Little girl Wendy’s Parade

There are many single things that encapsulate why Prince is possibly the greatest musical artist of our generation. So many curiosities exist around his musical output, side projects, ghost-authoring and hidden classics, not to mention the actual hits themselves , produce a web of tantalising miscellany to keep any music fan intrigued and inspired for years. That is one of the reasons why A Story To Tell makes no apologies for returning again and again to the music of Prince, for his is a subject that, like Santa on amphetamines, just keeps on giving, keeps on offering up interesting facts and fascination to riff on. And the term riff is apt in this case because the thing that I wanted to begin with is indeed one of the purple one’s most recognisable riffs of all. Two, in fact. Because the song I wanted to talk about is none other than his evergreen classic from 1986, the irresistible, and irresponsibly funky “Kiss”.

Now there is so much to say about this one song that it is almost indecent. The album that gave rise to it is of course the brilliant “Parade”, the semi-soundtrack to “Under The Cherry Moon”, and an LP which constantly vies for my attention as my absolute favourite Prince effort. To be fair, such rankings are relatively obsolete when considering Prince’s phenomenal output, but occasionally a contender will nose ahead of others as flavour of the month, but is soon gobbled up again by the chasing pack, a very definition of several firsts amongst equals. Then there are the two guitar parts, the first the frenetic opening note, tickled on his electric guitar for but a single second and sounding like the fast and frenzied de-clothing of a particularly frantic coupling, before breaking down with a single funky “Uh!” into a groove of simply monstrous funk-pop perfection.

A chugging electric guitar with slight distortion, kick drum through the reverb of the AMS 16 and the Linn 9000 drum pattern. A bit of piano and the singer’s now legendary falsetto solicitations of lip-based shenanigans through his favoured Sennheiser 411 microphone, itself an instrument that provided roll to the vocals, further upping the treble of the sound itself. And this is important because what is missing from the track is, of course, the bass line, a fact all the more phenomenal when you consider the deliciousness of the groove itself. How can something this downright disgustingly funky not be driven by a bass line!?! Ridiculous. “Kiss” was Prince’s third number 1 in America, but incredibly the second to hit the top without a bass line, the incredible “When Doves Cry” being the fore-runner in 1984 (and indeed his first US number one).

But there it is, a sparse tune of funky brilliance, apparently no more than 9 individual tracks in the mix, and a song that started off, no less, as an acoustic countrified folk style song, comprising just one verse and a chorus. Indeed the song was originally intended, and originally developed, by ill-fated off-shoot Maserati, comprising more complex arrangements and even sung in a lower octave. However, what was an attractive yet slightly undirected studio jam, meandering slowly towards a full track, was soon taken back by Prince.

He declared the tune too good for Maserati, and re-appropriated it for the “Parade” sessions, allegedly transforming the studio workout into a fully-fledged killer tune literally overnight, along with able support by engineer David Z, a man whose contribution to the success of the song should never be over-looked. You can still hear Maserati as the backing vocals throughout incidentally. So sparse was the tune, however, that Warners originally refused to consider its release, labelling it a demo, a work in progress. Shows what A&R men know, and fortunately Prince’s star was so far on the rise that his power won out and the song was released, and of course has become an absolute critical and commercial smash.

There are numerous other things to consider. The lyrics for one, surely just the perfect blend of sexy and frivolous, of simplicity of intent and yet complexity of intonation. Remind yourself of the video also, Prince, upper torso naked, writing with a veiled cohort in a blizzard of incredible moves for which he still doesn’t get the acclaim he deserves. As one reviewer has stated of his live show, his moves make Michael Jackson seem nailed to the floor. There is the breakdown at 2.09 when Prince declares that “I think I wanna dance” and the tune takes on an even funkier hue, before the track defines genius at 2.29, when the wah-wah splays the beat even further.

The 12 inch extended version features under-appreciated singer Jill Jones, while the B-side is the rare “Love or Money”, an exploration of Prince’s Camille alter-ego. Just phenomenal all round. If asked to sum up the genius of Prince in one word you could do worse than simply replying “Kiss”, as it seems to do the job. You just leave it all up to me, i’m gonna show you what it’s all about.

