least been enhanced in new and wonderful ways. There will be further musical technology revolutions for sure, but here is one that has actually changed social dynamics. When was the last time you stepped out without seeing someone plugged in to their own musical world? I too with my daily stroll to and from work am accompanied by my music collection, dragging out the minutes before the desk chains snap shut, and egging me on to post-work enjoyment.

And I have recently been experimenting with how I receive this music, challenging myself to a ridiculous task, namely starting at “a” and working through every song through to “z”. I don’t know how far I’ll get. I don’t even know if there are enough hours in the day or days in the week to achieve this through biped commutes alone. However, it is interesting. And this morning I hit upon, quite by chance, a brilliant run of tunes, tied improbably together by the opening word of the title, the word “Ain’t” (I told you I had a long way still to go). It struck me at the time that here was a weird serendipity also, because many of the songs were from favourite long players. What are the odds? And so I thought I’d share it as an alternative approach to creating a playlist. Forget genres, I’m taking this to the lexicographic level fools!

First up, “Ain’t But The One” by Aretha Franklin from her recent “Rare and Unreleased recordings from the Queen of Soul”, and featuring Ray Charles. A great song from a sheer treasure of a collection. Followed by “Ain’t Cha”, Clipse’s skittering ego trip from the superb “Hell Hath No Fury”. “Ain’t It Hard” from Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings’ “Dap Dappin with…”, grooved in next, to be upstaged by Jay-Z’s unplugged rendition of “Ain’t No Love”. A completely different take on the sentiment came next through Jennifer Lara’s sweet soul reggae “Ain’t No Love”, and then back to the source with Bobby Bland’s original “Ain’t No Love In The Heart Of The City”. Stunning. Classic Curtis next, “Ain’t No Love Lost”, and then the first of three Marvin Gaye gems with the epic “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” this time alongside Tammi Terrell. Jigga back with the stalwart “Ain’t No Nigga” with Foxy Brown from “Reasonable Doubt”, and then Michael Jackson’s brilliant take on Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine”, before a more modern funk with Outkast’s “Ain’t No Thang” from debut offering “Southernplayalisticcadillacmuzik” (still as fresh a debut as you’ll ever hear).

Then Aretha returns with the heart-breaking brilliance of “Ain’t No Way”, a song to make anyone stop in their tracks with its aching grace and sentiment, before a modern take on classic soul with the under-stated yet quite brilliant work of Anthony Hamilton with his title track from the great “Ain’t Nobody Worryin” set, an overlooked recent classic. Another classic, this time more celebrated with Gwen Guthrie’s “Ain’t Nothin Going On (but the rent)”, a ridiculous groove if ever there was one, before Marvin and Tammi return with the touching sweetness of “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing”. Gladly The Roots are also represented in the list with the storming archetype of The Roots sound on “Ain’t Saying Nothing New” from the stellar “Things Fall Apart” album, before another forgotten genius picks up the reins with Johnny “Guitar” Watson’s bluesy funk stomper “Ain’t That A Bitch”. And then for the final straight more inspiration as Jeru kicks “Ain’t The Devil Happy”, The Temptations slay the floor with “Ain’t Too Proud To Beg”, until finally we find ourselves at the end of this wonderful list, the best walk to work I have ever had.

And the conclusion? Well let’s just put it like this “You’re back now at the jack-off hour, this is DJ Eeeeeasy dick….”. MP3s and headphones might put you in a world of your own, but the trick is to share the love. You know it ain’t no fun, if my homies can’t have none, right?

I get more beeps than the beep at the premiere of Pocahontas

We all know that the fourth and fifth instalments of the recorded legacy of the mighty tribe called quest are not their finest work. But then how improbable is the maintenance of the highest of standards that the run of their first three albums could ever be maintained. And as is so often the case in life, these albums have been made to seem slightly inferior because of their proximity to genius.

But I was listening to beats rhymes and life the other day, and while perhaps not reaching the highest of highs, the album is certainly no dud. in fact to me personally it is an album that was an absolute mainstay at one point in my life, cold chilin with my man Beeznutz. and indeed it still contains more than a few moments of brilliance. One is the opening musical mosaic of killer track...moulded from tiles of the finest tribe cuts. I can still recite it on demand. And then there is Phife's verse in the hop, an example of the five-foot assassin's much missed expertise of expression. Asked to name your favourite tribe verse and I reckon that 9 out of ten would name a Phife flow.

