Because not only can I not resist a list-making exercise that underscores how old I’m getting, I also just love extracting every last shred of my mental faculty trying to remember a favorite record that was released in 1978 (’77 is another story altogether). Idolator came up with this jewel of absurdity last weekend, and after reading those from Jeff and Joseph, I couldn’t resist; I’m such a sucker for these things. I probably spent the most time juggling records of the early ’90s (when my ears were most porous), and ultimately decided not to ‘cheat’ and list more than one album per year. Sorry, Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) (1993), half a dozen R.E.M. and Smiths platters, and a slew of others. The turn of the century was tough as well, as I was neck-deep in jazz back then and couldn’t care less about what my hipper friends were buzzing about. Anyway, for what it’s worth:

(1978) Funkadelic – One Nation Under a Groove (Warner Bros.)
(1979) XTC – Drums and Wires (Virgin)
(1980) Talking Heads – Remain in Light (Sire)
(1981) David Byrne & Brian Eno – My Life in the Bush of Ghosts (Sire)
(1982) XTC – English Settlement (Virgin)
(1983) Cocteau Twins – Head Over Heels (4AD)
(1984) Minutemen – Double Nickels on the Dime (SST)
(1985) John Zorn – The Big Gundown (Nonesuch)
(1986) Camper Van Beethoven – II & III (IRS)
(1987) Sonic Youth – Sister (SST)
(1988) Talk Talk – Spirit of Eden (EMI)
(1989) De La Soul – 3 Feet High and Rising (Tommy Boy)
(1990) Public Enemy – Fear of a Black Planet (Def Jam)
(1991) Black Sheep – A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing (Mercury)
(1992) Faith No More – Angel Dust (Slash)
(1993) Stereolab – Transient Random Noise Bursts with Announcements (Elektra)
(1994) Shudder to Think – Pony Express Record (Epic)
(1995) Mobb Deep – The Infamous (Loud)
(1996) Orbital – In Sides (FFRR)
(1997) Emperor – Anthems to the Welkin at Dusk (Candlelight)
(1998) Tortoise – TNT (Thrill Jockey)
(1999) Built to Spill – Keep It Like a Secret (Warner Bros.)
(2000) The Sea and Cake – Oui (Thrill Jockey)
(2001) Opeth – Blackwater Park (Music for Nations)
(2002) Underworld – A Hundred Days Off (V2)
(2003) Ellen Allien – Berlinette (BPitch Control)
(2004) Ghostface Killah – The Pretty Tony Album (Def Jam)
(2005) Sleater-Kinney – The Woods (Sub Pop)
(2006) Enslaved – Ruun (Candlelight)
(2007) Pig Destroyer – Phantom Limb (Relapse)

2008 is yet to be seen, but my money’s on the upcoming Enslaved release – and I haven’t the slightest what it will sound like. Expectations, you say?

As any audioblogger will tell you, finding a logical context for the music presented on a site is one of the more challenging aspects of maintaining and contributing to it. There are probably a few dozen records that I own that I cherish and praise, yet because of stylistic considerations and their inherently arcane nature, I rarely get the chance to expound upon them in a single collective post. This should resolve the issue, as I present the first of hopefully more installments on some of the more stranger, or ‘esoteric’, if you will, favorites in my collection. An open mind and healthy taste for adventure are highly recommended here.

Devo Hardcore Devo, Vol. 2: 1974-1977 Rykodisc 1991

One of the more lesser-known pieces of pop music trivia is that before the ’80s New Wave, oddball stage costumes, and the universal success of “Whip It,” Akron, Ohio’s Devo recorded some of the most bizarre, incomparably brilliant music ever committed to tape. Four-track tape, that is, which is the recording medium of which the band’s two Hardcore compilations are sourced from. These basement demos were unearthed by Rykodisc and released in 1991 before going out of print, and are now fetching steep prices on the online auction market, but they’re worth every cent – especially the second volume, which is even more delightfully warped than the first. It’s a heady challenge to describe the material here without succumbing to schoolgirl-like levels of giddiness, but I’ll try to rein my enthusiasm down to a manner of coherency. Hardcore Vol. 2: 1972-1977 (1991) contains all of the following: surf guitar freakouts, slick power punk, candy-coated pop songs, psychedelic rave-ups, serene electronic mood pieces, and the most impressive application of shitty malfunctioning synths that I’ve ever heard in a “pop music” context. Hell, there are so many tracks that are just beyond description I would have an aneurysm trying to explain them. Let’s just say that they’re in spirit with the cover, a shot of the band wearing 3D glasses and fake plastic breasts accompanied by half-naked women in various sexual poses, perfectly in line with the “what the fuck exactly is going on here?” mantra that reverberates around the listener’s head when first hearing the record. I don’t even care for the rest of Devo’s catalogue; the Hardcore volumes, on the other hand, are truly something special.