Shake Your Monae-maker

Being picked as "the next big thing" can be a gift and a curse in the shallow waters of the music industry. Industry hype is, after all, industry hype, and as much as the internet and digital music revolution have stirred up traditional models of consuming and releasing music, so they have also created new worlds for the A&R men to ply their trades, but also to plug their up-and-comers. Not infrequently do we now see carefully co-ordinated marketing campaigns under the guise of an internet "phenomenon", rising to awareness through mere fan power, allegedly. However, even in these murky depths there still remain artists who, through their very originality and singularity of vision, do chart their own course, leaving other apparent pretenders to pop greatness spluttering in their wakes. And Bad Boy's Janelle Monae, to my mind, is one such artist.

Part of the reason for this is that the (now Grammy nominated) artist, despite being pegged as one to watch for some time now, refuses to pander to any industry norms, instead going about her business and patiently waiting for the ears of the world to turn their attention to her, which undoubtedly they eventually will. And she does so with a music that is beguilling and bizarre in equal measure, which straddles a strange place between pop, funk, soul, RnB and straight up dirty rock, but which does so in an elegant and quite sensational fashion.

It may sound like a melting pot set to create nothing but musical gruel, when in fact the end product is more akin to a perfect picnic, a banquet of fresh tastes, insightful company, and sunshine. And all tied together with a sweet, sweet voice that hovers and thrusts, soars and serenades, and delivers lyrics of substance and style. It may not be everyone's cup of tea, and certainly on first listen to her stunning 2008 EP "Metropolis: The Chase Suite" the futuristic storyline and concept take some adjustment to. But the adjustment is quick, and what you are left with is a short work of exceptional originality and finesse, the first of a promised four-part aural movie, which might just might prove itself to be one of the great albums, period.

Might is the operative word because who knows whether the vacillations of the music industry will still contrive against her. Unlikely with Diddy and original mentor Big Boi firmly in her camp, but the world is still a fickle place, and a wide audience still needs to be found to ensure longevity, even with changing models of consumption. What is clear, however, is that Monae makes music for no-one but herself initially, and it is this inner confidence and brilliance of delivery, plus belief in the product itself and its power to change and alter conceptions, and bring happiness through melody and creativity, that give it the best chance of success.

So what of the music itself? Well, you may already be slightly dumbstruck by Monae's music and not realise it. Fans of Outkast's under-rated movie soundtrack "Idlewild" will recognise her tones from the excellent "Call The Law" and "In Your Dreams", the former particularly rocking to her sultry swing. An early album release in 2003 - "The Audition" - shards of which are available online, also promises much, and fans of the underground may also know her 2006 "Letting Go" track, from Big Boi's "Got Purp? 2" compilation. But the "Metropolis"
set takes things to another level.

The concept of forbidden love in a futuristic cyber-world of androids and soul-searching bounty hunters sounds an odd choice for what remains essentially and album of urban social issues and loosely hip-hop sensibilities, and yet it works fantastically, creating a world where themes of love, emptiness, social consciousness and reality, hope and wonder can co-exist and bounce between one another. Similarities lie almost obviously in the vision and style of Prince, but also Outkast (and perhaps especially Andre 3000), Kanye, Labelle, Anita Baker, Stevie Wonder, Santana or Kelis, as well as more diverse acts from Judy Garland and Bjork, to Jackie Wilson and Buddy Holly. Indeed "Mr President" is perhaps the best Lauryn Hill song she never got around to creating after miseducation, while "Smile" funks up and tenderises Broadway in a quite beatuiful fashion.

"Many Moons" is a bit like Nona Hendryx taking a trip through Andre 3000's head, while "Sincerely Jane" is a lesson in big band swing with a hip-hop bass-thump. Again, I know it all sounds odd, and perhaps this description will put you off. Hopefully not though, because this creativity deserves attention, even if it ends up not keeping it for you. But if the future looks remotely like Metropolis, I for one am saving up for a ticket.

I am the Walrus...of Lurve

There are few artists who can be said to sum up an emotion, but that is precisely the case with Mr Barrence Eugene Carter, aka the late, great Barry White. Utter his name to anyone, afficionado or casual music lover, and you will likely get the same reaction. Barry White's music is synonymous with romance, with love in all it's glory, and with sheer sensuality. Helped of course by that trademark voice, that most deep of instruments that would send shivers down a million spines. But there is so much more to Barry White than as a metaphor for a cheesy kind of loving, for as a musician, composer, arranger and performer he was truly outstanding, and has left behind some of the most sumptuous recordings of all time. And perhaps none moreso that the spell-binding proto-disco classic "Love's Theme" by his Love Unlimited Orchestra. This 1973 cut is exceptional in all sorts of ways.

