"Heart Like a Wheel," Linda Ronstadt (1974)

One of my Christmas presents in 1974 was an AM/FM clock radio, on which I began my slow transition from listening almost exclusively to AM radio over to the more adventurous climes (at least in those days) of FM.  I wasn't quite ready for the "free-form" format of KZAP, which went deep into album cuts (in many cases, of artists that I'd never heard of), but embraced "K-108 FM" which wasn't quite as adventurous but did introduce me to such classics as Dylan's "Blood on the Tracks."  

Even though it was Christmas vacation, just for the heck of it I set the alarm on Christmas night, and the song that woke me up the next morning was Linda Ronstadt's "You're No Good" - one of the best singles of its time, and the song that really turned Ronstadt from a popular cult artist into a massive superstar.

I'm not sure that Ronstadt really gets her due today, but I think part of the reason for that was her turn towards Sinatra-style ballads in the early 1980s.  While very popular, her versions of such classics as "What's New" paled in comparison to the originals - her wonderful voice was as beautiful as ever, but she brought little in the way of emotions to her interpretations.

"Heart Like a Wheel," on the other hand, is a great album; one that demonstrated Ronstadt's ability as an interpreter of other people's songs as well as anything she ever recorded.  I actually prefer her version of the title track to the original by the McGarrigle sisters, and on the record she proves that she's up to covering both Hank Williams ("I Can't Help It If I'm Still in Love With You") and Lowell George ("Willin').  She even breathes life into an old Paul Anka song, for cryin' out loud.

Christgau: A-.  "For the first time, everybody's sexpot shows confidence in her own intelligence. As a result, she relates to these songs instead of just singing them. It's even possible to imagine her as a lady trucker going down on Dallas Alice--and to fault her for ignoring the metaphorical excesses of Anna McGarrigle's title lyric just so she can wrap her lungs around that sweet, decorous melody."

"Yesterday and Today," The Beatles (1966)

27:33.  That's how long the album is.

Story #1:  This was another birthday present; what I really liked at the time was "Hey Jude," but at the time I think my parents thought the song was a little too "hard rock."  

At the time, I had no idea that this was basically an album made up of leftovers from the U.K. versions of the Beatles albums (in this case, Help!, Rubber Soul, Revolver, plus the Day Tripper single).  It all sounded great to me.

Story #2: When I was in the 4th grade, I was part of a group that was allowed to help out in the Kindergarten class.  One day, we were playing 45 records with them on a very lo-fidelity record player, with headphones on - and the record we played was "I Saw Her Standing There," because we loved the scream in the middle of the song.  And then one of the teachers heard us, and that was pretty much the end of that.

Story #3: At the time, our family record player was a Magnavox, really more a piece of furniture than anything else.  And there was only one speaker, so when you had an album like this one that was "stereo enhanced," there were some things that you never heard - like Ringo's vocal on "What Goes On?"  I could never figure out what was up with that.

At the end of the day, this wasn't really an album at all - just an attempt (probably successful) by Capitol Records to rake in a little more cash from Beatlemania.

On the other hand, it was (and is) a great album.  Call it a mix-tape of the Sixties.

"Sundown," Rank and File (1983)

Rank and File was a relatively short-lived band from the early 1980s that fell into the “country punk” genre, of which I’m guessing there were few members.  “Sundown” is a perfectly pleasant and enjoyable record (if short – barely 30 minutes long), but there isn’t much about it that makes me think of punk.  The band must have been a marketing nightmare for Slash Records – I can’t imagine punks of the time wanting to listen to it much, and it seems a fair bet that most country fans would question the wisdom of any band associating themselves with those “damn punks.”

Trivia note: one of the band’s guitarists was Alejandro Escovedo, who remains an active (and strong) artist today.  I’m not sure what became of the Kinman brothers (who wrote most of the songs), but they wrote good enough songs that I hope they made a decent career of it eventually.

Christgau: A-.  As rock concepts go these days, the idea of making like the fourth-best bar band in Wichita Falls is plenty warm-blooded, so that even though I disapprove in theory of the loud, klutzy dynamics of this ex-punk country-rock, its zeal wins me over every time. Helps that they leave "Wabash Cannonball" etc. off the album and explain their excellent motives in their own words, fleshed out with a few of the guitar licks they found lying around that bar.

"Out of Time," R.E.M. (1991)

A few years back, I put together a list of what I thought were the best 50 albums of all time, and then started writing a short essay on each of them for my blog.  I ran out of steam a couple of different times, after which I'd return after a couple of (or few) months newly determined to make it all the way to #1.

Where I got stuck for good was (I think) #21 or #22, where I intended to plug in an R.E.M. album.  But I kept changing my mind over which one, and I was determined not to do what I did with Talking Heads, for whom I picked their first four albums in a four-way tie.  And then after a while, this particular roadblock sort of convinced me of the futility of the entire exercise.  Why confine myself to 50?  (Although someday soon I do intend to publish the top 20 list, just for the heck of it).

"Out of Time" was one of the four, and since today is the 25th anniversary of its release, is today's selection.  It is indeed a great album, one of the four of theirs that I would put in that category - the other three being "Murmur," "Document," and "Automatic for the People."