“Can You Take It? – Devo 3:02 (Hardcore, Vol. 2: 1974-1977, Rykodisc 1991)

Bernard Herrmann The Day the Earth Stood Still 20th Century Fox 1951

While it would certainly be a tough call, my vote for greatest film composer of all time would have to go to Bernard Herrmann. Generally speaking, I’m not one for soundtracks and other programmatic music without their corresponding visuals (blaxploitation titles and various Morricone works excluded), but Herrmann’s scores stand up so well as “absolute music” that I’ll gladly pick up anything with his name on it regardless of whether I’ve seen the accompanying film or not. There is a chain of thought that most people follow whenever they hear the name “Herrmann,” which goes something like, “Hitchcock – Janet Leigh shower scene – now-parodied “eek!-eek!” strings – horror music,” but Herrmann’s score for The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951) is eons more frightening. From a strictly instrumental standpoint, what the composer did here was entirely groundbreaking at the time, employing two theremins, amplified strings, organs, vibraphone, and various brass and percussion – light years ahead of the standard four-section orchestra that was de rigueur in the film music industry back then. The effects that Herrmann wrings from this setup are simply astonishing: dark swells of sonorous brass combined with the psychotic electronic hum of the two theremins, nervous violin drones and chilling bursts of white noise from the clashing cymbals. There are a couple of Copland-ish “Americana” pieces to break the tense atmosphere halfway through, but by and large, this is edge-of-your-seat music that begs for headphones and a dark environment. For purely sentimental reasons, Vertigo (1958) will always remain my favorite of Herrmann’s scores, but The Day the Earth Stood Still comes in damn close as a runner-up. (This score was re-recorded in 2003 by Varese Sarabande with Joel McNeely conducting, and while its fidelity is crystalline compared to 20th Century Fox’s transfer from the master tapes, the original is still to be preferred.)

“Prelude/Outer Space/Radar” – Bernard Herrmann 3:50 (The Day the Earth Stood Still, 20th Century Fox 1951)

JD & The Evil’s Dynamite Band Explodes Across the Nation Soul Fire 2001

With no information to glean from the production credits on the jacket and little coming up in the way of a Google search, I still know next to nothing about JD & The Evil’s Dynamite Band. I mail-ordered an LP copy of Explodes Across the Nation (2001) from the Truth and Soul site a few years ago without hearing a note of the music, one of those rare caution-to-the-wind moments that I can’t afford now that my income isn’t of the disposable variety. What a jewel this album is – albeit one that’s been nicked, scratched, cracked, and submerged in a barrel of used motor oil. In terms of pure vibe, Explodes’ closest comparison would be the scorched-earth, apocalyptic funk of Miles Davis’ Agharta/Pangaea (1975) records, but weirder, grittier, and, well, much more “evil.” The funk here is raw, loose, and almost otherworldly, with backward vocal samples, torture-chamber percussion, and a menacing voice whispering, “DIE” on occasion. Song titles include “Beer (So Nice) Right On” and “My Beach, My Waves, Fuck Off!” This is precisely what funk shouldn’t be – inaccessible, cryptic, drugged to a near-comatose state of hypnosis – but it works marvelously. I’d be tempted to sacrifice one of my toes to hear another full-length from the group, assuming the members are actually mortals instead of ghosts who haven’t already dissipated into the ether. If you like your funk with a sinister, uneasy edge, you’ll love this (then purchase the above Miles records, along with Dark Magus [1974] and On the Corner [1972]).

“Heavy, Heavy… Heavy” – JD & The Evil’s Dynamite Band 4:19 (Explodes Across the Nation, Soul Fire 2001)

Peter Thomas Film Musik Polydor 1997

German TV and film composer Peter Thomas experienced a bit of a resurgence in his work during the late ‘90s, as everyone from Jarvis Cocker to Stereolab eagerly cited his music as a heavy influence on their own material. A handful of European labels rushed to issue as many Thomas “lounge” compilations as the market could handle, all but ignoring his horror and spy soundtracks as well as his more experimental works (he actually invented and developed a synthesizer called a ThoWeiphon). Film Musik (1997) was one of the few that got it right, a two-in-one disc that combined Thomas’ soundtracks for the 1960s German television series Edgar Wallace and Jerry Cotton. Like many of the greats, Thomas was at his best when he took unthinkable risks with his music, and Film Musik is loaded with cues that flagrantly span extremes: free jazz colliding with a bluesy sitar, a rollicking ballpark organ pitted against tense brass figures, a dreamy harp accenting a thick buzzing guitar, and so on. It would be convenient to dismiss this music as little more than camp or kitsch, which is an incredible disservice to Thomas’ ingenious arrangements, to say nothing of his sheer balls when it came to instrument combinations. Even the players here sound hesitant, unsure, and not a little clumsy, which only adds to the music’s charm, as one envisions the guitarist scratching his head uneasily at the direction of “noisy beach-party surf guitar solo.” With nearly 50 cues and vignettes, there’s enough Thomas here to snack on for weeks, which is why I believe it’s the best introduction to his anomalous sound-world.