Not only did it pre-empt the disco explosion that took over the globe throughout the mid to late 1970s, but it did so in such a fashion as to render everything that followed almost sub-standard in comparison. I'm not saying, of course, that there are not absolutely incredible disco tracks that follow this benchmark, and many have merits over and above "Love's Theme" in all sorts of facets. And yet there is something in the ambition of this record, in the scale of its production, in the simple swell of joy and delight that it produces on every listen, that for me sets it apart from its contemporaries and descendants. That it was made with little or no precedent to follow in terms of it's musical construction is further proof of course that here is a sensational record. But also, it seems to me that "Love's Theme" transcends the genre almost before it has even been established, and as such it is up there in the very rarest of airs, a truly seminal offering in musical history.

An orchestral masterpiece, it is still one of the only fully instrumental songs to top the US charts, and is notable of course for it's establishment of the sweeping strings and wah-wah inflected guitar chops on which disco would be built, and a generation of club-goers would whirl to under crystal cut mirror balls. With regards the arrangements of strings special mention here should go to longtime White collaborator Gene Page, himself well worthy of our attention, but that is for another time.

"Love's Theme" is also interesting for gracing two albums simultaneously, White's own absolutely outstanding 1973 player "Rhapsody in White", a must-have for any collection, but also his phenomenal side-project Love Unlimited, of whom his orchestra of course provided much of the backdrop to. Their own worthy album appearing in that year was "Under The Influence Of...", and kicks off with "Love's Theme", while White's solo project ends with it. And so in a sense these two monster albums can be seen as a double album extravaganza of the highjest order, with "Love's Theme" the impossibly brilliant hinge upon which it balances.

On one side the solo soul of White and his orchestra in full flow, and on the other his delicious female trio laying down their own brand of soulful excellence. So, while there is much to say about each of these artists, in singular fashion, and together, for now let us simply marvel at the wonder of one of their joint moments of greatness, when the music came together to create something magical, the soundtrack to all our lives. Love itself.

Keep on using me until you use me up

There was a time, dear reader, now thankfully a long time past, when I was yet to see the light. A time in which I wandered the earth in a daze of sorts, unaware of the true path to knowledge and self-fulfilment. A time of darkness, of shadows, of unearthly silence. Put simply, it was a time when all I knew of the music of Bill Withers was his massive 1978 hit “Lovely Day”, that slice of simple soul brilliance, of saccharine funk that shines from the speaker like a brand new day. You see, I thought that all of Bill Withers’ work was like that, melodic, cheery, technically excellent of course, and yet a bit, well dare I say it, middle of the road. Sure “Lovely Day” is a lovely song, with instrumental flourishes and lyrical charm. Sure it has an incredible 18 second note held at the end which displays Withers’ wonderful voice to the fullest. But it’s just one of those records that has its place in firmly in the middle of the FM dial.

But like I say, that was before the light of revelation truly shone on me, before I was prompted by a chance remark to delve further. In my defence I was but a young pup at the time, just setting out on the teenage years which herald for many such key musical explorations. I’m sure I would always have reached Bill Withers at some stage, and yet little could prepare me for quite how much of an impact his music would have on me. Like that of Gil Scott heron for example, upon discovery, the music of Bill Withers seemed to promise so much of what I was finding essential at the time, groove-wise, lyric-wise, just about everything. That my first dive took me straight to the absolute brilliance that is his 1972 long-player “Still Bill” is undoubtedly one of the reasons why his music still resonates so strongly.

To my mind it is a stone-cold masterpiece of 1970s funky soul, a collection of cuts that just epitomise what is great about this era. It is significant also that the cuts themselves have been sampled and interpolated so frequently by those heroes of hip-hop that also shape my musical core, reinforcing and reshaping this initial affection again and again. Any tune on the album is worthy of attention, but keen eyed readers will have spotted that the current Twelve bar Sessions are rocking the brilliance of “Use Me” as its opening gambit. And indeed who could argue with this choice. Truly this is a remarkable song that offers up what to me is a fascinating paradox of sorts that creates 4 minutes or so of sheer genius, the raw passion of Withers’ plaintive vocal as set against the languid funk of the backing track. The lead guitar line is lazily awesome, bubbling and tripping through its directorial duty and somehow keeping the track on course. The keyboards tinkle dreamily alongside, with echoes of wah-wah offering chinks of a more dramatic intent into proceedings.