The album begins with the words, "The world is collapsing around my ears," which sort of lends it a timeless quality.  The great single "Losing My Religion" is also on the first side, but the song that really hooked me in from the beginning was the third, "Low."  Others can tell me whether this comparison is apt, but it always struck me as very "Lou Reed-esque."  Leading off side two is "Shiny Happy People," which I know a lot of people hate but which I love.  And hearing Kate Pierson's voice on the song along with Stipe and Mills continues to be a delight to this day.

Happy anniversary.

Christgau: A.  "Hiding political tics behind faux-formalist boilerplate, pop aesthetes accused them of imposing Solidarity and Agent Orange on their musical material, but in fact such subjects signaled an other-directedness as healthy as Michael Stipe's newfound elocution. Admittedly, with this one beginning "The world is collapsing around our ears," I wondered briefly whether "Losing My Religion" was about music itself, but when Stipe says they thought about calling it Love Songs, he's not just mumbling "Dixie." Being R.E.M., they mean to capture moods or limn relationships rather than describe feelings or, God knows, incidents, and while some will find the music too pleasing, it matches the words hurt for hurt and surge for surge. The Kate Pierson cameos, the cellos, and Mark Bingham's organic string arrangements are Murmur without walls--beauty worthy of DeBarge, of the sweetest soukous, of a massed choir singing "I Want To Know What Love Is."

Pretenders (1980)

I bought this album on the strength of the cover alone.

On the cover photo, the boys in the band look more than a little silly – on the left, bassist Pete Farndon looks as if he’s lost in space (which apparently he was, R.I.P.) while on the right, drummer Martin Chambers and guitarist James Honeyman Scott look sort of goofy, as if they’re laughing to themselves at some lame joke.

Chrissie Hynde is another matter entirely.  Looking straight at the camera, she conveys a look that is best described as “I’m sorry, but you do not want to f*ck with me.”  And that is a pretty good description of the music on “Pretenders.”  The brief liner notes advise the listener to PLAY THIS ALBUM LOUD, and that’s not a bad idea.  As far as musicianship goes, you’re not going to hear a lot of subtlety or “tasty licks” on this record, at least not on Side One – it’s intended to be an assault on the senses (I mean that as a compliment), so if you’re going to take the dive, you might as well jump in the deep end.  Side Two slows things down a bit, although it does include “Brass in Pocket,” the hit single.

Money quote, from “Up the Neck:”

I remember the way he groaned

And moved with an animal skill

I rubbed my face in the sweat that ran down his chest

It was all very run of the mill

Like I said before…

"Siren," Roxy Music (1975)

As Simon Frith noted in his Rolling Stone review of the album, six musicians were credited on the back cover of “Siren,” while eight people were credited with the cover design.  Frith’s review is worth seeking out; it’s a prime example of the best that RS used to offer in its Record Review section.

The cover model is Jerry Hall, who at the time was dating Roxy Music auteur Bryan Ferry.  This week Hall married Rupert Murdoch, and for years was in a relationship with Mick Jagger.  I’m not quite sure what to make of that progression, or if Ferry to Jagger to Murdoch even represents progress.  But cheers to her, nonetheless.

The first time I heard “Love is the Drug,” I was lying in bed on a lazy Sunday morning in early 1976, listening to “American Top 40.”  The song didn’t make it any higher than #30 (thanks, Wikipedia), but in retrospect is sure sounds like one of the best singles of the decade.

Reflecting today, Roxy Music was a real turning point in the evolution of my musical tastes.  They really sounded like nothing I’d heard or listened to up to that point, and they were certainly different than anything playing at that time on American radio.  And like the best rock music, “Siren” sounds as fresh today as it did upon release.  One might even say that Bryan Ferry’s world-weary approach to vocals is the perfect sound for any era.

"Risque," Chic (1979)

At some point around the time of this year's appearance by Nile Rodgers at this year's Grammy Awards - I can't remember if it was during the show, or in an interview shortly afterward - it was said that Chic would be recording a new album.

On the one hand, that's welcome news.  But on the other, it isn't really possible, because there is no Chic without bassist Bernard Edwards, and Edwards died in 1996.

As great a guitarist as Nile Rodgers was in Chic (and remains today), the sound of Chic revolved around the bass lines of Bernard Edwards.  In a way, the band turned the traditional band structure on its head - Edwards on bass played the lead, with Rodgers on guitar providing the rhythm.

"Risque" was their best album, and of course "Good Times" was their masterpiece.  At the time (and even now) it may have sounded like nothing more than the best disco song of its time, but let's consider for a moment the words of Dave Marsh:

"Good Times" perfectly captures the heady, disintegrating atmosphere of New York in the late seventies, as both local and national government abandoned any hope of social equity and opened the door for the ruthless laissez-faire heyday of upper- and lower-class criminality that characterized the eighties.  "Good Times!  These...are...the...good...times...Our...new...state...of mind...," sing Alfa Anderson and Norma Jean Thompson as if they've learned to grit their teeth by rote, while Nile Rodgers' nasty guitar zips in and out like a premonition of the nasty crack-and-Contra era to come, and Bernard Edwards throbs underneath, imperturbable as he is implacable."