“Der unheimliche Mönch” – Peter Thomas 2:45 (Film Musik, Polydor 1997)

Various Artists Princess Nicotine: Folk and Pop Music of Myanmar (Burma) Sublime Frequencies 2004

Whenever I feel like my listening tastes have stagnated and there’s little hope for any sort of new music exciting me anymore, I conveniently (and arrogantly) remind myself that there are seemingly hundreds of thousands of “world music” records out there that are just waiting for my ears to discover them, ravage them for weeks, then spew out some psychobabble on this site about how incredible they are. I was likely in one of these moods when I picked up a used disc of Princess Nicotine (2004) for five bucks in a CD Spins a few years ago, intrigued by the cover art and the fact that I had little idea of what Burmese pop music actually sounded like. And I’m still struggling to describe, with any sort of accuracy, how bizarre and flat-out amazing the music contained within this disc is. Princess Nicotine was compiled by a gentleman named Alan Bishop, who journeyed to Myanmar back in God-knows-when and purchased and/or traded armfuls of 45s and cassettes until he had his dozen favorites to compile here: batshit-insane signatures and stop-start patterns that only a grindcore band could match, pastoral love songs based on mind-warping microtonal scales, thunderstorms of percussion aerobics with a de-emphasis on pulse, stoned mid-tempo psychedelia, gongs, chants, harps – it’s all here. I guarantee that you’ve never heard anything like it, and here’s the best part: it’s all fucking phenomenal. There is a wonderful looseness to the ensemble playing, even when executing some sickeningly complex passage, that simply can’t be replicated, and the sheer number of unidentifiable instruments bouncing around the mix is enough to keep me entertained for hours. Kneejerk descriptors like “snake charmers on crack” are not only condescending, naïve, and flat-out ignorant on my part, but more importantly, they prove how futile it is to place everything in the context of Western musical systems and thought – and so help me Christ if I hear someone bitch about the fidelity. Princess Nicotine has become something of a rarity since it went out of print some time ago, but if you happen to stumble across it, by all means pick it up immediately. Just trust me on this one. You’ll be thanking me for years.

“Really Strange and Weird Things” – Sein Sah Thin 3:15 (Princess Nicotine: Folk and Pop Music of Myanmar [Burma], Sublime Frequencies 2004)

Again, my apologies to anyone experiencing site difficulties for the past three weeks now. It appears – and I can state this with confidence now – that all issues have been resolved (fie on Yahoo! Web Hosting) and regular posting should resume soon. For those who have bookmarked or linked here in the past, please note that “/blog2″ is no longer in the url; it’s just “http://floodwatchmusic.com” now. While I finish repairing some older posts and fixing links in the Archives, enjoy this guest drop I wrote for Scholar’s excellent Souled On last summer.

The late, great Barry White created a body of music that has different meanings for everyone. Some will forever associate him (and moreover, his voice) with the idea of tender romance set to music, his songs occupying the centerpieces of those dime-a-dozen “Midnight Love” compilations, his sound encompassing the very definition of sensuality. For others, the his name signifies the worst of ‘70s excess: vulgar fashion trends and hairstyles, endless all-nighter coke binges, nauseating disco lights. Many unfairly lump him in under the “music I’ll never listen to outside of a wedding” category. What most overlook is the indisputable fact that Mr. White, aka The Maestro, aka The Man, was a phenomenally talented songwriter, arranger, and producer that the industry has rarely seen before or since. In fact, few Soul artists dominated the ‘70s charts like he did, and the amount of quality material in his catalogue extends far beyond well-known party favorites like “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe” and the exhaustively-parodied sex jam “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More, Baby.”

My affinity with White’s music has grown into something more complex a dozen years or so into our relationship. Sure, at times it’s bordered on unhealthy: I’ve snapped on more than one person as the result of some innocent jibe about the man’s weight or hair. I played his records for nearly fourteen hours straight when I heard the news of his death a little over four years ago. I’ve often fantasized about the number of house keys – somewhere in the tens of thousands – mailed to him over the years by housewives of all ages, with notes containing nothing but an address and the hours of the day when their husbands aren’t home. So understandably, it took me hours to narrow down my five favorite Barry White songs that follow.

05. “Your Love - So Good I Can Taste It” Is This Whatcha Wont 20th Century 1976

Without a solid chart-topper in two years, White’s popularity had waned a bit by 1976, but that didn’t stop him from releasing two full-lengths that year, Let the Music Play (1976) and Is This Whatcha Wont? (1976) Both records had their share of duds, but it was the centerpiece of the latter, the twelve-minute bedroom epic “Your Love – So Good I Can Taste It,” that justified its purchase entirely. Essentially a two-part suite, the first half is an instrumental showcase for White’s own Love Unlimited Orchestra. All of his signature musical elements are in place here: caressed Fender Rhodes keys, gently sweeping strings, weeping guitars, all atop an irresistible quiet storm groove. If there’s one thing that White didn’t lack, it was patience – the track has the feeling that the music could continue on forever, a concept that formed the backbone of his whole “we’ve got all night, baby” steez. The actual song itself enters around the halfway mark after a slow buildup, at which point White begins pushing the limits of taste with another one of his signature love raps: “You know, ever since I was a young boy, I used to get in devilment and I used to do all kind of things with little girls, but when I become a man I put away childish things.” The pendulum-like 12/8 rhythm provides the foundation for White to describe his late-night fantasy: “Whole lotta lovemaking, a lotta butt-shaking.” As the track concludes, his delivery has escalated into an urgent declaration, and one can just envision the beads of sweat glistening off his forehead and off the tips of his Jheri curl. It’s corny and crass, overblown and overlong, and that’s what makes it so marvelously effective.