I might be wrong, but certainly for me he just edges the most memorable bouts of wordplay between this partnership of greatness. Anyway, the hop is a prime example of the Phife that we love, incredible similes, cracking one-liners, boastful braggadocios battle rap, tinted with a touch of freestyle finesse. I often malign the fact that Phife has never gone on to solo success, and have mentioned it here before, but whatever he travails since his position as an emcee of elite repute is assured. And “Beats, Rhymes…” has got plenty more going for it.

So dig it out and remind yourself of the enjoyment it still brings. As for the “scrappy doo” like inclusion of Consequence, a presence that unfortunately mostly detracts from this quality? Just like the final instalment, the love theory, I think the case for reappraisal is still to be made.

Kwality Street

An interesting aspect of rap music is the acknowledgment of artists to be critically rated, without the transference of props into commercial recognition. The game is fickle, especially when it comes to artists satisfying the greed of the record labels and their profit margins. And it seems to me that hip-hop has always had more than its fair share of artists given a crack of the big label cherry when the underground says they are hot, only to be dropped and neglected to an ongoing degree when the top ten doesn't beckon.

This is partly the reason for the joy of the egalitarianism that the internet has brought, with free releases, independents and mixtapes a way to bring music direct from the source to the fans, cutting out the fat felines in the process. One artist who has always been one of the scenes clear favourites, without ever achieving real mainstream success is of course Talib Kweli. Not that this has stopped him from producing some of the best cuts of the past decade or so, including the much heralded Black Star and Reflection Eternal cuts, numerous solid pieces of work with Hi-Tek, and a stream of high quality guest appearances.

And talking of "Quality" there is also one of my favourite albums of all, the 2002 release of that very name. Despite being a fan of the afore-mentioned collaborations, I slept on this album on first release, and only discovered it a year or two later thanks to my beloved who was a committed disciple. And what a consistently great album it is, in my opinion just one of the most solid albums of that or any other year. True, there are a couple of slightly weaker moments thrown in, but generally speaking the product lives fittingly up to the title.

"Get By", "Rush", "Waitin for the DJ", "Gun Music" "Shock Body", "I'll Be Good To You", all massive, and displaying the versatility of approach and brilliant and intelligent lyricism that Kweli is rightly famed for. But for me the killer track is a small posse product, the relentless "Guerilla Monsoon Rap", something of a slept on classic. Not only does it bring together three of my favourite emcees in Kweli, Black Thought and Pharaoh Monch, but they all bring their A-game to the driving beat from none other than a pre-superstar Kanye West. The violin stabs twist and underpin a cackling drum pattern, edging the song to a frenetic pace, and right at the end one of the best verses of all time, with Monch just stealing the show. If you don't know it, these couplets are just inspired, with Monch's sometime comic book style just killing the flow.

Anyone who can drop the following lines is a pure terrorist on the mic: "Guerrilla monsoon rap, smell the fumes, get in tune wit it, When I attack your city, y'all gon' think Dr. Doom did it, Spit it like white trash in seed-spittin contests, With a vendetta that sent a betta letter bomb to Congress! I'm pissed - cumulus clouds of ominous, Words of the Thor, the rawness that'll restore ya calmness, Unless, you wanna be leg and armless, That's parapaleg' for those who believe in bomb threats". Pure class, and a moment of guest quality from another rapper whose skills far outweigh their commercial acclaim. Pure, unadulterated, quality and right up my street.

Radio, suckas never play me

The music industry is of course littered with the broken remains of talented individuals and collectives who never quite found their niche in the record-buying public’s consciousness, or indeed wallet. In fact, scrub that. There are many talented individuals and collectives who were failed by the no-brain short-sighted so-called record industry (R.I.P circa 2005) who were afraid to invest greedy share-holder money in true talent and diversity, instead preferring a formulaic approach to manufactured hype, manufactured sales, and manufactured music. The record industry has traditionally been corrupt, greedy, heartless and exploitative. This we know.

Thankfully one of the democratizing effects of the internet is the revolution in direct to consumer goods, and this is particularly beneficial for musicians. Of course it means that there is an awful lot of dross about, but it means that the route to recognition is no longer dependent on half-arsed A&R, promotion budgets (or lack of them), and genre-enforcing restrictive radio or video play. It’s not a failsafe panacea if artists as brilliant as Jean Grae are forced to tout their lyrical skills to the highest bidder on ebay as I recently read, but at least the times they are a-changin’, albeit in directions we are not yet fully aware of. Anyway, that slightly irate preamble is just that, a preamble, but does serve to explain in part why the talented but under-appreciated Res is also just that, i.e. talented but under-appreciated.