Get out on the dance floor...good times, indeed.  Sound familiar?

Christgau: A-.  "Bernard Edwards and Nile Rodgers proved on Sister Sledge's "Lost in Music" that hedonism and its discontents, the inevitable focus of disco's meaningfulness moves, is a subject worth opening up. Here, "Good Times" and "My Feet Keep Dancing" surround the sweetly romantic "Warm Summer Night" in a rueful celebration of escape that's all the more suggestive for its unquenchable good cheer. Side two's exploration of romance and its agonies also has a fatalistic tint, but in the end the asides and rhythmic shifts (as well as the lyrics themselves) give rue the edge over celebration. Subtle, intricate, kinetic, light but not mindless--in short, good to dance to."

"Hearts and Bones," Paul Simon (1983)

"Hearts and Bones" is a good Paul Simon album that had the misfortune to be released just a couple of years before "Graceland," a very, very great Paul Simon album.

You can begin to hear the rhythms that would make "Graceland" such a phenomenal success on some of the songs here, but there's no question that the players - expert session men though they may be - lack the fluidity of the African musicians Simon would put in the spotlight on "Graceland."

On the other hand, you've got to love any album that includes songs with titles like "Rene and Georgette Magritte With Their Dog After the War."

"Wild Planet," The B-52s (1980)

There’s no doubt that The B-52’s’ first album is their masterpiece, and without question one of the greatest New Wave albums.  But I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for the follow-up, most likely because it became a staple of Deutsch Hall parties at UC Berkeley in the fall of 1980.  And trust me, there were a lot of parties that fall.  Those were different days in college dorms; on my very first night there our dorm RAs hosted a wine-and-cheese party – and mind you, this was an official dorm function.  Berkeley was on the quarter system back then, and every quarter each floor of the dorm got a cash allotment (apparently, from an account derived from the fees we paid) to spend on whatever we wanted – and if we wanted a keg party, that was quite alright.  (Mind you, I’m not saying these things don’t happen on college campuses anymore, but I somehow suspect that the days of official underage drinking events are over).

But back to the album – the first side is almost (hold up thumb and forefinger) as a good as the debut, beginning with “Party Out of Bounds” and closing with “Private Idaho.”  The three songs between them are little more than extended riffs turned into songs, but I always loved the way that the slow burn of “Dirty Back Road” segued into the faster “Runnin’ Around” and “Give Me Back My Man.”  The second side isn’t quite as successful, but at least a couple of the songs – “Quiche Lorraine” and “Strobe Light” – work as really good jokes.

So why were The B-52’s so popular with a bunch of crazy smart kids away from home for the first time?  Maybe there was something intoxicating about the simplicity of the music and the enthusiasm of the singers – no one who’d never heard Fred Schneider before could really believe what they were hearing, and it wasn’t long before the young women of the dorm were competing for who could do the best impressions of Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson.  And maybe it was just because you couldn’t listen to this stuff without wanting to join in, jump around and have a good time.

"Bad Co.," Bad Company (1974)

My friend Thomas and I bought this album on the same day in September 1974, at a K-Mart no less.  His dad drove us and waited in the car, because he refused to set foot inside a K-Mart.  I’m not sure how many K-Marts exist today (if any), but they were sort of the Wal-Mart of their time.

I can’t speak for Thomas, but I’ll admit to thinking that I was quite the badass for picking this one up.  Hard rock!  Tough guys!  Long hair!  Heavy drumming!

It sounds like I’m making fun of them, but I always enjoyed the band’s work, and this album (their debut) was probably their best.  Meat and potatoes rock and roll for sure, but in what was becoming a pretty fallow time for A.M. radio, “Can’t Get Enough” certainly jumped out of the speakers.  I’m not sure if they qualified as a supergroup (Paul Rodgers sang for Free, Mick Ralphs was in Mott the Hoople, Boz Burrell came from King Crimson), but they had a good run through the remainder of the 70s.  Scanning their Wikipedia page I see that they in fact stayed around for a lot longer than that, but trust me – there’s no real need to listen to anything they released after 1979.

Christgau: B-.  “Since a strong singer (Paul Rodgers, who's letting the hair on his chest grow out) usually dominates a strong guitarist (Mike Ralphs, who's devoting himself to Paul Kossoff impressions anyway), this is less Mott the Hoople without pretensions (which are missed) than Free poppified (but not enough, hit single or no hit single).”

"Shame, Shame, Shame," Shirley and Company (1975)

I bought this album in early 1982 because of one song.

As you can see (if you look closely), I paid $1 for it – at Rasputin Records, on Telegraph Ave. in Berkeley.

The only song I’ve ever listened to is the title track – which is not just one of the great disco singles of all time, but one of the great singles of all time, period.

Over the years, I’ve been tempted to listen to one of the other songs, but never have – and probably never will.

And whether you loved, liked, disliked or just plain hated disco, you’ve got to admit that this is one of the great album covers in the history of rock & pop music.