“Your Love – So Good I Can Taste It” – Barry White 12:32 (Is This Whatcha Wont?, 20th Century 1976)

04. “Never Gonna Give You Up” Stone Gon’ 20th Century 1973

The success of “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More, Baby” (from White’s 1973 debut I’ve Got So Much to Give) was so overwhelming that what did The Maestro do? Replicated it, of course, but in doing so he actually surpassed the original. “Never Gonna Give You Up” takes the structure and mood of “I’m Gonna Love You” and injects it with more everything: more grandiose orchestration, more provocative lyric content, and naturally, more dirty talk – note White’s orgiastic “uugh!” as the music enters, after a long, tension-building intro with the drums and strings. Every arranged bit of music here radiates with steamy sexuality: that throbbing bass, the electric harpsichord, those rapturous flute runs. This was one of my earliest introductions to White’s music, as a standout on a record full of highlights, the soundtrack to the film Dead Presidents (1995). It has remained a favorite since.

“Never Gonna Give You Up” – Barry White 7:56 (Stone Gon’, 20th Century 1973)

03. “Oh Love, Well We Finally Made It” Can’t Get Enough 20th Century 1974

“Can’t get enough” sums it up about right, as I’ve been known to play this song on repeat for hours. Originally composed by White for his Supremes-like project Love Unlimited, he eventually got around to covering his own version of “Oh Love, Well We Finally Made It,” nestled into side two of his best selling album Can’t Get Enough (1974). It could have been the song’s unique structure that kept it off the airwaves, which eschewed the usual verse-chorus routine for an extended orchestral intro, multiple sax solos, and more key changes than the average listener would detect upon first listen. While I have a special place in my heart for Love Unlimited’s more stripped-down (relatively speaking) version, it’s ultimately White’s take that wins me over, and with the female trio providing animated backing vocals, it’s like the best of both worlds in my book. Just listen to the amount of push and pull in the shuffle, which makes it nearly impossible to sit still for the song’s duration. There are also two sonic curiosities in the production that deserve mention, as they give White’s version even more character. For one, Nathan East’s thick, rounded bass tone is jacked up alarmingly high in the mix and almost seems like it could explode out of the speakers; it would likely be a hindrance were his playing not so remarkably tasteful. Secondly, the amount of reverb on the strings borders on grotesque, but instead of washing out every other instrument in the stereo field, the effect creates a swirling, hypnotic bed of sound that’s the aural equivalent of standing in the rain during a sun shower. Studio tricks aside, what really matters is White’s inimitable ear for melody and arrangement, of which “Oh Love, Well We Finally Made It” demonstrates at the height of his abilities.

“Oh Love, Well We Finally Made It” – Barry White 3:54 (Can’t Get Enough, 20th Century 1974)

“Oh Love, We Finally Made It” – Love Unlimited 3:52 (Under the Influence of…, 20th Century 1973)

02. “All Because of You” Just Another Way to Say I Love You 20th Century 1975

For me, few songs embody the essence of summertime like “All Because of You,” an achingly gorgeous, uptempo ballad that is perpetually overlooked in discussions of White’s contributions to the R&B songbook. But the real effectiveness of this track lies in the contributions of his band, beginning with East, who thumbs out a lovely bass solo to open the track. This leads into yet another extended interlude of syncopated bass hits under a floating string arrangement by White and Gene Page. White certainly loved that skipping 12/8 rhythm, and when it kicks in nearly halfway through the song, the band shifts into the groove like they’ve been anticipating it for years. The sleazy porn guitar from “Love’s Theme” is all over this track, slithering around every beat and dropping those scratchy wah-wah slides that Charles Pitts (from the Isaac Hayes Movement) was lacing tracks with at the time (listen at 5:53 for an example). It’s unfathomable for me to place this song in the context of winter or cold weather, but even if I did, I would still be able to detect the aroma of a nearby barbecue, hear a light breeze rustling through the trees, and feel the late afternoon sun warm my skin.

“All Because of You” – Barry White 6:37 (Just Another Way to Say I Love You, 20th Century 1975)

01. “Playing Your Game, Baby” Sings for Someone You Love 20th Century 1977

Take a moment to think about a song that, theoretically, you could listen to once a day, every day for the rest of your life and not tire of it. Not easy, is it? Since this is the kind of topic I spend most of my free time musing over, I can state with full confidence that White’s “Playing Your Game, Baby” is one of those songs. As the opening cut on Sings for Someone You Love (1977), this track, and the rest of the album for that matter, revitalized White’s career after a mid-decade drag, in no small measure because of his decision to enlist outside songwriters for the bulk of the record’s selections. “Playing Your Game, Baby” was penned by Austin Johnson and Smead Hudman, two gentlemen whose identities I know nothing of, and frankly, couldn’t care less about. Put simply, the seven minutes that make up the duration of this track are some of the sexiest ever committed to analog tape. The arrangement is responsible for a significant chunk of the song’s potency, as the orchestra is relegated to the background, serving to accentuate the interplay between the rhythm section, keyboard, and horns. “Playing Your Game, Baby” also displays White in a rare mood, as he concedes his avoidance of the typical playful bedroom shenanigans and uncharacteristically says, “bring it, girl.” The song is seductive tease, baadasssss attitude, funky pimp strut, and sweaty, carnal sexuality all wrapped up into one, and there isn’t another selection in White’s discography like it.