The drums rock and roll, rumbling along at a pace, with rim-shot breakdowns crackling under what passes for a chorus in this song of apparent contradictions. But it is Withers’ delivery that sets it off, a plaintive appeal to his passionista du jour that sees him begging to be used for the goodness it brings, while in turn using the user for his own gains, gains that allude intently to sexual shenanigans. The sensuality is understated, the subject matter interesting, and the delivery inch-perfect.

A perennial favourite of the long line of artists wishing to cover the songs of Bill Withers’, itself a sign of the magic he created, heads could do worse than check Grace Jones’ devilishly good version on her own masterpiece “Nightclubbing”. Or of course there are every rapper’s favourite duo, and often times heroes of Twelve Bar, UGK with their own take on 1992’s “Use Me Up”. But for true essence the original is best. I wanted to go into the fact that on “Still Bill” Withers was working with the quite awesome members of the Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band, a story that needs to be told. But that is the point. So much can begin and end with Bill Withers that we must hold fire for another day. And you bet, that will be a lovely day.

Send its melody by a lovebird

Regular visits to A Story to Tell will reveal, as one may expect, a deep reverence for virtually all things to have originated from the marvellous musical mind of Stevie Wonder. His is a musical mine which reveals strata upon strata of sheer magic and which never seems likely to stop producing solid gold gems for us to explore and shine into little nuggets of musical miscellany. Sometimes, these are themselves interesting little side avenues which then lead to equally impressive areas of musical discovery, pathways which are a shortcut to exploration, but which are more enjoyable simply for the journey itself.

Sometimes the end result is the least important part of the voyage. Anyway, one little avenue worth pursuing is the late-1970s collaborations between Stevie and another musical marvel, an equally huge figure in his own field, the king of jazz and funk fuelled bossa nova, Mr Sergio Mendes. This mutual love-in resulted in many a great Brazilian groove over Wonder classic cuts, but also some specific tunes penned for Mendes to make his own. And greatest of these, to my mind, is the wonderful proto-House funk of 1977's "The Real Thing". Oozing Wonder's sense of lyrical elegance and melodic tone, in Mendes' hands the tune takes on a depth of groove and layers of soulful mystique that even the composer could not have foreseen.

Harmonised vocals echo throughout, giving the tune a dreamy brilliance, but it is the drums, set out early on, which drive the tune along in its sultry and sensuous brilliance. A forgotten favourite of Chicago's earliest deep house parties, and a favourite also of the UK's deep funk scene, “The Real Thing” for me is even greater than much of Mendes' work in the 1960s, the fertile period that gave us his Brasil '66 band, and the excellence of his three initial albums under the guidance of Herb Alpert, from "Sergio Mendes and Brasil'66" through "Equinox" to "Look Around". And that is no mean boast, though perhaps comparison is wholly unfair given the contrast in styles in the intervening decade.

Whatever the case “The Real Thing” is a real forgotten classic, and lives up to its title in every regard. Who wouldn't give a whole lot of their earthly goods away to be a fly on the wall when Sergio and Stevie got together to chew the musical fat and jam away to their heart's content. Now that really would be the real thing.

Around The World

It seems incredible that it is now well over a decade since Daft Punk unleashed the formidable dance smash single that is "Around The World". The date was 1997 in fact, virtually a lifetime ago in musical terms, when the second wave of French dance music excellence well and truly landed. But when one investigates this song particularly, it is perhaps not so surprising, because in truth it could have been released at virtually any time since the onset of electronic music, such is its simplicity of purpose, but also timeless quality. What I am saying is that this track seems to transcend any genre, scene, age or definition. That it comes from a genre defining piece of work in Daft Punk's simply phenomenal “Homework” long-player, and that it defined and kick started a revival of French dance music par excellence, is significant on a broader cultural level of course.
But in a way this bigger piece of work is also almost rendered obsolete by the indelible charm and transcendence of this particular song. If you found yourself grooving away in a Chicago warehouse in 1979 you could have heard this track throbbing out of the speakers and not been surprised, or at a rave off the London orbital in 1988, or an Ibizan boat party in 2006. It's all the same, because it is in many ways a distillation of the essence of all great house music. So limited in its instrumentation, and yet so persistent in its incantations and invitations to dance. The bassline is epic of course, and famously compared to Chic's Good Times, and yet it is merely the anchor for a swirling totality of sound that never astonishes and yet somehow seems to knock your socks off on every listen.