On release of her quite extraordinarily diverse and accomplished debut, 2002’s “How I Do”, Res’ star seemed destined to shine bright. A great voice, insightful and intelligent lyrics, great production, a range of styles all executed with finesse and aplomb, a hip-hop sensibility underlying the whole package. And yet it just didn’t happen, her diversity and mastery of different approaches to her musical interests, seemingly allowing her to fall between stools. Radios wouldn’t play her as pop, she was too urban for mainstream rock, not urban enough for hip-hop or R’n’B channels. Music stores didn’t know where to shelve her album, while her label just seems to want to shelve the album point blank.

And this is a real shame because it truly was an accomplished album, and in a more enlightened age may have been heralded as something of a watershed for female artists. Not everyone’s cup of tea by any means, and eclecticism does not always equal brilliance, not by a long stretch, but the album did include some real highlights. And one of these is one of my favourite songs of recent years (does 2002 still count as recent – i’m not even sure). “Golden Boys” is one of those tunes that just sounds like a classic from the very first time you hear it. Res’ smooth Philly tones wreck shop all over the skittering, jazz-sensitive beat. The groove is incredibly infectious, and has a simply gorgeous laid-back feel, with a chorus that drips in down-tempo honey. The percussion is slightly on the off-beat, and the jarring effect only serves to focus attention to the confidence in the delivery and indeed the intelligent subject matter of the lyricism.

Res’ lyrics are insightful and in parts scathing, clearly a lady who doesn’t suffer fools gladly, or at all. Rumoured to be written by a friend of the singer about a certain Mos Def, it could easily be the case that it is just about fake industry types, a critique of the posing endemic in the rap and other music games. And the rest of the album flits refreshingly between jazz styles, smooth soul, bumping rock, and sassy R’n’B, with clever surprises thrown in as well, from the telephone keypad melody of “The Hustler”, the Cure sampling and quite brilliant “Let Love”, and the straight up hip-hop of the Nas featuring “Ice King”. All in all it is an accomplished peice, and the fact that it largely failed to live up to its promise in terms of commercial return cannot surely be laid squarely at the artist’s door alone.

Indeed recent internet releases from Res on her MySpace page, and the forthcoming Talib Kweli collaboration, show that for this hip-hop-soul-rocker, the record industry’s loss is the record lover’s gain. As she may have said herself to the industry types who let her down “But then there're girls like me who sit appalled by what we've seen, we know the truth about you”. Couldn’t say it better myself.

Not my lover

Sometimes you have to go right back to basics and state the blindingly obvious. And so it is when you want to speak about virtually any aspect of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” album, such is its ubiquity as a pop staple and watermark of musical and commercial success. Put simply it is about as big as it gets. But when you want to discuss what is arguably his trademark song, the mighty “Billie Jean”, the questions perhaps become even more superfluous. After all, what is there to say about a song that sums up everything about why Jackson rose to become the planet’s biggest pop star, and the purveyor of probably the greatest hits ever recorded with roots in soul and r’n’b. It is the song with which he performed the moonwalk at the infamous Motown 25 show in 1983.

It was the video that showcased his incredible dance moves and broke him into heavy rotation on the fledgling MTV channel, breaking ground for black artists, and changing the face of pop music. It was the second single release from “Thriller”, but the most significant following the anomaly that is the duet with Paul McCartney on “The Girl Is Mine”, instead revealing in brash technicolour the true nature of the musical direction and accomplishment on this album. It is the song that marks his emergence as a truly remarkable live force, and took the possibilities of pop concerts to new heights, and also the song that begins to chart his increasing superstar status and estrangement from the media who salaciously began to follow and report his every move. If there is a song that is Michael Jackson, it is “Billie Jean”, without question. But missing from all of this is also the fact that, regardless of all of these elements, “Billie Jean” is musically on a completely different level.