“Playing Your Game, Baby” – Barry White 7:13 (Sings for Someone You Love, 20th Century 1977)

A long time ago I came to the obvious realization that there was something inherently wrong with feeling guilty about enjoying a particular song, artist, or style of music. Part of the reason why I started this site was to encourage a wide variety of healthy music appreciation, to unravel popular taboos about what kinds of music people are ‘supposed’ to like, and to let others know that it’s perfectly normal to mention Cannibal Corpse, Morrissey, and New Edition in the same sentence, much less in the same listening session. Still, there are certain genres of music that, while I wouldn’t say I feel a sense of guilt for enjoying them, I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to discuss them here on this site – possibly for fear of public flagellation, the revoking of my long-earned Ghetto Pass, or a sudden and permanent dive in site visits. That’s about to change, starting now.

Bubblegum Rap

Remember the days when hip hop was fun? I’m talking about the days before scowling faces, endless gun talk, Tony Montana posturing, and monosyllabic retard-speak over thumping keyboard beats. When male backup dancers were a requisite on every hip hop video set, singles without vocal hooks were often the most successful, and originality was prized over SoundScan numbers. I’ve just dated myself something awful, but it appears that unabashed honestly is the underlying theme of this post. When was the last time you listened to Candyman, Heavy D., Chubb Rock, or Father MC? Don’t front – you remember how much you loved that first Young MC record, how you still get goosebumps from the dance sequence with Tisha Campbell and A.J. Johnson in House Party (1990), and how L.L.’s “Around the Way Girl” kicked off that mixtape you made for your grade-school sweetheart. Granted, I’m not going to study Kwamé & A New Beginning for some insight into rhyme prowess or production techniques, but I’ve been known to have cravings for cornball lyrical eye-rollers like, “Is this Christmas? ‘Cause everybody’s (w)rappin’” and Minnie Riperton recitations that provoke every dog in the neighborhood to howl for mercy.

“The Man We All Know and Love” – Kwamé feat. A New Beginning 6:20 (The Boy Genius, Atlantic 1989)

Fusion-y Jazz-Funk from the ’70s

I’m talking about the stuff that would hold interest with crate diggers, rabid sample seekers, and not too many others. The kind of music that must have been a slice of heaven for the musicians who played on the record and masturbatory overindulgence of the worst order for the rest of us. You know the ingredients: heavily-phased Fender Rhodes piano, synthetic strings, trebly slap-bass, disco-like flourishes, possibly Latin percussion of some kind. Song titles that invoke the cosmos, one’s “inner self,” or a shallow understanding of Eastern mysticism. I’m not sure why this music holds such an interest with me; perhaps it’s my own form of ironic amusement or the fact that it sounds like it should be soundtracking some ridiculous low-budget, color-saturated skin flick from the late ‘70s.

“Exotic Mysteries” – Lonnie Liston Smith 4:28 (Exotic Mysteries, Columbia 1978)

Slicked-Up, Saccharine Disco

Guilty as charged, and yeah, this one is a little tougher to admit. By “disco” I don’t mean the usual suspects found on hundreds of Time Life compilations, your average Bee Gees or ABBA LP found in yard sale crates across the country, or some of the more upbeat platters in every wedding DJ’s arsenal. The obscure stuff is what I’m after, blatant yet horribly unsuccessful stabs at the trendy disco market by otherwise talented individuals, squarely focused on selling “product” with no regard to artistic integrity whatsoever. I’m fascinated by it, really, marveling at how many variations on a singular, recognizable style could have been possible back then: “sensual” female vocals, thinly-veiled sex and drug references in the lyrics, sweeping string orchestras that obliterated everything in their path, and animated bass lines that admittedly were often the best part of a song. It’s like an aural lollipop, the kind that stains the lips and tongue for hours and induces a throbbing headache when the sugar rush finally subsides. It’s no wonder why die-hard rock ‘n roll fans went apeshit over the massive popularization of this fad back then; I’m still a little threatened by it some thirty years later.

“Thinking of You” – Sister Sledge 4:16 (We Are Family, Cotillion 1979)

’80s Quiet Storm Honeys

Sade. Anita Baker. Patrice Rushen. Regina Belle. All of these honeys make me melt, and no amount of synthetic production tricks – “Ice EP” keys, digital cowbells, synth-bass, gigantic snares with 20-second decays – could possibly deter me from enjoying every moment of it, and bonus points if they wrote the material themselves. Remarkably, “Smooth Operator” or “Sweet Love” would have had me immediately scanning for the nearest exit ten, maybe fifteen years ago, but now that my ears are able to recognize the stellar songwriting and musical quirks (listen to the brilliant syncopation in the bass during “Sweet Love”’s chorus), no amount of effort could move me from the speakers when this stuff comes on. Perhaps the most refreshing aspect is the fact that there’s no oversinging, an impossible feat for today’s pop divas whose auto-tuned wailing is damn near inescapable (save for maybe Aaliyah, R.I.P.). Who said the ‘80s killed R&B? It’s high time for a resurgence in this kind of classy, sophisticated, late-night soul.

“Sweet Love” – Anita Baker 4:19 (Rapture, Elektra 1986)

Painfully Mediocre ‘90s Alt-Rock

A large part of me grew up on the early- to mid-‘90s “alternative” revolution, and I still carry a torch for some of these bands, probably because no one else will: Gumball, Dig, Eugenius, that first Sponge album. Even more obscure groups like Gruntruck, Paw, and Polara (notice a pattern here with the band names?), whose chief common factor is that their entire catalogues have been out of print for years. I own not one, but all three Ned’s Atomic Dustbin records, and yes, I occasionally listen to them, probably once a year or so. Oddly enough, if I heard these bands today I’d likely eject the disc after a song or two, but my nostalgia weighs heavily on me, recalling a time when I was just beginning to explore guitar-based music that wasn’t on the local “hard rock from the ’70s and ‘80s” station. To think that fifteen years ago, my friends would stand in wonderment at my discovery of these great unknown bands; now if I played, say, Ned’s “Legoland” for them the best response I could get would be a collective grimace akin to catching wind of a foul odor.