From the bass-heavy keyboard rumblings that start the track, to the simply repeated vocoded vocal refrain that worms its way into your head and nestles there just enough to enhance the music and yet never grate or irritate. 144 times in the album cut to be precise, and 80 on the radio edit. Is there significance in the lower number's relation to Phileas Fogg's own famous journey around the world? Who knows, but it wouldn’t surprise me (though as for the 144 figure your guess is as good as mine, though I would hardly be surprised if these dance music alchemists hadn't infused the track with some kind of numerical holy grail that us mere mortals will never discover or unravel).

But I digress once more, because the simple fact is that “Around the World “is an instant classic, evergreen and ever-lasting. A joy for deejays as it is mixable with virtually anything, you could almost imagine a whole night in a sweaty bass-bumping club, where the only song played all night, in one long edit, is this one, the beat interweaving all night around that central refrain, like some modern jazz freeform improvisation around a single notation.

Regular readers of this blog will know the significance of the album that spawned it, but for now we should all take a global trip courtesy of those most brilliant Gallic adventurers, and be thankful for their vision. They bet Phileas Fogg that it couldn't be done, but sometimes you have to look that little bit further than those around you. Daft Punk, seem to have such foresight in abundance. Maybe it is those helmets they wear!

Chicago, when can I go?

We are all aware, I am sure, of the role that the city of Chicago played in the emergence, development, and international recognition of house music. Quite simply it is the place where it all started, and still a place to visit sonically if you want a reminder of the reasons why this style of music changed the game forever. Early house classics from Farley “Jackmaster” Funk’s “Jack the Bass” to Mr. Fingers’ “Can You Feel It” still sound fresh and innovative today, and a dip back into history can set you off on a trail of discovery, rediscovery and enlightenment as to how an underground scene grew wings and burst into the mainstream.

But there is another, almost incidental, reason why the Windy City has a synonymous relationship with house music, but this one is a little more obscure, a little more tangential. For there is a record that takes its name from the city it espouses which in many ways set the template for the sound that came to be known as house music, but which stems from a fairly unlikely source. Roy Ayers has become characterised as a visionary pre-cursor to Acid jazz, a titan of jazz-funk, not to mention a treasure trove of sample material for the hip-hop generation. And yet it was Ayers, bandleader and outstanding vibraphonist, who released a proto-house masterpiece as early as 1983, setting the mood, and the sound, of much that was to follow. “Chicago”, released as a single on his own Uno Melodic label as he drifted in-between major deals with Polydor and Columbia, is an absolute classic.

It is available on a compilation of songs from this period in Ayers’ career entitled “Lots of Love”, and is worth seeking out for many reasons, not least of all the house precursor. But it was also during this time that Ayers worked frequently with Fela Kuti, exploring the African funk sound, and pushing boundaries also in post-disco dance music. It was a fertile period of innovation, experimentation and independent-mindedness for this most talented of musicians, and threw up, to me, some of his finest work. And this is saying something in a career that gave us the under-rated “Coffy” soundtrack, as well as the mid-1970s brilliance of “Mystic Voyage”, “Everybody Loves The Sunshine”, “Red, Black and Green” and “Vibrations” and so much else besides. In fact the man’s back catalogue is ridiculously rich, not to mention prolific, and should be a staple of any collection.

But I digress, because it is the singularity of “Chicago” that we set out to analyse in this posting, and this track which deserves singular praise. The early 1980s and this period of extended experimentation saw Ayers stretching and manipulating the funk of 1970s soul, jazz and the embers of disco, and forging new and exciting grooves. And often they were just grooves, loose and loosely produced, musical workouts with an element of the free-form and stream of consciousness about them. As such it has an unbridled energy about it, and “Chicago” is the track which seems to most capture the intent, as well as intensity, of this work. There is a tension to the hypnotic groove, a sinister feel to the incantations throughout.

Driven initially by spine-chilling piano tinklings and a drop of minor chords, the song soon settles into a throbbing groove of delicious bass and somehow sensual yet ultimately meaningless and meandering vocals. The background sparkles with interesting rhythms and almost off-kilter sparks of musicianship, strings rising and keeping the tempo at a dance floor friendly pace. It simply mesmerises and foreshadows the sounds which soon coalesced into a musical revolution. I don’t know if Ayers had any involvement in the scene, or even visited the underground clubs and parties that soon merged into a larger movement, but the existence of this cult classic suggests at least a possibility.

Whatever the case, it is just huge, and rightly resurrected by German techno maestro Henrik Schwarz in 2003 as a modern floor killer. But the original is still the archetype, a back door opening to a soon to be familiar world, a door that shone some light onto the world of the subterranean, soon to bathe in glorious summer sunshine. And you know, everybody loves the sunshine.