It is easy to forget, when a song is so much a fabric of life, that one of the reasons it becomes embedded in our very consciousness is because of its remarkable nature as a piece of musical composition. It transcends anything before or since. And such is the case with “Billie Jean”. I was listening to it through headphones the other day, and it is jaw-droppingly brilliant on every level. Lyrically we know it is mysterious, eminently catchy and opaque. As a concept it is intriguing, with pre-cursors in fellow “Thriller” track “Wanna Be Startin Somethin” that I had missed previously. Listen again to the rapid fire lyrics on this latter track and hear verse three’s couplets as they report that “Billie Jean is always talkin', When nobody else is talkin', Tellin' lies and rubbin' shoulders, So they called her mouth a motor”. But production-wise, Quincy Jones was simply on another plane with this song, taking Jackson’s already brilliant arrangement and composition and taking it to the heavens.

The layers of sound are ridiculously deep and complex, with new sounds created specifically for this brave new aural landscape by Jones, the various musicians involved, and Jackson’s trusted engineer Bruce Swedien (himself as important as anyone to the brilliance of this record). Each layer is a hook, and as none other than hitmaker LA Reid has stated, every one of those hooks could be a hit song of itself. That they interplay with such intricacies, working in spaces between one another and yet forming a coherent whole, is truly remarkable. The sound is odd and has an eerie quality, and marks a huge diversion from the disco aesthetic of Jackson’s other adult work. We are familiar with the grunts and strange diction now, the vocal echoes and Jackson trademark “hee-hees” and “cha-mons”, but at that stage they were brave and new. The drum beat is instantly recognisable, as is the creeping bass line, but the indelible intro to the song, incredibly long at nearly 30 seconds, was nearly cut by Jones, only remaining at Jackson’s insistence.

It was the bit that made him want to dance, a sentiment that few could now argue with as key to its success. Jackson sang dubs through cardboard tubes, tried numerous bass guitars to get the right fuzz going. Hell they even used a virtually defunct instrument, the lyricon (a wind-controlled analog synthesizer) to develop the spacey, dour trupet-like lines than intersperse the backing track. And then there is the synthesised string lines. The almost horror movie syncopated stabs that flesh out the song and drive it forwards with a sense of paranoia and nervous energy. It is just incredible and if you have not listened to the song closely recently, if you have only heard it out in a club or on the radio, then you really should treat yourself. Because when the incredibly familiar can still send genuine shivers down your spine because of its sheer audacity and brilliance you know you are listening to genius.

Forget everything else, this song is as close to perfection as you can get. Surely, amongst other artists listening to this, every head turned with eyes that dreamed of being the one.

Watching You

So I’m sitting in the car on a beautiful winter’s day in San Francisco, the engine gets revved up and the music starts to kick in. I hear the beat and my ears prick up. What is this? I know this. I’m sure I know it. What is it? What is it? It’s definitely a classic and not a new tune. I’m sure of that. “Walking down the street … Watching ladies go by … Watching you … Walking down the street watching ladies go by … Watching you …” I still can’t place it but the groove is so familiar I want to kick myself. More lyrics I’m thinking. I need more lyrics. Then they come in. “Looking at the ladies … All of them fine … All of them so lovely … I can’t make up my mind …” That’s it. I’ve got it.

It’s the joint sampled by Snoop and Pharrell for “Let’s Get Blown” but I still have no idea who it’s by or what it’s called. As it unfolds though I can’t believe quite how amazing it is and any DJ struggling to keep the crowd on the dancefloor only needs to play this and he or she will be safe for the rest of the night. This tune is literally sex on wax and it was such a pleasure to hear it again. Thank you for bringing this back for me. You know who you are. Oh, and by the way, it’s called “Watching You” by Slave.

Making The Band

I don’t really care what anyone has to say about Sean Combs. I know he has a million and one ridiculous names for himself and that he ended up in a lawsuit with some random guy in England over who could call themselves “Diddy” which he lost. I know he is the face of two of the worst colognes ever invented – Unforgivable and I Am King – and that the advertising campaigns for Ciroc Vodka featuring the man himself doing a horrible impersonation of Daniel Craig circa 1986 are completely absurd. And I also know that Making The Band is possibly the worst television series ever invented although I am sure he has made a fortune from it. However, in spite of all this complete narcissism and insanity, when it come to producing records and really making bands, very few people can even come close to him. Look at the artists whose careers he has steered from the ground up – Biggie, Mary, Jodeci and Faith to name but a few.

The man is a genius and you only need to cite the name of his record label – Bad Boy – and its logo to see that this is someone who quite simply just gets it. Two words. That’s all it takes. Be Happy. Take a listen to this track off Mary J Blige’s second album “My Life” – her masterpiece – produced from start to finish I believe by Mr Combs himself and then think twice before you try to argue about how much of a don he is.