“Legoland” – Ned’s Atomic Dustbin 3:11 (Are You Normal?, Chaos/Columbia 1992)

Depending on my mood, were someone to ask me what’s wrong with the state of popular music today (and if I may be so bold, the world in general), my response would probably be, “Folks don’t listen to enough John Coltrane.” Sure, you’re likely to discover at least one ‘Trane platter or disc in the average healthy music collection – a Giant Steps (1959) here, a Blue Train (1957) there, and possibly A Love Supreme (1965) somewhere – but it takes a pretty hefty amount of gumption and courage to venture into the turbulent waters of Coltrane’s later-era work (roughly ’65 until his death in July ’67), where run-of-the-mill blowing themes have mutated into noisy, hostile sound-worlds. This is the territory where Coltrane transcends corporeal terms like “jazz musician” or “great saxophonist” for more applicable designations like “immortal” or “saint.” It also sends unprepared dilettantes running for the hills in terror, palms over their ears.

Few discographies are more intimidating for a musician with such a brief window of studio recordings – roughly a mere decade (’57-’67) in Coltrane’s case. His catalogue can be divided into three distinct eras based on label association: his early “sheets of sound” phase on Prestige and Blue Note, the middle Atlantic Records years, and his Classic Quartet recordings and experimental works on Impulse!. It is this last period that has been the most discussed, dividing both critics and fans, and perplexing jazz scholars looking for an easy explanation behind Coltrane’s restless musical pursuits. The quartet that the saxophonist assembled in 1962 – comprised of pianist McCoy Tyner, bassist Jimmy Garrison, and drummer Elvin Jones – is considered today one of the most revered in the jazz canon, a breakthrough unit of minds and talent that breached beyond the confines of hard bop and helped established the parameters for the avant-garde, guided by the leader’s deeply spiritual sonic explorations.

Pity the poor soul thumbing through the “Jazz” racks at Barnes & Noble, innocently seeking some light evening dinner music and arriving home with their very own copy of Kulu Se Mama (1965). As with most of the great jazz legends whose output, official or unofficial, stretches into the triple digits, some guidance is necessary. The following ten records are what I believe to be the most essential of Coltrane’s Impulse! work, albeit under the unlikely presumption that the eager neophyte has $150 in disposable income to drop on an artist they know very little about. The rest can pick and choose based on their level of comfort and/or taste for adventure.

The Complete Africa/Brass Sessions Impulse! 1995 Originally recorded May-June 1961

Coltrane’s first outing for Creed Taylor’s label was a larger-scale project utilizing a sizable horn ensemble to supplement the quartet (although technically Garrison had not yet joined at this stage), resulting in a rich, expansive palette for which he could apply his broad strokes of tenor. The Africa/Brass (1995) charts were penned by Eric Dolphy, pianist Tyner, and the leader, and foreshadow to an extent the larger orchestrations that Coltrane would experiment with on Ascension (1965) (see below). The playing is top-notch all around, and Coltrane even unleashes the fluttering of his soprano on the waltz-inflected “Greensleeves,” which by now had become something of a custom for him wherever a 6/8 pulse appeared. Jones, in particular, seems absolutely enthralled by the surroundings, creating swells of shuffling polyrhythms to accent the soloists. This double-disc set tends to be on the pricier side, but every moment is worth it, and yes, you do need to hear all three takes of the majestic “Africa.”

“Song of the Underground Railroad” – John Coltrane 6:44 (The Complete Africa/Brass Sessions, Impulse 1995)

Live at The Village Vanguard: The Master Takes Impulse! 1998 Originally recorded November 1961

The released documentation of Coltrane’s residency at The Village Vanguard in November of ‘61 suffered from inaccuracies for years – from who played on what to what was recorded when – but with the release of the four-disc The Complete 1961 Village Vanguard Recordings (1997), the confusion appears to have been clarified. Meanwhile, the inquisitive novice should begin with The Master Takes (1998) before meticulously comparing takes within the box set, as the essentials from this historic session are all here: Dolphy’s gutteral bass clarinet on the opener “Spiritual,” the leader’s brilliant theme deconstruction on “Impressions” (one of his most analyzed solos to date), the hypnotic twin-bass drone of “India,” and the riveting quarter-hour of the John Gilmore-inspired “Chasin’ the Train,” which almost holds the same shock value as it did when it first appeared nearly 50 (!) years ago. Obsessives can and should splurge on the four-disc package, which is thoroughly and exquisitely annotated, but this five-song collection will suffice quite nicely for most listeners.

“Impressions” – John Coltrane 14:52 (Live at the Village Vanguard: The Master Takes, Impulse! 1998)

Ballads Impulse! 1962 Originally recorded September-November 1962

Normally I’d never recommend a record comprised entirely of ballads from any artist, but Coltrane was so phenomenal at handling slower tempos that it would be almost criminal to overlook Ballads (1962). The leader was suffering from dental problems at the time and was having difficulty with his embouchure, so in effect, Ballads was released as a sort of concession until his mouth healed and he regained his articulation. All of the standards here, from “Too Young to Go Steady” to “Nancy (With the Laughing Face)” are handled with class and dignity, never sinking to the level of tepid cocktail-piano pleasantry. Ballads will warmly cloak you with its dark intimacy, and few records of the era are as conducive to a lonely evening with your bottle of choice.

“You Don’t Know What Love Is” – John Coltrane 5:14 (Ballads, Impulse! 1962)

Crescent Impulse! 1964 Originally recorded April-June 1964

I’ve covered Crescent (1964) on the site before, including it on my list of Ten Non-Essential Jazz Platters last summer, and I still feel it’s the best overall representation of what this quartet could accomplish, despite its slightly grab-bag presentation. The record’s price is justified alone by the inclusion of two of Coltrane’s most jaw-dropping ballads, Tyner’s piano feature “Wise One” and “Lonnie’s Lament,” which features a haunting extended bass solo from Garrison. Other than his commanding tenor on the title track and the brief mid-album break-in-mood “Bessie’s Blues,” Coltrane cedes the majority of the playing to his band, only resurfacing during the second half of the record to engage in some sax/drum interplay on Jones’ showcase “The Drum Thing,” which closes the album. Crescent has always been popularly referred to as ‘Trane’s “darkest” record, and indeed, compared to the halo-like radiance emitted by its nearest sibling, it is certainly much more introspective and contemplative. It’s a fine place to start, with something here to satisfy everyone.

“Wise One” – John Coltrane 9:01 (Crescent, Impulse! 1964)

A Love Supreme Impulse! 1965 Originally recorded December 1964

Rarely has the word ‘timeless’ been better suited to a jazz record. I can’t in good conscience recommend another item on this list over A Love Supreme, so if you can only acquire one, make it this one. For those who’ve never heard a note of it, I’ll try my best to disguise my envy at the enlightenment you’re about to experience. A Love Supreme marvelously achieved everything Coltrane was working to accomplish up until then, his own personal poem to God that remains unparalleled in jazz to this day; even the staunchest atheist would be moved by its awesome power. In an alternate universe, a copy of A Love Supreme can be found in every hotel nightstand across the country. I couldn’t possibly elaborate upon this record without recycling what has been written before. It’s perfection, and you should own it. I’ll leave it at that.

“Resolution” – John Coltrane 7:25 (A Love Supreme, Impulse! 1965)

The John Coltrane Quartet Plays Impulse! 1965 Originally recorded February-May 1965

The John Coltrane Quartet Plays (1965) is an odd curve in the Coltrane trajectory. After the spiritual catharsis of A Love Supreme, the leader seemed to be in a kind of limbo during the following months, not wanting turn his back entirely on form and structure yet hesitant to dive headfirst into the unexplored realms of free jazz (or The New Thing, as the kids were calling it back then). On the surface, these sessions appear to be pieced together to tide over fans while the leader was immersed in the planning stages of Ascension, but as a four-song package it holds together surprisingly well. Art Davis steps in to play arco second bass on the popular Nat King Cole vehicle “Nature Boy,” while the group rips through the modal waltz “Chim Chim Cheree,” one of the last instances of Coltrane’s soprano playing. The two Coltrane originals, “Brasilia” and “Song of Praise,” are much more introspective but no less potent. It’s convenient to think of Plays as a minor stepping stone between the towers of A Love Supreme and Ascension, but it’s far more deserving of a critical re-evaluation as its own unique entity.

“Song of Praise” – John Coltrane 9:51 (The John Coltrane Quartet Plays, Impulse! 1965)

The Major Works of John Coltrane Impulse! 1992 Originally recorded June-October 1965

Unequivocally essential. The monolithic The Major Works of John Coltrane (1992) gathers both 40-minute editions of the free-jazz collective improv “Ascension,” the surreal Kalahari journey “Kulu Se Mama,” and arguably the strangest item in the Coltrane discography, “Om,” an experiment reportedly committed to tape while the leader was in the midst of an intense acid trip. “Ascension” is often compared to Ornette Coleman’s Free Jazz (1960) in scope and length, yet where Coleman took advantage of a double-quartet ensemble, Coltrane employed an eleven-piece band for a studied examination of unrestrained group improvisation. The lineup is of an all-star caliber: Freddie Hubbard, John Tchicai, Archie Shepp, Pharoah Sanders, Art Davis; the list goes on. Chord changes could be ignored or adhered to, solo structures followed a loose guideline of dynamics, modes were indicated by hand signals, and all the while the three-man rhythm section crashed and tumbled underneath. “Ascension” signaled Coltrane’s increasingly-apparent desires to move beyond the confines of the standard quartet, whose restrictions prevented his need to explore the impenetrable slabs of sound and volume he heard in his head. The other pieces included here aren’t quite as significant, but are no less fascinating and are most certainly worth having. The Major Works isn’t something you’d play while getting ready for a Saturday night at the club, but given some patience and the right frame of mind, one can get lost inside this set for months.

“Acension (Edition II) (Excerpt)” – John Coltrane 7:56 (The Major Works of John Coltrane, Impulse! 1992)

Sun Ship Impulse! 1971 Originally recorded August 1965

Even regular Coltrane devotees like myself tend to overlook Sun Ship (1971), recorded shortly after Ascension. Besides the misleading cover image (Coltrane doesn’t play soprano anywhere on the record), the record’s chief distinguishing trait from its peers is the fidelity, as it was one of the rare studio sessions not engineered by Rudy Van Gelder; the result is a rougher, murkier mix that suits the music surprisingly well. Coltrane’s solos here veer toward the raucous kinetic energy characteristic of Pharoah Sanders and Archie Shepp, and Tyner, whose unease and reservations were reflected in his playing by this point, demonstrates remarkable fluidity and what can best be described as a compelling tangentiality in his solos. Jones, on the other hand, sounds downright angry, firing shotgun-like bursts from his kit at the leader, while Garrison again almost steals the show with a bass solo that encompasses over half of the ten-minute “Ascent” (no, Coltrane didn’t exactly have a Mingus-like flair for distinctive song titles). Coltrane’s post-Love Supreme sessions tend to have a reputation as documents of group discomposure, the quartet’s once-telekinetic interplay threatening to implode from the gravity of Coltrane’s vision; Sun Ship proves that this wasn’t always the case.

“Amen” – John Coltrane 8:14 (Sun Ship, Impulse! 1971)

Meditations Impulse! 1965 Originally recorded November 1965

Meditations qualifies as my personal favorite of Coltrane’s Impulse! catalogue, a 40-minute colossus of raw, noisy power interrupted only by glistening moments of serenity. Essentially two lengthy suites that originally occupied one side of the record each, the leader actually recorded the same material ten months earlier with just the quartet, subsequently released as First Meditations (1965). For this later session, Coltrane augmented the group with a percussionist who specialized in the kind of pulse-less white noise he was searching for, a young Philadelphian named Rashied Ali, as well as the wild tenor sax of Pharoah Sanders (who had participated in “Ascension,” above). Jones was decidedly nonplussed by the addition of a second drummer and at times appears to be competing with Ali, struggling to establish himself over the cacophony. Indeed, it is this very conflict which only serves to amplify the intensity of the record. Coltrane seems enthralled by his new surroundings, scaling hitherto-unreachable heights with his playing, and while Sanders only contributes to two tracks (the blistering opener “The Father and The Son and The Holy Ghost” and “Consequences”), at times he sounds as if he’s a wild boar being skinned alive, such is the furious determination in his squealing altissimo. Tyner puts his best foot forward, but it’s pretty obvious he has no idea what the hell is going on; it would be his last recorded session with the group. This is not an easy album to sit through and is undoubtedly one of the more challenging listens in the Coltrane canon, but Meditations is absolutely gripping from start to finish.

“Love” – John Coltrane 8:10 (Meditations, Impulse! 1965)

Interstellar Space Impulse! 1974 Originally recorded February 1967

Coltrane’s last studio project, recorded just a few months before his death at age 40, was a series of duets with drummer Rashied Ali and posthumously titled Interstellar Space (1974), released seven years later. By this point, Coltrane was working to establish a pure-sound environment free of song structure, tempo, and the confines of tonal harmony, and the unorthodox Ali was the perfect foil for his muse. Considering its title as well as the selections named after planets in the solar system, comparisons to the cosmos and beyond are inevitable, but I’ve always heard this record as inherently terrestrial, Coltrane’s channel of tenor burrowing, splitting, and colliding against Ali’s shifting geologic architecture. Sonically, this is as bare-bones as Coltrane got, and with the absence of a pulse or harmonic counterpart, Interstellar Space can’t be approached like the earlier Impulse! selections. Yet there is a peaceful solace underlining the cacophony here, as if Coltrane knew he was clearly onto something, his spiritual nirvana through music nearing its full awakening. Sadly, he would leave this world before reaping the fruits of his discovery, but the path he cleared for the rest of us has yielded enough rewards to last a lifetime.

“Venus” – John Coltrane 8:36 (Interstellar Space, Impulse! 1974)

BUT WHAT ABOUT…?

Impressions (Impulse! 1961)
A fine supplement to any Coltrane collection, but with its two best cuts (”India” and the title track) found on Live at The Village Vanguard: The Master Takes (above), Impressions (1961) doesn’t qualify as required listening, although many will seek this out on the inclusion of one of Coltrane’s most breathtaking ballads, “After the Rain.”

John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman (Impulse! 1963)
The John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman (1963) project was suggested to ‘Trane by his producer Bob Thiele and was recorded in March of ‘63, following Ballads (above). Some lovely tunes, to be sure, but hardly mandatory.

Duke Ellington and John Coltrane (Impulse! 1962)
This somewhat frustrating curiosity would seem to have “classic” plastered all over it, but on Duke Ellington and John Coltrane (1962) it’s the latter player whose enthusiasm called in sick that day. Another date at the suggestion of Thiele, but Coltrane’s heart just wasn’t in this.

Stellar Regions (Impulse! 1995)
A collection of recordings made just before Coltrane’s death and curated by wife Alice Coltrane, Stellar Regions (1995) is more of an assortment of unpolished studio outtakes than the requisite companion piece to Interstellar Space (above) that it’s often made out to be.

Coltrane for Lovers (Impulse! 2001)
Are you kidding? Go buy a Chet Baker compilation or something – the point of this post has flown completely over your head.